Tom's voice was slow and solemn when he quoted that Mosaic injunction. The appeal of the disinherited was in it, and the pain of lost years. It touched her like a sorrow of her own. Tears were on her cheeks again as she parted from him, giving him her hand in token of trust and faith, and rode on toward the ranchhouse by the river. CHAPTER XIV WHEN FRIENDS PART Banjo had returned, with fever in his wound. Mrs. Chadron was putting horse liniment on it when Frances entered the sitting-room where the news of the tragedy had visited them the night past. "I didn't go to the post--I saw some men in the road and turned back," Frances told them, sinking down wearily in a chair before the fire. "I'm glad you turned back, honey," Mrs. Chadron said, shaking her head sadly, "for I was no end worried about you. Them rustlers they're comin' down from their settlement and gatherin' up by Macdonald's place, the men told Banjo, and no tellin' what they might 'a' done if they'd seen you." Mrs. Chadron's face was not red with the glow of peppers and much food this morning. One night of anxiety had racked her, and left hollows under her eyes and a flat grayness in her cheeks. Banjo had brought no other news. The men had scattered at daybreak to search for the trail of the man who had carried Nola away, but Banjo, sore and shaken, had come back depressed and full of pains. Mrs. Chadron said that Saul surely would be home before noonday, and urged Frances to go to her room and sleep. "I'm steadier this morning, I'll watch and wait," she said, pressing the liniment-soaked cloth to Banjo's bruised forehead. Banjo contracted his muscles under the application, shriveling up on himself like a snail in a fire, for it was hot and heroic liniment, and strong medicine for strong beasts and tougher men. Banjo's face was a picture of patient suffering, but he said nothing, and had not spoken since Frances entered the room, for the treatment had been under way before her arrival and there was scarcely enough breath left in him to suffice for life, and none at all for words. Frances had it in mind to suggest some milder remedy, but held her peace, feeling that if Banjo survived the treatment he surely would be in no danger from his hurt. The door of Nola's room was open as Frances passed, and there was a depression in the counterpane which told where the lost girl's mother had knelt beside it and wet it with her tears. Frances wondered whether she had prayed, lingering compassionately a moment in the door.