The shadow brightened in Bess's somber blue eyes, as if his words had recalled her from a sad and memorable past.
“Black Star will know her, surely,” replied Bess. “Sometimes he points his nose toward the west and watches as if he saw the purple slopes and smelt the sage of Utah! He has never forgotten. But Night has grown deaf and partly blind of late. I doubt if he'd remember.”
Shefford and Fay walked arm in arm in the background.
Out in the meadow two horses were grazing. They were sleek, shiny, long-maned, long-tailed, black as coal, and, though old, still splendid in every line.
“Do you remember them?” whispered Shefford.
“Oh, I only needed to see Black Star,” murmured Fay, her voice quivering. “I can remember being lifted on his back.... How strange! It seems so long ago.... Look! Mother Jane is going out to them.”
Jane Withersteen advanced alone through the clover, and it was with unsteady steps. Presently she halted. What glorious and bitter memories were expressed in her strange, poignant call!
Black Star started and swept up his noble head and looked. But Night went on calmly grazing. Then Jane called again—the same strange call, only louder, and this time broken. Black Star raised his head higher and he whistled a piercing blast. He saw Jane; he knew her as he had remembered the call; and he came pounding toward her. She met him, encircled his neck with her arms, and buried her face in his mane.
“Shore I reckon I'd better never say any more about Wrangle runnin' the blacks off their legs thet time,” muttered Lassiter, as if to himself.
“Lassiter, you only dreamed that race,” replied Venters, with a smile.