The camps had sunk to silence, the women and children asleep. He
skirted their tents, bending his course to where he saw the hood of his
own wagon and the shadowy forms of Julia and her mates. The fire still
burned bright and on its farther side he could make out the figures of
Susan and Courant seated on the ground. They were quiet, the girl
sitting with her feet tucked under her, idly throwing scraps of sage on
the blaze. He was about to hail Courant when he saw him suddenly drop
to a reclining posture beside her, draw himself along the earth and
curl about her, his elbow on the ground, his head propped on a
sustaining hand. With the other he reached forward, caught Susan's and
drawing it toward him pressed it against his cheek. Daddy John watched
the sacrilegious act with starting eyes. He would have burst in upon
them had he not seen the girl's shy smile, and her body gently droop
forward till her lips rested on the mountain man's. When she drew back
the old servant came forward into the light. Its reflection hid his
pallor, but his heart was thumping like a hammer and his throat was
dry, for suddenly he understood.
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