"They rode very slowly," I said. "I hope it won't hurt him. Good-by,"
and I held out my hand. "I'll walk to Clapham's. I know the way."
She put her hand in mine. In her eyes danced a sudden light, half
mocking, half ecstatic. "Shep, he got off 'bout sun-up," she drawled.
"Fo'ty mile along he wuz 'fo' ever sheriff come a-nigh this place!"
I could not speak, but something, I know, flashed in my face and was
reflected in hers. For a moment longer her wrinkled old hand lay still
in mine. She seemed loath to withdraw it, anxious to say more. Perhaps
she was recalling the long vigil of the night, when we two had worked
together over the unconscious form of the last of the Morans. But her
vocabulary offered her nothing with which to clothe those naked hours.
"Good-by," she repeated. And she ended primly: "I wish yo' well, miss.
I sho'ly hev inj'yed yo' comp'ny!"