It was still dark. She imagined that she had merely dozed and that
Norton was summoning her because Brocky Lane was worse. A dim glow
shone through the cave entrance, that flickering, uncertain light
eloquent of a camp-fire. As her hands went swiftly and femininely to
her hair, she heard Norton's voice in a laughing remark. Only then she
knew that she had slept three or four hours, that the dawn was near,
that it was time for her to return to San Juan.
"Good morning," she said brightly.
Norton, squatting by the fire, frying-pan in hand, turned and answered
her nod; Brocky Lane, flat on his back with his hands clasped behind
his head, a cigarette in his mouth, twisted a little where he lay, his
eyes eager upon his doctor. Virginia came on into the full light,
striking the pine-needles from her riding-habit.
"Time to eat and ride," said Norton, turning again to his task. "Bacon
and coffee and exercise. Have you rested?"
"Perfectly. And Mr. Lane?"
"Me?" said Brocky. "Feeling fine."
Norton gave her a cup of warm water to wash her hands. Then she made a
second, very careful examination of Brocky's wound, cleansing it and
adjusting a fresh bandage.
"I want to start in half an hour," said the sheriff. "There'll be
light enough then so that we can make time getting down to the horses
and yet not enough light to show us up to a chance early rider down
below.
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