Susan watched him draw up at Glen's side, lean from his saddle
for a moment's parley, then turn back. The gravity of his face
increased her dread. He dismounted, looking with scared eyes from one
to the other. Mrs. McMurdo was sick. Glen was glad--he couldn't say
how glad--that it was their camp. He'd camp there with them. His wife
wasn't able to go on.
Susan edged up to him, caught his eye and said stealthily:
"Don't tell my father."
He hesitated.
"They--they--seemed to want him."
"I'll see to that," she answered. "Don't you let him know that
anything's the matter, or I'll never forgive you."
It was a command, and the glance that went with it accented its
authority.
The prairie schooner was now close at hand, and they straggled forward
to meet it, one behind the other, through the brushing of the knee-high
bushes. The child recognizing them ran screaming toward them, his
hands out-stretched, crying out their names. Lucy appeared at the
front of the wagon, climbed on the tongue and jumped down. She was
pale, the freckles on her fair skin showing like a spattering of brown
paint, her flaming hair slipped in a tousled coil to one side of her
head.
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