James was seated near the couch when Henry West entered the room. He arose quickly, words of explanation ready upon his lips, but he was silenced by a gently upraised hand. Mrs. West had also hastened to her son’s side with a glad smile of welcome upon her face.
Placing his arm tenderly about her, West said: “James—I know. I saw Bess with her horse riding—” and he swept his hand toward the northward as he bent and kissed the soft, white head against his shoulder. The mother felt the tremor in his voice and the quiver in his heart, and she knew then the secret which his soul could no longer conceal. This was a tragedy! Her son, with the blood of red-skinned warriors in his veins, loved—loved hopelessly! She dared not lift her face from the shelter of his breast. Seeing that his mother was concerned, he led her gently into her room. Here she told him the details of the affair, and when she had finished he knew that she was still ignorant of the true cause of her daughter’s death.
A great sigh of relief escaped him. He could not bear that the trusting mother should now, after the sharp edge of her grief had been dulled, have her heart break anew.
“James was saying just before you came, Henry, that he should take Bess back to New York with him. He thinks possibly they will be ready to go when Miss Morton leaves. Oh! it seems as if I cannot—have her go, Henry! She has grown into my life so fully that if she goes away it will be like pulling out my heart!”
“I think, mother—I—I feel that it is the only thing for her to do. I cannot persuade James to remain, even as half owner of the HW ranch and stock. Perhaps we may go away, too, mother,—away from here; away from these hills, these scenes; away from the West and our people. Mother—mother!” he cried, “the sun will no longer bring the daylight and warmth when she is gone!”
For several moments neither said a word, so overwhelmed was each with hopelessness. Then a gentle touch upon the arm caused Henry West to lift his face and reply to the question which his mother scarcely breathed loud enough for him to hear.
“Have I told her of my love?” He repeated her question. “I could not. Now I am only sad with longing; I am not crushed with cruel certainty. I am—but—an Indian—insensible to love, incapable of feeling; unfit for any place; disqualified, alone! An Indian!”
Never before had she heard such bitter words from her son. Tears filled her eyes.
“Forgive me, my mother!” came in a voice full of tenderness and love.
The sun had set, leaving a crimson glow on the hills, which swiftly faded into the early gloom. James, hearing a horse, hurried to assist his sister, but met instead a man who had brought a message for Berenice Morton. She tore the envelope open hastily and read its contents at a glance.