redwood columns, where fresh whispers of air were always to be found, and where no canopy was needed to keep the sun away.
“Poor Dolly, she is really sick,” Lute said that evening, when they had returned from a last look at the mare. “But you weren’t hurt, Chris, and that’s enough for one small woman to be thankful for. I thought I knew, but I really did not know till to-day, how much you meant to me. I could hear only the plunging and struggle in the thicket. I could not see you, nor know how it went with you.”
“My thoughts were of you,” Chris answered, and felt the responsive pressure of the hand that rested on his arm.
She turned her face up to his and met his lips.
“Good night,” she said.
“Dear Lute, dear Lute,” he caressed her with his voice as she moved away among the shadows.
*******
“Who’s going for the mail?” called a woman’s voice through the trees.
Lute closed the book from which they had been reading, and sighed.
“We weren’t going to ride to-day,” she said.
“Let me go,” Chris proposed. “You stay here. I’ll be down and back in no time.”
She shook her head.
“Who’s going for the mail?” the voice insisted.
“Where’s Martin?” Lute called, lifting; her voice in answer.
“I don’t know,” came the voice. “I think Robert took him along somewhere—horse-buying, or fishing, or I don’t know what. There’s really nobody left but Chris and you. Besides, it will give you an appetite for dinner. You’ve been lounging in the hammock all day. And Uncle Robert must have his newspaper.”
“All right, Aunty, we’re starting,” Lute called back, getting out of the hammock.
A few minutes later, in riding-clothes, they were saddling the horses. They rode out on to the county road, where blazed the afternoon sun, and turned toward Glen Ellen. The little town slept in the sun, and the somnolent storekeeper and postmaster scarcely kept his eyes open long enough to make up the packet of letters and newspapers.
An hour later Lute and Chris turned aside from the road and dipped along a cow-path down the high bank to water the horses, before going into camp.
“Dolly looks as though she’d forgotten all about yesterday,” Chris said, as they sat their horses knee-deep in the rushing water. “Look at her.”
The mare had raised her head and cocked her ears at the rustling of a quail in the thicket. Chris leaned over and rubbed around her ears. Dolly’s enjoyment was evident, and she drooped her head over against the shoulder of his own horse.
“Like a kitten,” was Lute’s comment.
“Yet I shall never be able wholly to trust her again,” Chris said. “Not after yesterday’s mad freak.”
“I have a feeling myself that you are safer on Ban,” Lute laughed. “It is strange. My trust in Dolly is as implicit as ever. I feel confident so far as I am concerned, but I should never care to see you on her back again. Now with Ban, my faith is still unshaken. Look at that neck! Isn’t he handsome! He’ll be as wise as Dolly when he is as old as she.”
“I feel the same way,” Chris laughed back. “Ban could never possibly betray me.”
They turned their horses out of the stream. Dolly stopped to brush a fly from her knee with her nose, and Ban urged past into the narrow way of the path. The space was too restricted to make him return, save with much trouble, and Chris allowed him to go on. Lute, riding behind, dwelt with her eyes upon her lover’s back, pleasuring in the lines of the bare neck and the sweep out to the muscular shoulders.
Suddenly she reined in her horse. She could do nothing but look, so brief was the duration of the happening. Beneath and above was the almost perpendicular bank. The path itself was barely wide enough for footing. Yet Washoe Ban, whirling and rearing at the same time, toppled for a moment in the air and fell backward off the path.
So unexpected and so quick was it, that the man was involved in the fall. There had been no time for him to throw himself to the path. He was falling ere he knew it, and he did the only thing possible—slipped the stirrups and threw his body into the air, to the side, and at the same time down. It was twelve feet to the rocks below. He maintained an upright position, his head up and his eyes fixed on the horse above him and falling upon him.
Chris struck like a cat, on his feet, on the instant making a leap to the side. The next instant Ban crashed down beside him. The animal struggled little, but sounded the terrible cry that horses sometimes sound when they have received mortal hurt. He had struck almost squarely on his back, and in that position he remained, his head twisted partly under, his hind legs relaxed and motionless, his fore legs futilely striking the air.
Chris looked up reassuringly.
“I am getting used to it,” Lute smiled down to him. “Of course I need not ask if you are hurt. Can I do anything?”
He smiled back and went over to the fallen beast, letting go the girths of the saddle and getting the head straightened out.
“I thought so,” he said, after a cursory examination. “I thought so at the time. Did you hear that sort of crunching snap?”
She shuddered.
“Well, that was the punctuation of life, the final period dropped at the end of Ban’s usefulness.” He started around to come up by the path. “I’ve been astride of Ban for the last time. Let us go home.”
