191
In the late afternoon Haig leaned against Sunnysides’ corral, smoking his pipe and gazing fixedly at the golden outlaw. The air was very still, almost too still, as if nature had paused before a sudden and violent alteration of her mood. In the bright sky, a little hard even for September, there was no cloud, except on the western horizon, where dark vapors hovered over the bald head of Thunder Mountain. The scent of the harvest in the meadows blended with the odor of burning pine that came from the ranch house, where Flick built the fire for supper. On the hill the pines were still, but the brook babbled on, and there was an incessant low twittering of birds in the cottonwoods.
Haig had now fully recovered. He had taken to his horse again some days before, to ride a little the first day, and more the next, each day adding something to his exercise, until he felt the blood running warmly in his veins, and his muscles tightening at his will. Then he had hardened himself with every kind of labor around the ranch. For he was impatient to remove the stigma of doubt that Sunnysides had burned into his soul. He had told Marion that she was incapable of understanding why he must conquer Sunnysides. He was not sure that he understood it himself. But he knew that he must. Ever since that day when he had fled into the world he had fought to be master of himself; and his way of being master of himself was to be master of every man and every animal and every obstacle that appeared across his path,––that irresponsible, uncharted path that had neither beginning nor end, that led he knew not where nor cared. Every moment was a moment to itself, and every day was its own if he had done192what he had set out to do. His one purpose in life was not to be beaten, never to fail, though he should throw away to-morrow what he had won to-day. So it was that to conquer Sunnysides was for the moment the one thing that counted, and he would have no rest until it was done.
Twilight settled down upon the valley. Haig’s pipe went out, and still he stood gazing at Sunnysides. In the dusk the horse glowed like a living jewel that holds the light when the sun has gone. Night fell, and the golden hide became a shimmer in the dark, as the outlaw moved restlessly to and fro in his prison. Then, of a sudden, with the unexpectedness and unreason of a dog’s wolf-howl at the rising moon, there rose from the gloom of the corral a shrill, wild neigh that shattered the peaceful silence of the night.
Haig left the fence, and walked swiftly to the barn.
“Farrish!” he said shortly. “We’ll break Sunnysides to-morrow. Tell Pete and Curly not to ride away in the morning. The cattle can wait.”
193CHAPTER XVIIITHE CHALLENGE OF THE BRUTE
There had been yellow, mellow weather for weeks on weeks, but this day dawned hard and cold. Some projected rancor of the winter was in the air. Westward the peaks were blanketed with thick gray clouds, while eastward a sullen redness showed where the sun strove to rise on an angry world. The wind was the kind that scrapes raw the nerves, buffeting man and beast with cross-currents and unexpected blasts, howling and shrieking around chimneys and gables, covering everything with dust and sand.
Haig awoke to hear the wind tearing at the shutters and the roof, the pines on the hillside thundering like surf, the hills reverberating with the maddest trumpetings. He lay a moment listening; his pulse quickened, at the sound of all that tumult; and he leaped from his bed calling loudly for Slim Jim. It was a day for battle. The very elements were up and at it, as if all nature had enlisted in the struggle between man and brute.
For all his eagerness, he ate his breakfast leisurely, resolved to make no such error as he had made before. There should be no mad haste and no anger; no working on an empty stomach, on nerves drawn taut. Bacon and eggs and buckwheat cakes, with coffee and a single194pipe, occupied an hour or more; and then, feeling fit for anything, he set out for the corrals.
He did not scruple this time to take every precaution known to the experts of the corrals. Bill was mounted on the wisest horse in the stables, with a lariat ready against the event of Sunnysides trying the fence again. Then Haig directed Farrish, Curly, and Pete to rope and saddle the outlaw, saving himself for the supreme struggle. But to their astonishment there was none of the difficulties in the preliminaries that they encountered on the previous occasion; only two or three vicious movements, no more.
“Foxy, ain’t you?” said Farrish to the outlaw, when the saddle was on. “Savin’ yourself, are you, you yellow devil?”
The horse was led as before into the larger corral. He stepped nimbly, obediently, as if resistance were the farthest thing from his thoughts, even when Haig, his arch-enemy, walked up to him, grasped the bridle, and looked steadily into his eyes. For a moment all stood still, as the challenge passed between man and brute. Then Haig tested the cinches of the saddle, looked carefully around him, and disposed the men with a final word to each.
“Now then! Off with it!”
Farrish removed the last rope, and then only the bridle rein in Haig’s hand, and the fence yonder, stoutly repaired since the last battle, remained between Sunnysides and the sandhills of the San Luis. True, only a fence and a guard had held him all these weeks of his captivity, but that fence had been built up, on his arrival, two planks higher than the one in which he now195found himself again, and from which he had all but escaped at the first opportunity.
Haig put his feet cautiously into the stirrup, and sprang into the saddle. He was prepared for a repetition of the trick that had almost cost him his life, and ready to swing himself out of the saddle if Sunnysides should go over backward again. But the horse was indeed “foxy”; one would have said that he knew his man, and would waste no time or energy on manœuvers that his enemy had discounted. For some seconds he stood quite motionless, while Haig settled firmly in his seat, and gripped the bridle rein expectantly. At length the horse lifted and turned his head, and looked, as it appeared, toward the western mountains, half hidden in the gray swirl of clouds.
“Yes, over there’s the San Luis,” muttered Haig. “But it’s a long way, and you’re not going.”
