To find the pilgrim. If he's alive I'll find him.
An' if he ain't I'll find him. An' when I do, I'll bring him back to
you." He turned abruptly, swung onto his horse, and Alice watched him
as he disappeared down the valley, keeping to the higher ground. Not
until she was alone did the girl realize how miserably cold and
uncomfortable she was. She rose stiffly, and walking slowly to the
edge of the bank, looked out over the little valley. The great
reservoir had run out in that first wild rush of water and now the last
rays of moonlight showed only wide, glistening pools, and the creek
subsided to nearly its normal proportions. With a shudder she turned
toward the fire. Its warmth felt grateful. She removed the slicker
and riding costume and, wrapping herself, squaw-like, in a blanket, sat
down in the little shelter tent. She found that the Texan had filled
the coffee pot and, throwing in some coffee, she set it to boil.
"He's so thoughtful, and self-reliant, and--and competent," she
murmured. "And he's brave, and--and picturesque. Winthrop is brave,
too--just as brave as he is, but--he isn't a bit picturesque." She
relapsed into silence as she rummaged in the bag for a cup, and the
sugar, and a can of milk. The moon sank behind the ridge and the girl
replenished her fire from the pile of wood the Texan had left within
reach of her hand.
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