Part 48 (2/2)

She had neither seen nor heard anything of David. No rumor of a man held captive by the Indians had reached their train. She tried not to let Susan see that she believed the worst. But her melancholy headshake and murmured ”Poor David--and him such a kind, whole-hearted man” was as an obituary on the dead.

”Well,” she said in pensive comment when Susan had got to the end of her history, ”you can't get through a journey like that without some one coming to grief. It's not in human nature. But your father--that grand man! And then the young feller that would have made you such a good husband--” Susan moved warningly--”Not but what I'm sure you've got as good a one as it is. And we've got to take what we can get in this world,” she added, spoiling it all by the philosophical acceptance of what she evidently regarded as a make-s.h.i.+ft adjusting to Nature's needs.

When the men came back Glen had heard all about the gold in the river and was athirst to get there. Work at his trade could wait, and, anyway, he had been in Sacramento and found, while his services were in demand on every side, the materials wherewith he was to help raise a weatherproof city were not to be had. Men were content to live in tents and cloth shacks until the day of lumber and sawmills dawned, and why wait for this millennium when the river called from its golden sands?

No one had news of David. Daddy John had questioned the captains of two recently arrived convoys, but learned nothing. The men thought it likely he was dead. They agreed as to the possibility of the Indian abduction and his future reappearance. Such things had happened. But it was too late now to do anything. No search party could be sent out at this season when at any day the mountain trails might be neck high in snow. There was nothing to do but wait till the spring.

Susan listened with lowered brows. It was heavy news. She did not know how she had hoped till she heard that all hope must lie in abeyance for at least six months. It was a long time to be patient.

She was selfishly desirous to have her anxieties at rest, for, as she had told her husband, they were the only cloud on her happiness, and she wanted that happiness complete. It was not necessary for her peace to see David again. To know he was safe somewhere would have satisfied her.

The fifth day after leaving the camp they sighted the pitted sh.o.r.es of their own diggings. Sitting in the McMurdos' wagon they had speculated gayly on Low's surprise. Susan, on the seat beside Glen, had been joyously full of the antic.i.p.ation of it, wondered what he would say, and then fell to imagining it with closed lips and dancing eyes. When the road reached the last concealing b.u.t.tress she climbed down and mounted beside Daddy John, whose wagon was some distance in advance.

”It's going to be a surprise for Low,” she said in the voice of a mischievous child. ”You mustn't say anything. Let me tell him.”

The old man, squinting sideways at her, gave his wry smile. It was good to see his Missy this way again, in bloom like a refreshed flower.

”Look,” she cried, as her husband's figure came into view kneeling by the rocker. ”There he is, and he doesn't see us. Stop!”

Courant heard their wheels and, turning, started to his feet and came forward, the light in his face leaping to hers. She sprang down and ran toward him, her arms out. Daddy John, slas.h.i.+ng the wayside bushes with his whip, looked reflectively at the bending twigs while the embrace lasted. The McMurdos' curiosity was not restrained by any such inconvenient delicacy. They peeped from under the wagon hood, grinning appreciatively, Bella the while maintaining a silent fight with the children, who struggled for an exit. None of them could hear what the girl said, but they saw Courant suddenly look with a changed face, its light extinguished, at the second wagon.

”He don't seem so terrible glad to see us,” said Glen. ”I guess he wanted to keep the place for himself.”

Bella noted the look and snorted.

”He's a cross-grained thing,” she said; ”I don't see what got into her to marry him when she could have had David.”

”She can't have him when he ain't round to be had,” her husband answered. ”Low's better than a man that's either a prisoner with the Indians or dead somewhere. David was a good boy, but I don't seem to see he'd be much use to her now.”

Bella sniffed again, and let the squirming children go to get what good they could out of the unpromising moment of the surprise.

What Low had said to Susan was an angry,

”Why did you bring them?”

She fell back from him not so crestfallen at his words as at his dark frown of disapproval.

”Why, I wanted them,” she faltered, bewildered by his obvious displeasure at what she thought would be welcome news, ”and I thought you would.”

”I'd rather you hadn't. Aren't we enough by ourselves?”

”Yes, of course. But they're our friends. We traveled with them for days and weeks, and it's made them like relations. I was so glad to see them I cried when I saw Bella. Oh, do try and seem more as if you liked it. They're here and I've brought them.”

He slouched forward to greet them. She was relieved to see that he made an effort to banish his annoyance and put some warmth of welcome into his voice. But the subtlety with which he could conceal his emotions when it behooved him had deserted him, and Bella and Glen saw the husband did not stand toward them as the wife did.

It was Susan who infused into the meeting a fevered and fict.i.tious friendliness, chattering over the pauses that threatened to fall upon it, leaving them a reunited company only in name. She presently swept Bella to the camp, continuing her nervous prattle as she showed her the tent and the spring behind it, and told of the log house they were to raise before the rains came. Bella was placated. After all, it was a lovely spot, good for the children, and if Glen could do as well on a lower bend of the river as they had done here, it looked as if they had at last found the Promised Land.

After supper they sat by Daddy John's fire, which shot an eddying column of sparks into the plumed darkness of the pine. It was like old times only--with a glance outward toward the water and the star-strewn sky--so much more--what was the word? Not quiet; they could never forget the desert silence. ”Homelike,” Susan suggested, and they decided that was the right word.

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