"Which way, Buck?" The girl spoke with the easy manner of one who has little concern, but her eyes belied her words. A strange thrill was storming in her bosom.
"Leeson Butte," said Buck, a deep glow shining in his dark eyes.
Joan let her horse amble beside the measured, stately walk of Cæsar. Her reins hung loose, and her beautiful eyes were shining as they gazed out eagerly ahead. She was thrilling with a happiness that conflicted with a strange nervousness at the naming of their destination. She had no protest to offer, no question. It was as if the lord of her destiny had spoken, and it was her happiness and desire to obey.
They rode on, and their way lay amidst the charred skeleton of a wide, stately wood. The air was still faint with the reek of burning. There was no darkness here beyond the blackened tree trunks, for the brilliant summer sun lit up the glades, which, for ages, no sun's rays had ever penetrated. The sense of ruin was passing from the minds of these children of the wilderness. Their focus had already adapted itself. Almost, even, their youthful eyes and hearts saw new beauties springing up about them. It was the work of that wonderful fount of hope, which dies so hardly in us all, and in youth never.
At length they left the mouldering skeletons behind them, and the gracious, waving, tawny grass of the plains opened out before their gladdened eyes. A light breeze tempered the glorious sunlight, and set ripples afloat upon the waving crests of the motionless rollers of a grassy ocean.
Buck drew his horse down to a walk beside the girl, and his look had lost its reflection of the sadness they were leaving behind. He had no desire now to look back. For all his life the memory of his "big friend" would remain, for the rest his way lay directly ahead, his life, and his--hope.
"It's all wonderful--wonderful out here, little Joan," he said, smiling tenderly down upon her sweet face from the superior height at which Cæsar carried him. "Seems like we're goin' to read pages of a--fresh book. Seems like the old book's all mussed up, so we can't learn its lessons ever again."
Joan returned the warmth of his gaze. But she shook her head with an assumption of wisdom.
"It's the same book, dear, only it's a different chapter. You see the story always goes on. It must go on--to the end. Characters drop out. They die, or are--killed. Incidents happen, some pleasant, some--full of sadness. But that's all part of the story, and must be. The story always goes on to the end. You see," she added with a tender smile, "the hero's still in the picture."