“Come,” said Biddulph, with his old friendly, cheery manner; “now that Wade has joined us, we will have a fresh start, and better luck. Walk on with us, Wade, and Brent will tell you what we have been doing.”
“Why should I tire him with the weary story of a fruitless search?” said Brent.
It was the same utterly disheartened manner, the same tone of despair, that had so affected me that evening on the plain of Fort Bridger. Not finding whom he sought was crushing him now, as losing her crushed him then. But I thought by what a strange and fearful mercy our despair of that desolate time had been changed to joy. Coming newly to the fact of loss, I could not see it so darkly as it was present to him. A great confidence awoke in me that our old partnership renewed would prosper. I determined not to yield to his mood.
“Your search, then, is absolutely fruitless,” said I. “Well, if she is not dead, she must have forgotten us?”
“Is she a woman to forget?” said Brent, roused a little by my wilful calumny.
“Like other women, I suppose.”
“You must have forgotten the woman we met and saved, and had for our comrade, to think so.”
I rejoiced at the indignation I had stirred.
“Why, then, has she never written?” I queried.
“I am sure as faith that she has, but that her father has cunningly suppressed her letters.”