“Why not?” asked Solange, in a stifled voice.
“Because he never done it—that’s whatever. You’d 275 never get over it, mad’mo’selle, if you done that and then found you was wrong! And you are wrong.”
Slowly, Solange dragged herself upright. She was listless, the lightness had gone out of her step. Without a word, she reached out and lifted her leather coat from the nail on which it hung. Then she dragged her leaden feet to the door. Sucatash silently followed her.
In the other room she spoke once.
“Will you saddle my horse for me, monsieur?”
“There ain’t no place for you to go, ma’am.”
“Nevertheless, I shall go. If you please——”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
She followed him to the door, putting on her coat. Outside, she sat down on a log and remained stonily oblivious as Sucatash hastily caught up several horses and dragged saddles and alforjas into position. The westering sun was getting low along the rim of the crater and he worked fast with the knowledge that night would soon be upon them. Inside the cabin he heard De Launay moving about. A moment later as he entered to gather Solange’s equipment, he saw the soldier seated at the rough table busy with paper and fountain pen.
As Sucatash went past him, carrying an armload of blankets and a tarpaulin, De Launay held out a yellow paper.