Even that did not give him rest; and
presently the wrinkled eyelids opened and he looked up at his daughter.
A film of weariness heavier than sleep at first obscured his sight, but
this in turn cleared away; he frowned a little to clear his vision, and
then wagged his head slowly from side to side.
"Kate," he said feebly, "I done my best. It simply wasn't good enough."
She answered in a voice as low as his, but steadier: "What could have
happened? Dad, what happened to make you give up every hold on Dan? What
was it? You were the last power that could keep him here. You knew it.
Why did you tell him he could go?"
The monotone was more deadly than any emphasis of a raised word.
"If you'd been here," pleaded Joe Cumberland, "you'd have done what I
done. I couldn't help it. There he sat on the foot of the bed--see where
them covers still kind of sag down--after he told me that he had
something to do away from the ranch and that he wanted to go now that
Black Bart was well enough to travel in short spells. He asked me if I
still needed him."
"And you told him no?" she cried. "Oh Dad, you know it means everything
to me--but you told him no?" He raised a shaking hand to ward off the
outburst and stop it.
"Not at first, honey. Gimme a chance to talk, Kate. At first I told him
that I needed him--and God knows that I _do_ need him. I dunno why--not
even Doc Byrne knows what there is about Dan that helps me.
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