Early the next morning Neale and King rode out on the way to Slingerland’s.

The sun was warm when they reached the valley through which ran the stream that led up to the cabin.  Spring was in the air.  The leaves of cottonwood and willow added their fresh emerald to the darker green of the pine.  Bluebells showed in the grass along the trail; there grew lavender and yellow flowers unfamiliar to Neale; trout rose and splashed on the surface of the pools; and the way was melodious with the humming of bees and the singing of birds.

Slingerland saw them coming and strode out to meet them with hearty greeting.

“Is she all right?” queried Neale, abruptly.

“No, she ain’t,” replied Slingerland, shaking his shaggy head.  “She won’t eat or move or talk.  She’s wastin’ away.  She jest sits or lays with that awful look in her eyes.”

“Can’t you make her talk?”

“Wal, she’ll say no to ‘most anythin’.  There was three times she asked when you was comin’ back.  Then she quit askin’.  I reckon she’s forgot you.  But she’s never forgot thet bloody massacre.  It’s there in her eyes.”

Neale dismounted, and, untying the pack from his saddle, he laid it down, removed saddle and bridle; then he turned the horse loose.  He did this automatically while his mind was busy.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“Over thar under the pines whar the brook spills out of the spring.  Thet’s the only place she’ll walk to.  I believe she likes to listen to the water.  An’ she’s always afraid.”

“I’ve fetched a pack of things for her,” said Neale.  “Come on, Red.”

“Shore you go alone,” replied the cowboy, hanging back.  “Girls is not my job.”

So Neale approached alone.  The spot was green, fragrant, shady, bright with flowers, musical with murmuring water.  Presently he spied her—­a drooping, forlorn little figure.  The instant he saw her he felt glad and sad at once.  She started quickly at his step and turned.  He remembered the eyes, but hardly the face.  It had grown thinner and whiter than the one he had in mind.

“My Lord! she’s going to die!” breathed Neale.  “What can I do—­what can I say to her?”

He walked directly but slowly up to her, aware of her staring eyes, and confused by them.

“Hello! little girl, I’ve brought you some things,” he said, and tried to speak cheerfully.

“Oh—­is—­it you?” she said, brokenly.

“Yes, it’s Neale.  I hope you’ve not forgotten me.”

There came a fleeting change over her, but not in her face, he thought, because not a muscle moved, and the white stayed white.  It must have been in her eyes, though he could not certainly tell.  He bent over to untie the pack.

“I’ve brought you a lot of things,” he said.  “Hope you’ll find them useful.  Here—­”