It made an instinctive, wistful appeal for
protection, and Bucky felt an odd little stirring at his tender
Irish heart.
"Might think I was the kid's father to see what an interest I
take in him," the young man told himself reprovingly. "It's all
tommyrot, too. A boy had ought to have more grit. I expect he
needed that licking all right I saved him from."
When Bucky had eaten, the camp things were repacked for travel.
Epitaph was only twenty-three miles away, and the ranger
preferred to ride in the cool of the night rather than sit up
till daybreak with his prisoner. Besides, he could then catch the
morning train from that town and save almost a day.
So hour after hour they plodded on, the prisoner in front,
O'Connor in the center, and Frank Hardman bringing up the rear.
It was an Arizona night of countless stars, with that peculiar
soft, velvety atmosphere that belongs to no other land or time.
In the distance the jagged, violet line of mountains rose in
silhouette against a sky not many shades lighter, while nearer
the cool moonlight flooded a land grown magical under its divine
touch.
The ranger rode with a limp ease that made for rest, his body
shifting now and again in the saddle, so as to change the weight
and avoid stiffness.
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