“Yes.” But she tried it and found she could not. She decided she was too tired to care. “I stumbled over a thing—a horrible thing—a gravestone. And I must have hurt my leg. I didn't know——”
She leaned against him, a dead weight. “Tell you what,” said Heyl, cheerfully. “You wait here. I'll go on down to Timberline Cabin for help, and come back.”
“You couldn't manage it—alone? If I tried? If I tried to walk?”
“Oh, impossible.” His tone was brisk. “Now you sit right down here.” She sank down obediently. She felt a little sorry for herself, and glad, too, and queer, and not at all cold. She looked up at him dumbly. He was smiling. “All right?”
She nodded. He turned abruptly. The snow hid him from sight at once.
“Here lies Sarah Cannon. Lay to rest and died alone, April 26, 1893.”
She sank down, and pillowed her head on her arms. She knew that this was the end. She was very drowsy, and not at all sad. Happy, if anything.
“You didn't really think I'd leave you, did you, Fan?”
She opened her eyes. Heyl was there. He reached down, and lifted her lightly to her feet. “Timberline Cabin's not a hundred yards away. I just did it to try you.”
She had spirit enough left to say, “Beast.”