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from hers. "Let's sit down," Beulah said softly. "All right." I took her hand and let her down gently on the bank, back among the ferns. I sat down and she lifted a hand and touched my forehead, looking at me, then whispered. "I don't even know you and I feel I've known you all my life--" She slipped her hand behind my neck, gently pulling me to her, and I leaned down at last to drink the blue flower's lost flavor-- "Phil! You out there?" It was as if a hundred years had passed. I touched her hair. Like the river, it reflected starlight. "We better go," Beulah said. "I guess," I said, but I drew her closer among the dark ferns. 
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"Phil!" Glad's voice sounded closer, echoing through the arch of aspen. I sat up, cradling Beulah's head. The river moved with a loud hush over round stones, over the darkened alabaster statue-- "Web Sloan Bull Lucinda Pete--" He was calling from the path through the ferns and then Beulah and I were dressed and hurrying hand-in-hand toward the cabin where tall Pete Willis stood by the chrome bumper of his taller 4 x 4-- In the orange porchlight Glad wore his gun and held my holstered revolver in his outstretched hand-- "Jim Sloan's on his way to Olson's." "You got the keys?" I hesitated halfway to the car where Glad stood by the open passenger door. "Got 'em!" "Phil, you be careful!" "I'll be back, Beulah. Wait," I said, gazing into her eyes  |
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