Curly, a trifle gaunt, gave his first attention to his horse, which he unsaddled with a slap of approval, and turned loose to feed as best it might on the coarse herbage of the upper heights.  His next thought was for himself, and he realized that he was hungry.  Immediately there dawned upon his mind another great conviction.  He was scared!

He looked about at the long galleries of the ornate modern log house, wherein civilization sought to ape the wilderness; but it was not the arrogant pretentiousness of the building itself which caused him to shift his glance and stand dubiously upon one foot.  It was the thought of what the edifice might contain.  There, as he began too late to reflect, was the queen!  He, the trusted henchman, was bearing to her a missive regarding whose nature he now experienced sudden misgivings.  Suppose Willie, the sheepherder, had not, after all, been able to meet the requirements of a situation so delicate and so important!  Curly had known the plains and the mountains all his life.  He had ridden in the press of the buffalo herd in the Panhandle, had headed cattle stampedes in the breaks of the Pecos, had met the long-toed cinnamon bear all over these mountains that lay about him—­had even heard the whisper of hostile lead as part of his own day’s work,—­but never before had his heart failed him.

Nevertheless, his face puckered into a frown of determination, he stumbled, a trifle pigeon-toed in his high-heeled boots, across the floor of one gallery after another, and knocked at one door after another, until finally, by aid of lingering Mexican servants, he found himself in the presence of the beautiful queen whom he had sought.

He ratified her title when she came toward him where he stood, twirling his hat in his hands; so tall was she, so grave and dignified, yet so very sweet and simple.  Curly was a man, and he felt the spell of smooth brown hair and wide brows, and straight, sincere eyes; not to speak of a queen’s figure clad in such raiment as had not often been given Curly to look upon.  He gazed in a frank admiration which lessened his fear.

Constance Ellsworth held out her hand, with questions for his own household at Heart’s Desire.  Was everything right with them?  Was Arabella quite well of her accident?  Was his wife well?  And so on.  But all the time she questioned him deeper with eyes large, wistful, eager.  She had had no news since leaving Heart’s Desire, and now she dreaded any.  This, then, she said with tightening heart, was news, but fatal news, long withheld.  Had Dan Anderson come back unhurt from his sheriff’s errand, there would have been no message at all, and silence would have been sweeter than this certainty of evil.  This messenger, reticent, awkward, embarrassed, brought her news of Dan Anderson—­of the boy whom she had loved, of the man she loved, debonair, mocking, apparently careless, but, as she herself knew, in his heart indomitably resolved.  Now he was gone forever from her life.  He was dead!  She could never see him again.  Ah! why had they not used the days of this life, so brief, so soon ended?  It was of his death that the messenger must speak.