Mrs. West cautiously opened the door and was about to enter to comfort the girl, when she paused as the words of a prayer faintly reached her: “Oh! My God, I thank Thee for preserving me this day from danger worse than death! Grant peace to those tender souls who guarded me from a fate like their own. Keep me always near Thee; help me to solace those who suffer.” She did not enter the room, for she knew the Great Comforter was there before her.
It was fully an hour when those in the living-room heard Bess descending the stairs. James hurried anxiously forward as she entered the room dressed for riding.
“There—James, please do not look so. See! I—even I—am smiling! I do not need sympathy—I want congratulations. Think how much worse it might have been! Will you get Mauchacho for me, please? Do you mind, Bee, if I go for a ride? Please, little Mother, do not grow anxious, for I shall not return until I am feeling—feeling rested. No, I am not hungry—I could not eat,” she added, in response to Mrs. West’s request that she first partake of luncheon. Pressing her lips to the still pallid brow on the pillow, and holding Mrs. West in her arms as she kissed her, she hastened out of the house. Presently James brought her horse and watched her silently as she rode out of sight toward the north, and as he turned with a sigh to re-enter the house he thought: “I wish I had as much of the Fletcher grit as she has.”
[CHAPTER XXVII]
“I—AM—BUT—AN—INDIAN”
Mauchacho was permitted to choose his own trail and pace. His rider did not notice when he stopped to nibble at some tempting grass, or stretched his neck for a few remaining green leaves.
A loud neigh startled the girl from her lethargy, and she discovered a saddled horse standing near the entrance to her “den.” At first she felt a slight alarm, then saw that it was one of the ranch horses. Dismounting, and leaving her horse with trailing reins, she hurried to learn the cause of the empty saddle. A cry escaped her, as directly at the opening of the tiny cavern she came face to face with Henry West.
At first she scarcely believed it was he, so changed did he seem. His straight, black hair was in matted disorder; great seams lined his brow and chin; the erstwhile white silken shirt lay torn back from his throat, soiled and begrimed; his sombrero, twisted into a shapeless mass, was clutched in his hands, while the great, black, shaggy “chapps” made him seem like some formidable creature.
He stared at Bess benumbed and uncomprehending. Why was she here? Why had she not gone with him whom she had wedded? Was it a ghost come to bring still greater agony? Slowly stretching forth his hand, fearful lest the apparition should vanish, he felt it grasped eagerly by one pulsating with warm, pulsing life. She lifted her eyes to his with an assuring gaze as she spoke: