"And now," she concluded, "he's gone. Just
when--" her voice broke and once more she buried her face in her arms.
Tex saw that she was sobbing silently. He felt for his "makings" and
drew from his pocket a little sack of soggy tobacco and some wet
papers. He returned them to his pocket and rose to his feet.
"You're cold," he said softly. "There's dry matches in the pack. I'll
make a fire an' get those wet saddles off the horses."
Alice did not look up and the man busied himself with the pack. A few
minutes later she felt his fingers upon her shoulder. He pointed
toward a fire that crackled cheerfully from the depths of a bull pine
thicket. "I fixed you up a shelter tent and spread your blankets. The
tarp kep' 'em tolerable dry. Go over there an' get off those clothes.
You must be wet through--nothin' short of a divin' suit would have kep'
that rain out!"
"But----"
He forestalled the objection. "There won't be any one to bother you.
I'm goin' down the creek."
The girl noticed that his horse, saddled with Endicott's saddle stood
close behind her.
"I didn't mean that!" she exclaimed. "But you are cold--chilled to the
bone. You need the fire more than I do."
The man shook his head: "I'll be goin' now," he said. "You'd better
make you some coffee."
"You're going to--to----"
Tex nodded: "Yes.
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