Slowly, then, the little smile faded,—­the wistful light of it dying for the last time.  The tired head fell suddenly back and the wan lids closed over lifeless eyes.

Still the hand clutched the hair to the quiet heart, the yellow strands curling peacefully through the dead fingers as if in forgiveness.  From the look of rest on the still face it was as if, in his years of service and sacrifice, the little man had learned how to forgive his own sin in the flash of those last heart-beats when his soul had rushed out to welcome Death.

Prudence had arisen before the end came and was standing in front of the Indian to motion him away.  Follett was glad she did not see the eyes glaze nor the head drop.  He leaned forward and gently loosed the limp fingers from the yellow tangle.  Then he sprang quickly up and put his arm about Prudence.  The two Indians backed off in some dismay.  The one who had first come to them spoke again.

“Big medicine!  You give some chitcup?”

“No—­no!  Got no chitcup! Vamose!”

They turned silently and trotted back over the ridge.

“Come, sit here close by the fire, dear—­no, around this side.  It’s all over now.”

“Oh!  Oh!  My poor, sorry little father—­he was so good to me!” She threw herself on the ground, sobbing.

Follett spread a saddle-blanket over the huddled figure at the foot of the cross.  Then he went back to take her in his arms and give her such comfort as he could.

CHAPTER XLIII.

The Gentile Carries off his Spoil

Half an hour later they heard the sound of voices and wheels.  Follett looked up and saw a light wagon with four men in it driving into the Meadows from the south.  The driver was Seth Wright; the man beside him he knew to be Bishop Snow, the one they called the Entablature of Truth.  The two others he had seen in Amalon, but he did not know their names.

He got up and went forward when the wagon stopped, leaning casually on the wheel.

“He’s already dead, but you can help me bury him as soon as I get my wife out of the way around that oak-brush—­I see you’ve brought along a spade.”

The men in the wagon looked at each other, and then climbed slowly out.

“Now who could ‘a’ left that there spade in the wagon?” began the Wild Ram of the Mountains, a look of perplexity clouding his ingenuous face.

The Entablature of Truth was less disposed for idle talk.

“Who did you say you’d get out of the way, young man?”

“My wife, Mrs. Ruel Follett.”

“Meaning Prudence Rae?”

“Meaning her that was Prudence Rae.”

“Oh!”

The ruddy-faced Bishop scanned the horizon with a dreamy, speculative eye, turning at length to his companions.

“We better get to this burying,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” said Follett.