Allie looked. She thought she saw a tall, buckskin-clad man carrying a heavy pack. Was she dreaming or had she lost her mind? She got up, shaking in every limb. This tall man moved; he seemed real; his bronzed face beamed. He approached; he set the pack down on the bench. Then his keen, clear eyes pierced Allie.
“Wal, lass,” he said, gently.
The familiar voice was no dream, no treachery of her mind. Slingerland! She could not speak. She could hardly see. She swayed into his arms. Then when she felt the great, strong clasp and the softness of buckskin on her face and the odor of pine and sage—and desert dust, she believed in his reality.
Her heart seemed to collapse. All within her was riot.
“Neale!” she whispered, in anguish.
“All right an’ workin’ hard. He sent me,” replied Slingerland, swift to get his message out.
Allie quivered and closed her eyes and leaned against him. A beautiful something pervaded her soul. Slowly the tumult within her breast subsided. She recovered.
“Uncle Al!” she called him, tenderly.
“Wal, I should smile! An’ glad to see you—why Lord! I’d never tell you!... You’re white an’ shaky, lass.... Set down hyar—on the bench—beside me. Thar!... Allie, I’ve a powerful lot to tell you.”
“Wait! To see you—and to hear—of him—almost killed me with joy,” she panted. Her little hands, once so strong and brown, but now thin and white, fastened tight in the fringe of his buckskin hunting-coat.