wind shrilled down the pass, if a horse neighed from the corral, there was always the start in her, the thrill of hope, and afterwards the pitiful deadening of her smile. She was not less beautiful they thought, as she grew paler, but the terrible silence of the place drove them away time and again. Even Joan no longer pattered about the house, and when they came down out of the mountains they never heard her shrill laughter. She sat cross-legged by the hearth in her old place during the evenings with her chin resting on one hand and her eyes fixed wistfully upon the fire; and sometimes they found her on the little hillock behind the house, from the top of which she could view every approach to the cabin. Of Dan and even of Black Bart, her playmate she soon learned not to speak, for the mention of them made her mother shrink and whiten. Indeed, the saddest thing in that house was the quiet in which the child waited, waited, waited, and never spoke.
“She ain't more'n a baby,” said Buck Daniels, “and you can leave it to time to make her forget.”
“But,” growled Lee Haines, “Kate isn't a baby. Buck, it drives me damn near crazy to see her fade this way.”
“Now you lay to this,” answered Buck. “She'll pull through. She'll never forget, maybe, but she'll go on livin' for the sake of the kid.”
“You know a hell of a lot about women, don't you?” said Haines.
“I know enough, son,” nodded Buck.
