By nine o'clock he had ridden fifty miles, and he camped then only
because his grass-fed beasts could go no farther. He turned them out,
and ate, and crawled between his blankets by the fire; but not, in
spite of his weariness, to sleep. He found that he had not succeeded
in galloping away from the ache in his breast: "Mary! Mary! Mary!" it
throbbed with every beat.
Wakefulness was a novel sensation to Jack. Cursing at himself, he
resolutely closed his eyes and counted sheep, but in vain. He got up
and replenished his fire. He lit his pipe, and, walking up and down in
the grass of the prairie, gazed up at the quiet stars for peace. If he
could have inspired his horses with some of his own restlessness he
would have ridden on, but the poor beasts were standing close by with
hanging heads, too weary to eat.
He did fall asleep at last, of course, only to be immediately wakened,
it seemed to him, by a distant thudding of hoofs on the earth. It is a
significant sound in a solitude, and, sitting up, he listened sharply.
By the movement of the stars he saw that several hours had passed since
he fell asleep. It could not be his own horses, because they were
hobbled. In any case there were more than two approaching. They were
coming from the direction of the fort. Jack, frowning, wondered if
Cranston would go so far as to attempt to prevent him from carrying out
his purpose. With instinctive caution he drew back from his fire and
crouched in the shadow of a clump of willows.
Four horses came loping up. Jack's two came hobbling toward them out
of the darkness, whinnying a welcome. The fire blazed between Jack and
the new-comers, and he could not see them very well. He sensed that
there were two riders, and as they slipped out of the saddles it
appeared that one of them was skirted. For a moment they stood
outlined against the dim light of the eastern sky, and Jack's heart
began to thump against his ribs. Surely there could be but one such
graceful head poised on such beautiful shoulders, but he couldn't
believe it. Then they approached his fire, and he saw for sure: it was
Mary and Davy.
She saw his tumbled blanket by the fire, and looked across toward where
he crouched, with the firelight throwing up odd, strong shadows on her
wistful face. "Jack!" she called softly. The voice knocked on his
naked heart.
His hardihood failed him then. He came slowly toward them, trembling
all over, ashamed of his trembling, and horribly self-conscious. "What
are you doing here?" he asked in a shaky voice.
"We are going with you," murmured Mary. Her voice, too, was suffocated
as if her heart was filling her throat.
There was a little pause. Jack looked at her like an unworthy sinner,
who nevertheless sees Heaven opening before him.
"Aren't you glad to see us?" demanded Davy, coming up.
Glad! Jack was quite unable to speak. Suddenly flinging an arm around
the boy's shoulders he squeezed him until Davy cried out. It was meant
for Mary. She saw. Dropping to the ground, she made a great business
of building up the fire.
They fell to babbling foolishly without any one's caring how foolishly;
they laughed for no reason, and asked the same questions over again
without heeding the answers. Jack sprang to unpack and unsaddle their
horses. When they were finally hobbled and turned out, he came back to
Mary. She was setting out the grub-box and making tea. Davy went away
to cut poles for their two little tents.
"You do wish to be friends?" Jack said pleadingly; "after what you
said!"
Mary had recovered her self-possession. "I couldn't let you go alone,"
she parried. "That is such a foolish thing to do. I couldn't have
slept or sat still for thinking of it. Other things are not changed at
all."
"But you came!" murmured Jack a little triumphantly, and moving closer
to her.
She drew away. "You shouldn't say that," she murmured stiffly. "It
wasn't easy for me to come. And it may cost me dear."
Jack wondered like a man why she was offended. "I know," he said, "and
I'm not going to let you come. But I'm glad you wanted to."
This made matters worse. "I didn't want to," she threw back at him
sharply. "I came because I was the only one who could help you. I
know the Indians; they like me; they're a little afraid of me. And you
can't make us go back. We have our own outfit. If you won't let us
ride with you, we'll follow after!"
Jack stared, perplexed and wondering at her hurt tones. Certainly
girls were beyond his comprehension. Though so different in other
respects, it seemed they were alike in this: their perfect
inconsistency. He tried another tack.
"Did your father let you come?"
"No," she said unwillingly. "He was very angry with you."
"He offered to let Davy come," Jack said idly.
"That's different," she said, wondering at men's stupidity.
Jack's brain moved only about a third as fast as hers. He frowned at
the fire. "If you lit out without telling him," he began, "he'll think
that I--what will he think of me! After I promised."