How Landor it was again who, when minutes of waiting had passed, minutes wherein Craig consumed cigarettes successively, tied the team and disappeared within doors.  What he said none save the girl herself knew; but when he returned he was not alone, and though the eyes of his companion were red, there was in her manner no longer a trace of hesitation.

The two passengers comfortably muffled in the robes of the rear seat, the driver buttoned the curtains tight about them methodically.  The day was very still, not a sound came to them from over the prairie, and of a sudden, startlingly clear, from the house itself there came an interruption:  the piteous, hopeless wail of a woman in a paroxysm of grief, and a moment later the voice of another woman in unemotional, comforting monotone.

“How,” said a choking, answering voice, “I can’t go after all, I can’t!”

Within the carriage, safe from observation, her companion took her hand authoritatively, pressed it within his own.

“Yes, you can, Bess,” he said low.  “Aunt Mary will have to fight it out for herself.  You couldn’t help her any by staying.”

But already the Indian was gone.  Within the house as before, even keen-eared Mattie Burton failed to catch what he said.  Had she done so, she would have been no wiser, for apparently that moment a miracle took place.  Of a sudden, the hysterical voice was silent.  The man spoke again and—­the watcher stared in pure unbelief—­her own hand in her companion’s hand, Mary Landor followed him obediently out to the surrey.

“We haven’t any time to lose,” he said evenly, as he drew back the flap of the curtain.  “You’d better say good-bye now.”

“Mother!”

“Bessie, girl.  Bessie!”

Again within the ranch house, Mary Landor sank into a seat with the utter weariness of a somnambulist awakened.  Fully a half minute the Indian stood looking down at her.  For one of the few times in his life his manner indicated indecision.  His long arms hung loose from his shoulders.  His wide-brimmed hat hid his eyes.  The watcher thought he looked very, very weary.  Then of a sudden he roused.  Bending over—­did he foresee what was to come, that moment?—­he did something he had never done before.

“Good-bye, mother,” he said, and kissed her on the lips.

The door closed behind him noiselessly, and a half minute later the loose-wheeled old surrey went rumbling past the door.  Mrs. Burton was feminine and curious, and she went to the window to watch it from sight.  The Indian, alone on the front seat, sat looking straight ahead.  The bronchos, fresh from the stall, and but a few weeks before wild on the prairie, tugged at the bit wickedly, tried to bolt; but the driver did not stir in his place.  The left hand, that held the reins, rose and fell with their motion, as an angler takes up slack in his line; that was all.  The woman had lived long on the frontier.  She was appreciative and pressed her face against the pane the better to see.  They were through the gate now, well out on the prairie.  The clatter of the waggon had ceased, the figure of the driver was concealed by the curtains; but the bronchos were still tugging at the bit, still—.