"Will you come back--again?" he asked.
The question startled Lucy. "Why--I--I don't know. . . . Won't you ride in to
the Ford just as soon as you're able?"
"I reckon not."
"But it's the only place where there's people in hundreds of miles. Surely you
won't try to go back the way you came?"
"When Wildfire left that country I left it. We can't back."
"Then you've no people--no one you care for?" she asked, in sweet seriousness.
"There's no one. I'm an orphan. My people were lost in an Indian
massacre--with a wagon-train crossin' Wyomin'. A few escaped, an' I was one of
the youngsters. I had a tough time, like a stray dog, till I grew up. An' then
I took to the desert."
"Oh, I see. I--I'm sorry," replied Lucy. "But that's not very different from
my dad's story, of his early years. . . . What will you do now?"
"I'll stay here till my back straightens out. . . . Will you ride out again?"
"Yes," replied Lucy, without looking at him; and she wondered if it were
really she who was speaking.
Then he asked her about the Ford, and Bostil, and the ranches and villages
north, and the riders and horses.
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