Moreover,
he was tiring. The excitement, the long walk, the miles on miles
of jolting trot--these had wearied him. Mercedes must be made of
steel, he thought, to stand all that she had been subjected to and
yet, when the stars were paling and dawn perhaps not far away,
stay in the saddle.
So Dick Gale rode on, drowsier for each mile, and more and more
giving the horse a choice of ground. Sometimes a prod from a
murderous spine roused Dick. A grayness had blotted out the waning
moon in the west and the clear, dark, starry sky overhead. Once
when Gale, thinking to fight his weariness, raised his head, he saw
that one of the horses in the lead was riderless. Ladd was carrying
Mercedes. Dick marveled that her collapse had not come sooner.
Another time, rousing himself again, he imagined they were now
on a good hard road.
It seemed that hours passed, though he knew only little time had
elapsed, when once more he threw off the spell of weariness. He
heard a dog bark. Tall trees lined the open lane down which he
was riding. Presently in the gray gloom he saw low, square houses
with flat roofs. Ladd turned off to the left down another lane,
gloomy between trees. Every few rods there was one of the squat
houses. This lane opened into wider, lighter space. The cold air
bore a sweet perfume--whether of flowers or fruit Dick could not
tell. Ladd rode on for perhaps a quarter of a mile, though it seemed
interminably long to Dick.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90