"Anthony, come out to me!"
He started, and then groaned and stopped himself.
"Is the sign of the truce still over his head, Sally?"
"Yes."
"I daren't go out to him--I'd jump at his throat."
She came beside him.
"It means something besides war. I can see it in his face. Pain--sorrow,
Anthony, but not a wish for fightin'."
From the left side of his cartridge belt a stout-handled, long-bladed
hunting-knife was suspended. He disengaged the belt and tossed it to the
floor. Still he paused.
"If I go, I'll break the truce, Sally."
"You won't; you're a man, Anthony; and remember that you're on the
range, and the law of the range holds you."
"Anthony!" called the deep voice without.
He shuddered violently.
"What is it?"
"It sounds--like the voice of my father calling me! I must go!"
She clung to him.
"Not till you're calmer."
"My father died in my arms," he answered; "let me go."
He thrust her aside and strode out through the door.
On the farther side of the grave stood Drew, his grey head bare, and
looking past him Anthony saw the snow-clad tops of the Little Brother,
grey also in the light of the evening.
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