"With you," she repeated.
"What is it? I don't understand."
She did not seem to hear his question.
"What is it?" he asked again.
"Why--nothing." She caught her breath and recovered command of herself
somewhat. "That is, it is just an old legend that I have often heard,
and it startled me for a minute."
"Will you tell me the legend?"
"Not now; some time. We must go now, for it will soon be dark."
They wandered along the ridge toward Deerfoot Gulch in silence. She had
taken her sunbonnet off, and was enjoying the cool of the evening. He
carried the rifle over the crook of his arm, and watched her pensive
face. The poor little chipmunk lay stiffening in the cleft of the rock,
forgotten. The next morning a prying jay discovered him and carried him
away. He was only a little chipmunk after all--a very little
chipmunk--and nobody and nothing missed him in all the wide world, not
even his mate and his young, for mercifully grief in the animal world
is generally short-lived where tragedies are frequent. His life meant
little. His death----
At the dip of the gulch they paused.
"I live just down there," she said, "and now, good-night.
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