Waite, his squat body looking more distorted
than ever, his huge shoulders lurching as he walked, came fairly
plunging down the hill.

"It's all up with Henderson!" he cried, as Catherine approached. "He's
got the malery, an' he says he's dyin'."

"That's no sign he's dying, because he says so," retorted Catherine.

"He wants to see yeh," panted Waite, mopping his big ugly head. "I think
he's got somethin' particular to say."

"How long has he been down?"

"Three days; an' yeh wouldn't know 'im."

The children were playing on the floor at that side of the house where
it was least hot. Catherine poured out three bowls of milk, and cut some
bread, meanwhile telling Kitty how to feed the baby.

"She's a sensible thing, is the little daughter," said Catherine, as she
tied on her sunbonnet and packed a little basket with things from the
cupboard. She kissed the babies tenderly, flung her hoe--her only weapon
of defence--over her shoulder, and the two started off.

They did not speak, for their throats were soon too parched. The prairie
was burned brown with the sun; the grasses curled as if they had been on
a gridiron. A strong wind was blowing; but it brought no comfort, for
it was heavy with a scorching heat. The skin smarted and blistered under
it, and the eyes felt as if they were filled with sand. The sun seemed
to swing but a little way above the earth, and though the sky was
intensest blue, around about this burning ball there was a halo of
copper, as if the very ether were being consumed in yellow fire.

Waite put some big burdock-leaves on Catherine's head under her bonnet,
and now and then he took a bottle of water from his pocket and made her
swallow a mouthful. She staggered often as she walked, and the road was
black before her. Still, it was not very long before the oddly shaped
shack of the three Johns came in sight; and as he caught a glimpse of
it, Waite quickened his footsteps.

"What if he should be gone?" he said, under his breath.

"Oh, come off!" said Catherine, angrily. "He's not gone. You make me
tired!"

But she was trembling when she stopped just before the door to compose
herself for a moment. Indeed, she trembled so very much that Waite
put out his sprawling hand to steady her. She gently felt the pressure
tightening, and Waite whispered in her ear:

"I guess I'd stand by him as well as anybody, excep' you, Mis' Ford.
He's been my bes' friend. But I guess you like him better, eh?"