"What I am thinking of doing nobody else can do," said Blakely. "What
you can do is, keep these two letters till I call for them. If at the
end of a week I fail to call, deliver them as addressed and to nobody
else. Now, before dark I must reach that point younder," and he
indicated the spot where in the blaze of the westering sun a mass of
rock towered high above the fringing pine and mournful shadows at its
base, a glistening landmark above the general gloom at the lower level
and at that hour of the afternoon. "Now," he added quietly, "you can
help me into saddle."
"But for God's sake, lieutenant, let some of us ride with you,"
pleaded Arnold. "If Colonel Byrne was here he'd never let you go."
"Colonel Byrne is not here, and I command, I believe," was the brief,
uncompromising answer. "And no man rides with me because, with another
man, I'd never find what I'm in search of." For a moment he bent over
Wren, a world of wordless care, dread, and yet determination in his
pale face. Arnold saw his wearied eyes close a moment, his lips move
as though in petition, then he suddenly turned. "Let me have that
ribbon," said he bluntly, and without a word Arnold surrendered it.
Stone held the reluctant horse, Arnold helped the wounded soldier into
the saddle. "Don't worry about me--any of you," said Blakely, in brief
farewell. "Good-night," and with that he rode away.
Arnold and the men stood gazing after him. "Grit clean through," said
the ranchman, through his set teeth, for a light was dawning on him,
as he pondered over Blakely's words. "May the Lord grant I don't have
to deliver these!" Then he looked at the superscriptions. One letter
was addressed to Captain, or Miss Janet, Wren--the other to Mrs.
Plume.