“Bland's men didn't come along here?”
“No.”
“Where are the horses?”
“I keep them grazing down in a gorge back of here. There's good grass and water.”
“Have you slept any?”
“A little. Lately I couldn't keep awake.”
“Good Lord! I should think not. You've had a time of it sitting here day and night nursing me, watching for the outlaws. Come, tell me all about it.”
“There's nothing much to tell.”
“I want to know, anyway, just what you did—how you felt.”
“I can't remember very well,” she replied, simply. “We must have ridden forty miles that day we got away. You bled all the time. Toward evening you lay on your horse's neck. When we came to this place you fell out of the saddle. I dragged you in here and stopped your bleeding. I thought you'd die that night. But in the morning I had a little hope. I had forgotten the horses. But luckily they didn't stray far. I caught them and kept them down in the gorge. When your wounds closed and you began to breathe stronger I thought you'd get well quick. It was fever that put you back. You raved a lot, and that worried me, because I couldn't stop you. Anybody trailing us could have heard you a good ways. I don't know whether I was scared most then or when you were quiet, and it was so dark and lonely and still all around. Every day I put a stone in your hat.”