The supper ended too soon for Kate. She had been rallying Randall Byrne,
and as soon as he could graciously leave, the poor fellow rose with a
crimson face and left the room; and behind him, sauntering apparently in
the most casual manner, went Whistling Dan. As for Kate Cumberland, she
could not put all the inferences together--she dared not; but when she
lay in her bed that night it was a long time before she could sleep, for
there was a voice inside her, singing.
She chose her time the next day. Dan alternated between Black Bart and
old Joe Cumberland during most of the day, and no sooner had he left
the wolf-dog in the morning than she went out to Bart.
As always, Black Bart lay with his head flattened against the sand,
dreaming in the sun, and not an eyelid quivered when she approached, yet
she understood perfectly that the animal knew every move she made. She
would have attempted to dress the wound again, but the memory of the
ordeal of yesterday was too terrible. She might break down in the midst
of her effort, and the first sign of weakness, she knew, was the only
spur which Black Bart needed. So she went, instead, to the chair where
Dan often sat for hours near the dog, and there she took her place,
folded her hands on her lap, and waited. She had no particular plan in
mind, more than that she hoped to familiarize the great brute with the
sight of her. Once he had known her well enough, but now he had
forgotten all that passed before as completely, no doubt, as Whistling
Dan himself had forgotten.
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