ched, her hair flying in the
wind, her dark eyes wild with joy.

XVI. THUNDER RIVER

FOR an instant Hare's brain reeled, and Mescal's broken murmurings were
meaningless Then his faculties grew steady and acute; he held the
girl as if he intended never to let her go. Mescal clung to him with
a wildness that gave him anxiety for her reason; there was something
almost fierce in the tension of her arms, in the blind groping for his
face.

"Mescal! It's Jack, safe and well," he said. "Let me look at you."

At the sound of his voice all her rigid strength changed to a yielding
weakness; she leaned back supported by his arms and looked at him. Hare
trembled before the dusky level glance he remembered so well, and as
tears began to flow he drew her head to his shoulder. He had forgotten
to prepare himself for a different Mescal. Despite the quivering smile
of happiness, her eyes were strained with pain. The oval contour, the
rich bloom of her face had gone; beauty was there still, but it was the
ghost of the old beauty.

"Jack--is it--really you?" she asked.

He answered with a kiss.

She slipped out of his arms breathless and scarlet. "Tell me all--"

"There's much to tell, but not before you kiss me. It has been more than
a year."

"Only a year! Have I been gone only a year?"

"Yes, a year. But it's past now. Kiss me, Mescal. One kiss will pay for
that long year, though it broke my heart."

Shyly she raised her hands to his shoulders and put her lips to his.
"Yes, you've found me, Jack, thank God! just in time!"

"Mescal! What's wrong? Aren't you well?"

"Pretty well. But if you had not come soon I should have starved."

"Starved? Let me get my saddle-bags--I have bread and meat."

"Wait. I'm not so hungry now. I mean very soon I should not have had any
food at all."

"But your peon--the dumb Indian? Surely he could find something to eat.
What of him? Where is he?"

"My peon is dead. He has been dead for months, I don't know how many."

"Dead! What was the matter with him?"

"I never knew. I found him dead one morning and I buried him in the
sand."

Mescal led Hare under the cottonwoods and pointed to the Indian's grave,
now green with grass. Farther on in a circle of trees stood a little
hogan skilfully constructed out of brush; the edge of a red blanket
peeped from the door; a burnt-out fire smoked on a stone fireplace, and
blackened earthen vessels lay near. The white seeds of the cottonwo