Lucy did nothing but gaze.  She was unable to walk or eat that day.  Creech hung around her with a remorse he apparently felt, yet could not put into words.

“Do you expect Joel to come up this big canyon?”

“I reckon I do—­some day,” replied Creech.  “An’ I wish he’d hurry.”

“Does he know the way?”

“Nope.  But he’s good at findin’ places.  An’ I told him to stick to the main canyon.  Would you believe you could ride offer this rim, straight down thar fer fifty miles, an’ never git off your hoss?”

“No, I wouldn’t believe it possible.”

“Wal, it’s so.  I’ve done it.  An’ I didn’t want to come up thet way because I’d had to leave tracks.”

“Do you think we’re safe—­from Cordts now?” she asked.

“I reckon so.  He’s no tracker.”

“But suppose he does trail us?”

“Wal, I reckon I’ve a shade the best of Cordts at gun-play, any day.”

Lucy regarded the man in surprise.  “Oh, it’s so—­strange!” she said.  “You’d fight for me.  Yet you dragged me for days over these awful rocks! . . .  Look at me, Creech.  Do I look much like Lucy Bostil?”

Creech hung his head.  “Wal, I reckoned I wasn’t a blackguard, but I am.”

“You used to care for me when I was little.  I remember how I used to take rides on your knee.”

“Lucy, I never thought of thet when I ketched you.  You was only a means to an end.  Bostil hated me.  He ruined me.  I give up to revenge.  An’ I could only git thet through you.”

“Creech, I’m not defending Dad.  He’s—­he’s no good where horses are concerned.  I know he wronged you.  Then why didn’t you wait and meet him like a man instead of dragging me to this misery?”

“Wal, I never thought of thet, either.  I wished I had.”  He grew gloomier then and relapsed into silent watching.

Lucy felt better next day, and offered to help Creech at the few camp duties.  He would not let her.  There was nothing to do but rest and wait, and the idleness appeared to be harder on Creech than on Lucy.  He had always been exceedingly active.  Lucy divined that every hour his remorse grew keener, and she did all she could think of to make it so.  Creech made her a rude brush by gathering small roots and binding them tightly and cutting the ends square.  And Lucy, after the manner of an Indian, got the tangles out of her hair.  That day Creech seemed to want to hear Lucy’s voice, and so they often fell into conversation.  Once he said, thoughtfully: 

“I’m tryin’ to remember somethin’ I heerd at the Ford.  I meant to ask you—­” Suddenly he turned to her with animation.  He who had been so gloomy and lusterless and dead showed a bright eagerness.  “I heerd you beat the King on a red hoss—­a wild hoss! . . .  Thet must have been a joke—­like one of Joel’s.”

“No.  It’s true.  An’ Dad nearly had a fit!”

“Wal!” Creech simply blazed with excitement.  “I ain’t wonderin’ if he did.  His own girl!  Lucy, come to remember, you always said you’d beat thet gray racer. . . .  Fer the Lord’s sake tell me all about it.”