"Reckon you'd better stay over to-morrow," suggested Slingerland.
His concern for the girl could not have been greater had she been
his own daughter. "Allie--thet was her name, you said. Wal, it's
pretty an' easy to say."
Next day Allie showed an almost imperceptible improvement. It might
have been Neale's imagination leading him to believe that there were
really grounds for hope. The trapper and the cowboy could not get
any response from her, but there was certain proof that he could.
The conviction moved him to deep emotion.
An hour before sunset Neale decided to depart, and told Larry to get
the horses. Then he went to Allie, undecided what to say, feeling
that he must have tortured her this day with his ceaseless
importunities. How small the chance that he might again awaken the
springs of life interest. Yet the desire was strong within him to
try.
"Allie." He repeated her name before she heard him. Then she looked
up. The depths--the tragic lonesomeness--of her eyes--haunted Neale.
"I'm going back. I'll come again soon."
She made a quick movement--seized his arm. He remembered the close,
tight grip of her hands.
"Don't go!" she implored. Black fear stared out of her eyes.
Neale was thunderstruck at the suddenness of her speech--at its
intensity.
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