And nothing––nothing under God’s heaven, save death itself––could ever wipe out the memory of that kiss, given from the depths of her loving heart, the sign-manuel of her undying affection and friendship, the one and only touch of her inviolate red lips that he had ever known the Mistress of Last’s to give to any man, save Jim Last himself.
He wiped a hand across his forehead, damp with more than the night cold, and dismounted.
“We’ll leave th’ horses here,” he said. “I’ve an extra rope to string across an’ make a small corral.”
He did not add that he would fasten this slim barrier lightly, so that a horse that really wanted to break out––in the frantic madness of thirst, say,––might do so.
Then he set about his task––but Tharon stood with strained eyes looking up––and up––and ever 246 up to the dimly appearing, looming spine of False Ridge.
Over there, she knew in her heart, lay the hidden Cup o’ God, with its secret, the secret that meant all the world to her.