Hare knew how her story had slighted the
perils and privations of that long year. She had grown lonely in the
canyon darkness; she had sent Wolf away and had waited--all was said in
that. But more than any speech, the look of her, and the story told in
the thin brown hands touched his heart. Not for an instant since his
arrival had she altogether let loose of his fingers, or coat, or arm.
She had lived so long alone in this weird world of silence and moving
shadows and murmuring water, that she needed to feel the substance of her
hopes, to assure herself of the reality of the man she loved.
"My mustang--Bolly--tell me of her," said Mescal.
"Bolly's fine. Sleek and fat and lazy! She's been in the fields ever
since you left. Not a bridle on her. Many times have I seen her poke
her black muzzle over the fence and look down the lane. She'd never
forget you, Mescal."
"Oh! how I want to see her! Tell me--everything."
"Wait a little. Let me fetch Silvermane and we'll make a fire and eat.
Then--"
"Tell me now."
"Well, Mescal, it's soon told." Then came the story of events growing out
of her flight.
Pages:
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303