It came to him abruptly
that what he wanted was a drink--whiskey, cocktails, anything, a
drink. And even then, with this new hot yearning for the alcohol
upon him, he heard, faint and far, drifting down the green abyss
of the canon, Dede's voice, crying:--
"Here, chick, chick, chick, chick, chick! Here, chick, chick,
chick!"
He was astounded at the lapse of time. She had left her sewing
on the porch and was feeding the chickens preparatory to getting
supper. The afternoon was gone. He could not conceive that he
had been away that long.
Again came the call: "Here, chick, chick, chick, chick, chick!
Here, chick, chick, chick!"
It was the way she always called--first five, and then three. He
had long since noticed it. And from these thoughts of her arose
other thoughts that caused a great fear slowly to grow in his
face. For it seemed to him that he had almost lost her. Not
once had he thought of her in those frenzied hours, and for that
much, at least, had she truly been lost to him.
He dropped the piece of quartz, slid down the slide, and started
up the trail, running heavily. At the edge of the clearing he
eased down and almost crept to a point of vantage whence he could
peer out, himself unseen.
Pages:
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522