She had again opened her
eyes, had turned them for a puzzled second upon his tense face, had
closed them.
Now she seemed to be sleeping.
He had exhausted the contents of one canteen, had gone to his saddle
for the other, when far to the south he saw the wagon. He had waved
his hat high above his head, standing like a circus-rider in the
saddle, and had emptied the cylinder of his revolver into the air. He
had seen that the driver had heard him, that he had fired an answering
volley, that he had turned westward. And then he had gone back to
Argyl.
She had heard the shots. Her eyes were open and turned curiously upon
him as he came swiftly to where she lay.
"Will you give me some water?" she whispered.
He lifted her head, and she drank thirstily, looking with reproachful
surprise at him when he took the canteen from her lips.
"That is all now, Argyl," he told her, his voice choking. And then,
all power of restraint swept away from him by the joyous, throbbing
love which so long he had silenced, he drew her close, closer to him,
crying, almost harshly: "Oh, Argyl, thank God! For if you hadn't come
back to me--I love you, love you! Don't you know how I love you,
Argyl?"
Her hand closed weakly upon his.
"Of course, dear," she answered him, faintly, her poor lips trying to
smile. "Of course we love each other. But can't I have a little water,
dear?"
CHAPTER XXIV
It was the twentieth day of September by the calendar--ten days before
the first of October as every man, woman, and child in the Valley
measured time.
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