Following the Grass by Harry Sinclair Drago Read Free Book Online Page B

forget that foolin’ us won’t help him any. Where’s he headin’ for?”
    Eagan almost roared his question. Great was his surprise, then, to find little Joseph facing him from the kitchen door, his sleepy eyes squinting along the sights of his father’s old deer-gun.
    â€œDon’t you move!” the child warned. “You wouldn’t talk like that to my mammy if my daddy was here; and I reckon I ain’t going to let you do it, either!”
    â€œI’m damned I” Race drawled as he surveyed the boy. “I’ do be damned! I guess you mean it!” He grunted as he turned to his companions:
    â€œCome on, let’s ride I And say, kid,” he added as he looked at Joseph, “for your sake, I hope your paw is travelin’ fast!”

CHAPTER IV.

ON BUCKSKIN.
    WINTER, long and lonely, came to the cabin on Buckskin Mountain, but it brought no word of the husband and father who had fled in the middle of the night. In the valley, men still talked about Joseph Gault and wondered where he had gone.
    That he had killed Dorr, no one doubted—save Tabor Kincaid—and his guilt was best proved by the fact that he had not waited to be hanged. In the beginning one or two dissented from this popular opinion, but as the story of Eagan’s encounter with Margarida spread, they were forced to admit themselves wrong.
    The killing itself was never investigated. What need for investigation, with the motive so evident and the guilty man almost self-confessed? And, so, although Dorr was soon forgotten, the hunt for Gault went on; but as time passed, and no word of him was had, the law turned to more urgent matters. And those good men and true, who had without trial judged Joseph Gault, contented themselves, with the inhumanity of man for the helpless, by openly scorning the woman and child who had been left to face them.
    But Margarida’s great task was not to win their approval. The wondering look which that mad, storm-filled night had put in little Joseph’s eyes had never quite left them, and although she had succeeded in clouding to him the reason for his father’s going, she was less successful in explaining why he remained away so long. And an uneasy feeling possessed her that he knew what had happened.
    In various ways she tried to keep his mind occupied, and she spent many long hours in teaching him how to read and write. Joseph rewarded her by making astounding progress. He was going on nine, now, and actually growing out of his clothes.
    Kincaid had sent them a Mexican boy to herd their sheep. He proved reliable and made himself handy about the place, but Joseph resented his being there, insisting that they could do without him.
    Margarida had to smile, but it proved to her how mature his mind was. Surely a grandfather could have been proud of him. She often looked for her father to come, now that her husband was gone, but that stern man took no step in her direction. Grief had come to his home, too, but of this Margarida knew nothing. She could only wonder how he steeled his heart.
    If David Gault, her husband’s father, had lived, would he have been as unrelenting? The Basques had always found him an implacable foe, but she could not believe that he would have denied his own flesh at such a time as this.
    Twice, during the winter, Kincaid, came. He was the only visitor. His optimism and confidence in Gault became the thread by which she clung to hope.
    One morning she awakened to find the melting snow dripping from the roof of the cabin. Two weeks later, the snow had disappeared from the lower mountain. Above her, the laurel and greasewood were a blackish green against the snowy patches. Tiny rivulets raced down the mountain-side. The pungent aroma of sage-brush filled the air.
    Wherever she looked life was beginning to stir. Margarida would have been less than human not to have answered in lifted spirit to the miracle being performed about her. And