“I don’t know, but I’m not,” she murmured with drowsy content.
But he knew if she did not. Her fear had passed because he was there, holding her in his arms, fighting to the last ounce of power in him for her life. She felt he would never leave her, and that, if it came to the worst, she would pass from life with him close to her. Again he knew that wild exultant beat of blood no woman before this one had ever stirred in him.
Harley was the first to give up. He lurched forward and slipped from the saddle to the snow, and could not be cursed into rising. The man behind dismounted, put down his burden, and dragged the old man to his feet.
“Here! This won’t do. You’ve got to stick it out.”
“I can’t. I’ve reached my limit.” Then testily: “‘Are not my days few? Cease then, and let me alone,’” he added wearily, with his everready tag of Scripture.
The instant the other’s hold on him relaxed the old man sank back. Ridgway dragged him up and cuffed him like a troublesome child. He knew this was no time for reasoning.
“Are you going to lie down and quit, you old loafer? I tell you the ranch is only a mile or two. Here, get into the saddle.”
By sheer strength the younger man hoisted him into the seat. He was very tired himself, but the vital sap of youth in him still ran strong in his blood. For a few yards farther they pushed on before Harley slid down again and his horse stopped.
Ridgway passed him by, guiding his bronco in a half-circle through the snow.
“I’ll send back help for you,” he promised.