“What’s wrong, Vicky?” he asked, slipping his arm round her shoulder.
She began to sob, and through her broken words he gathered the story. Dodson had come home drunk while his wife was getting a bucket of water, had flung himself on the bed without seeing the baby, and had fallen at once into heavy stertorous slumber. When Mollie got back the child was dead, smothered by her own father.
Scot borrowed a horse and rode out at once to the camp. Dodson had temporarily disappeared, frightened at the horrible thing he had done. The accident had taken place twelve hours earlier, and the tears of the mother were for the moment spent. She was dry-eyed and wan, in that deep despair which is beyond expression, almost beyond feeling. With a tenderness that set flowing in Scot a wild river of sympathy she drew back the cotton handkerchief that covered the baby face. For an instant his heart beat fast. Except for the pallor Virginia looked so natural she might have been asleep. He half-expected to see the lashes tremble and the blue eyes open.
McClintock took on himself all the arrangements for the funeral. He dragged Dodson out of a grog shop, soused his head in a horse trough, and when he became sober saw that he remained so until the burial.
The day after the interment Scot called on Mrs. Dodson. Her husband was not at the camp.
Presently he came plump to the purpose of his visit. He was never a spendthrift of words.
“What are you and Vicky going to do?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” the bereaved mother answered listlessly. “Vicky ought not to stay here. It’s not right. But I’ve no place to send her.”
“Mr. Stewart and I have discussed that. We’ve talked with some of the business men of the town. If you’re willing we’ll divert the baby’s fund to Vicky and send her down to Miss Clapp’s school at Carson. She’ll be well taken care of there. Miss Clapp is a fine woman. Does it seem to you a good idea?”
Tears brimmed to her eyes. “You’re good. I can never repay you. I—I’ll be awf’lly lonesome without her, but if you think it best——”