"Go into the stable, and bring a horse after me. The cart is broken?"
"Yes, 'm. Dat cussed Ben"——
"Bring the horse,—and some brandy, Uncle Bone."
"Danged ef yer shall kill yerself! Chile, I tell yer he's dead. I'll call Mist' Perrine."
Her eyes were black now, for an instant; then they softened.
"He is not dead. Come, Uncle Bone. You're all the help I have, now."
The old man's flabby face worked. He did not say anything, but went into the stable, and presently came out, leading the horse, with fearful glances back at the windows. He soon overtook the girl going hurriedly down the road, and lifted her into the saddle.
"Chile! chile! yer kin make a fool of ole Bone, allays."
She did not speak; her face, with its straight-lidded eyes, turned to the mountain beyond which lay the Tear-coat gully. A fair face under its blue hood, even though white with pain,—an honorable face: the best a woman can know of pride and love in life spoke through it.
"Mist' Dode," whined Ben, submissively, "what are yer goin' ter do? Bring him home?"