The Rustler of Wind River by George W Ogden

Author:George W Ogden [Ogden, George W]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-02-28T00:57:09.953000+00:00

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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.

The place was like Nola in its light and brightness and surface comfort and assertive color notes of happiness, hung about with the trophies of her short but victorious career among the hearts of men. There were photographs of youths on dressing-table, chiffonier, and walls, and flaring pennants of eastern universities and colleges. Among the latter, as if it was the most triumphant trophy of them all, there hung a little highland bonnet with a broken feather, of the plaid Alan Macdonald had worn on the night of Nola's mask.

Frances went in for a nearer inspection, and lifted the little saucy bit of headgear from its place in the decorations of Nola's wall. There could be no

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