She sat down on the rock where Marthy had rested after digging the grave, and with her chin in her two cupped palms, stared out across the river at the heaped bluffs and down at the pink-and-white patch of fruit-trees. She was trying, as the young will always try, to solve the riddle of life; and she was baffled and unhappy because she could not find any answer at all that pleased both her ideals and her reason. And then she heard a man's voice lifted up in riotous song, and she turned her head toward the opening of the gorge and listened, her eyes brightening while she waited.
"Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn, Best damn cowboy ever was born, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a, youpy-a, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a!"
Billy Louise, with her chin still in her palms, smiled and hummed the tune under her breath; that shows how quickly we throw off the burdens of our neighbors. "Wonder what he's doing down here?" she asked herself, and smiled again.
"I'll sell my outfit soon as I can, I won't punch cattle for no damn' man, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a, youpy-a, Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a!
"I'm goin' back to town to draw my money, I'm going back to town to see my honey, Coma ti yi--"
Ward came into sight through the little meadow, riding slowly, with both hands clasped over the horn of the saddle, his hat tilted back on his head, and his whole attitude one of absolute content with life. He saw Billy Louise almost as soon as she glimpsed him--and she had been watching that bit of road quite closely. He flipped the reins to one side and turned from the trail to ride straight up the slope to where she was.
Billy Louise, with a self-reproachful glance at the grave, ran down the slope to meet him--an unexpected welcome which made Ward's heart leap in his chest.
"Oh, Ward, for heaven's sake don't be singing that come-all-ye at the top of your voice, like that. Don't you--"
"Now I was given to understand that you liked that same come-all-ye. Have you been educating your musical taste in the last week, Miss William Louisa?" Ward stopped his horse before her, and with his hands still clasped over the saddle-horn, looked down at her with that hidden smile--and something else.
"No, I haven't. I don't have to educate myself to the point where I know the Chisholm Trail isn't a proper kind of funeral hymn, Ward Warren." Billy Louise glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice instinctively, as we all do when death has come close and stopped. "Jase died last night; that's his grave up there. Isn't it perfectly pitiful? Poor old Marthy was here all solitary alone with him. And--Ward! She dug that grave her own self, and took him up and buried him--and, Ward! She--she wheeled him up in the--wheelbarrow! She had to, of course. She couldn't carry him. But isn't it awful?" Her hands were up, patting and smoothing the neck of his horse, and her face was bent to hide the tears that stood in her eyes, and the quiver of her mouth.