‘I know. But we are out of that terrible cañon. Everything will be all right now, Nan. I want to sing, but I can’t think of a single song. It is like waking up from an awful dream. I wonder who that man is, Nan? What was he doing in that cañon, and why did he want to leave me there, all tied up in that rope?[’]
‘It all seems so ridiculous—now. I have never harmed any one in my life, except the clothing clerk in Northport, Spike Cahill, and the crazy man. And they couldn’t really hold any grudge for that, because it was in self-defense. Queer country out here. Somebody always trying to kill somebody else. But I—I like it, Nan.’
She did not reply. After a few moments he turned his head and looked at her. She was leaning against a rock, sound asleep, her hands folded in her lap. He sighed and shifted to a more comfortable position.
It was nearly dark when something awoke Rex. He lifted his head quickly, trying to understand what it was all about; trying to realize where he was. A great, gray shape loomed over him in the half-light, and there was the creak of saddle-leather, the jingle of spurs.
Then he heard the voice of Hashknife Hartley saying:
‘You poor kid, this is Hashknife.’
But Hashknife wasn’t talking to him, he was talking to Nan. And the great, gray shape was Ghost, which nuzzled at him.
Nan was crying and Hashknife was patting her on the shoulder, telling her that everything was all right. Rex staggered around the horse to Hashknife, and the tall cowboy put an arm around his shoulders.
‘I trailed yuh out of the cañon,’ said Hashknife. ‘My God, what a trail! You’re all right now, Nan. How ’r yuh comin’, Rex?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Rex weakly. ‘I’ve got so many sore spots that I am just one big ache. Are you all right, Nan?’