Cowboys -- Fiction; Ranch life -- Fiction; Western stories
“You are wiser than Doc,” pursued the girl. “He is a good fellow, but
foolish, you know, sometimes. He might not understand. He might like to
use authority over me because I am his patient—when he did not
understand. Promise that I may sit up till you come back.”
“I do promise, little girl. Tell him I said so. Tell him—”
“I will tell him you are—the Boss,” she said, with a pitiful little
attempt at a jest, and smiling wanly. “He will mind—the Boss.”
Langford was in agony. Perspiration was springing out on his forehead
though August was wearing away peacefully in soft coolness with drifting
depths of white cloud as a lounging-robe,—a blessed reprieve from the
blazing sun of the long weeks which had gone before.
“And then I want you to promise me,” went on Mary, quietly, “that you
will not think any more of staying behind. I could not bear that. I
trust you to go. You will, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will go. I will do anything you say. And I want you to believe
that everything will be all right. They would not dare to kill him now,
knowing that we are after them. If we are not back to-night, you will
not worry, will you? They had so much the start of us.”
“I will try not to worry.”
“Well, good-bye. Be a good girl, won’t you?”
“I will try,” she answered, wearily.
With a last look into the brave, sweet face, and smothering a mad,
uncowman-like desire to stay and comfort this dear little woman while
others rode away in stirring quest, Langford strode from the sick-room
into the kitchen.
“Don’t let her be alone any more than you can help, Mother White,” he
said, brusquely, “and don’t worry her about going to bed.”
“Have a bite afore you start, Mr. Langford, do,” urged the good woman,
hospitably. “You’re that worn out you’re white around the gills. I’ll
bet you haven’t had ary bite o’ breakfast.”
“I had forgotten—but you are right. No, thank you, I’ll not stop for
anything now. I’ll have to ride like Kingdom come. I’m late. Be good to
her, Mother White,” this last over his shoulder as he sprang to his
mount from the kitchen stoop.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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