And Buck Daniels, softening his voice as much as he
could, answered. “I can find you.”
“Then gimme your hand.”
Buck Daniels slipped his own large hand into the cold
fingers of the dying cattleman. An expression
of surpassing joy lay on the face of Joe Cumberland.
“Whistlin’ Dan, my Dan,” he murmured
faintly, “I’m kind of sleepy, but before
I go to sleep, to-night, I got to tell you that I forgive
you for your joke—pretendin’ to take
Kate away.”
“They’s nothin’ but sleep worth
while—and goin’ to sleep, holdin’
your hand, lad—”
Buck Daniels dropped upon his knees and stared into
the wide, dead eyes. Through the open window
a sound of whistling blew to him. It was a sweet,
faint music, and being so light it seemed like a chorus
of singing voices among the mountains, for it was
as pure and as sharp as the starlight.
Buck Daniels lifted his head to listen, but the sound
faded, and the murmur of the night-wind came between.
