Dick's sister was the first of the three to recover herself.
"Oh, father!" she cried; and there was a glorious light in her
eyes. "Deep down in my heart I knew Dick was a man!"
Mr. Gale rose unsteadily from his chair. His frailty was now
painfully manifest.
"Mr. Belding, do you mean my son--Richard Gale--has done all
that you told us?" he asked, incredulously.
"I sure do," replied Belding, with hearty good will.
"Martha, do you hear?" Mr. Gale turned to question his wife. She
could not answer. Her face had not yet regained its natural color.
"He faced that bandit and his gang alone--he fought them?" demanded
Mr. Gale, his voice stronger.
"Dick mopped up the floor with the whole outfit!"
"He rescued a Spanish girl, went into the desert without food,
weapons, anything but his hands? Richard Gale, whose hands
were always useless?"
Belding nodded with a grin.
"He's a ranger now--riding, fighting, sleeping on the sand,
preparing his own food?"
"Well, I should smile," rejoined Belding.
"He cares for his horse, with his own hands?" This query seemed
to be the climax of Mr. Gale's strange hunger for truth. He had
raised his head a little higher, and his eye was brighter.
Mention of a horse fired Belding's blood.
"Does Dick Gale care for his horse? Say, there are not many men as
well loved as that white horse of Dick's. Blanco Sol he is, Mr.
Gale. That's Mex for White Sun. Wait till you see Blanco Sol! Bar
one, the whitest, biggest, strongest, fastest, grandest horse in the
Southwest!"
"So he loves a horse! I shall not know my own son.
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