West stood gazing down at the white face and pulseless temples. His own heart had scarcely resumed its beating and was still pounding with choking throbs in his throat. All the love of his heart increased a thousand-fold, all the hopelessness of his love grew even more hopeless as the savagery of his recent work forced itself into his soul. With a cry of despair he knelt and lifted the limp form within his arms.
“Oh, if you were only dead! If I too might die now with you so near me! You are dead—dead to me—I know! Good-bye!” he said as he tenderly imprinted a kiss upon the silent lips.
Slowly her large, brown eyes opened and gazed understandingly into the face so near her own. Then a look of horror crept into them, and with a gasp she regained her senses. Thrusting out her hands, she repulsed the solicitous man.
“You—Indian,” she cried, with abhorrence. With difficulty she arose and mounted her horse. West did not move nor offer her the slightest assistance as he watched her ride away toward camp.
Long he stood, silent and immovable, gazing into the moon upon whose face he seemed to see in scarlet letters, The Brand.
[CHAPTER XXX]
“WHEN YOU CAN FORGET”
It was nearly a month before Bess Fletcher fully recovered from the shock she had experienced. She was now ready to go to New York to rejoin her brother. Whenever she thought of leaving the ranch, of going away from Mrs. West, giving up her horse, of tearing herself away from the wonderful mountains, the lake and all its beloved haunts, it seemed as if she could not go. Her bitterness toward Henry West had grown less as she analyzed his motive, and from his mother learned what had really prompted him in his impulsive act. She had not seen him during the weeks which followed the tragedy, but now that she was leaving she felt that she must speak to him and say good-bye.
She was waiting for him in the living-room. Seating herself at the piano her fingers unconsciously sought the strain of Mon Desir, and in a soft, tender voice she sang.