Farrish grinned. But Pete stood like a wooden Indian, so still and intent was he, with his black eyes fixed on the outlaw. Curly loosened the coils of the lariat in his hands. In a corner of the corral Bill, mounted and watchful, held his rope ready for a throw.
Still Sunnysides did not move. But his tail swished with the slow and menacing movement of a tiger’s, and there was just a quiver of muscles under his golden hide.
“Watch out!” called Pete.
And then it came. The horse bounded into the air, and came down stiff-legged, with a jolt that Haig felt in every bone. Then he leaped sideways half a dozen feet, and Haig was flung far over, hanging perilously in the saddle. With almost one motion the horse was in196the air again, to come down with the same frightful, jarring shock. Instantly thereupon he lunged forward, stopped short, ducked his head, and narrowly missed hurling Haig like a stone from a catapult.
All these tactics were repeated with variations; and then, of a sudden, as if he thought Haig had forgotten his experience by this time, he reared, and with the same lightning swiftness as before, went over backward on the ground. But Haig was too quick for him. He swung himself to one side, released his right foot from the stirrup, and rolled away from beneath the horse as they came down with a crash. At the same instant Pete and Curly rushed in, and the horse leaped to his feet only to be brought down again with two ropes on his legs.
Haig, dusty but uninjured, was on his feet in a jiffy, and leaning over the thwarted outlaw.
“You didn’t really think you could do it again, did you?” he said.
“But he’s a hellyun, though, ain’t he!” ejaculated Curly, bracing himself on his rope.
The horse was allowed to rise; Haig climbed cautiously into the saddle once more; and the same tense silence as the first ensued, while Sunnysides waited, as if for inspiration.
Then it was on as before, but with accentuated fury. The horse, for his opening demonstration, bucked with his back curved like a steel bow. Haig was almost propelled into the air, but hung on desperately; and as the outlaw came down on stiffened legs Haig jabbed the spurs viciously into his flanks. For Sunnysides had been too calculating in his measures; it was desirable to197stir him up, to anger him, to torment him until he should wear himself out with his furious struggles.
The spurs did it. In an instant Sunnysides was a demon. All that he had done was like the antics of a colt compared with what followed. No eye in the corral could follow and record all his movements. He was in every part of the enclosure at once, it seemed. There were instants, too, when he appeared to have disassociated himself from the earth, and to have taken to the air as his element. And then the earth rang again with the clatter of his hoofs; his four legs became a hundred, and then were four again, pounding like piledrivers, like steel drills. He flung himself against the fence until it swayed and creaked, and Haig’s legs were bruised by the violent contact. Clouds of dust rose and hung above the enclosure, and settled on the outlaw’s wet shoulders, on Haig’s sweating face, in his eyes and nostrils, and in his throat until he was fairly choking. But though half-blinded, dizzy, and aching in all his body, Haig hung on, and dug the spurs ceaselessly into the horse’s flanks.
“God! He’s got him!” cried Farrish.
“Your game’s up!” yelled Curly tauntingly, dancing with joy in his corner of the corral.
But the game was not up. Curly’s words were barely out of his mouth when something went wrong with Haig. Just what happened none could be quite sure of, then or afterward; but in the midst of Sunnysides’ plungings, there came a windmill kind of movement, rather like the whirling of a dervish, out of which the horse lunged swiftly forward, and halted violently, with his head down, and his forelegs stiff before him. It was apparently198an elaboration of one of the commonest tricks of all; and if Haig could have stuck to the saddle then he probably would have won. But he was thrown. He went sprawling over the horse’s lowered head, and struck the ground on his head and shoulders, and lay still.
What followed was more marvelous even than the unseating of Haig with the shout of victory already rising to his lips. There came a snort that ended in a scream; and then a flash of yellow through the dust. Bill Craven, on his horse at one side of the corral, saw it coming straight toward him, and tried to whirl his noose. Too late. The outlaw was upon him; his own pony, rearing, was caught unbalanced; and Bill himself instinctively leaned backward in the saddle. There was a terrific impact; the pony was struck squarely on the left fore-quarter; and horse and rider went down together in a heap against the fence. Then over them went the outlaw, trampling them as he leaped and clambered, taking the top plank with him as he landed outside the corral on his head and knees. In an instant he was up; in another, or the same instant, he was off, with his head down, and belly to earth, with the speed of a race-horse and the frenzy of a wild thing set free.
Haig was only slightly stunned by the fall. He heard, though he did not see, the escape of Sunnysides; and for one black moment all in the present was blotted out. But that was only the dizziness, and the reeling pain in his head; and there was the sky filled with gray-black, contending clouds; and Pete was leaning over him.
“Hurt?” asked the Indian.
“No.”
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He reached up one hand, and Pete helped him to his feet. Swaying a little, he looked around the corral. Farrish was on the outside, gazing down the road where Sunnysides was now almost out of sight, a mere yellow spot in a cloud of dust. Curly was jerking Craven’s horse to its feet.
“What’s the matter there?” called Haig.
“Bill’s hurt!” answered Curly.
With Pete at his side, not yet assured that all was well with him, Haig walked unsteadily to where Bill lay against the fence.
“What is it, Craven?” he asked.
“Leg broke. My horse fell on me,” Bill answered weakly. He had, besides, a gash in the left side of his head, from which the blood flowed down his face.
“Into the barn with him!” Haig ordered quietly.
They placed him on a cot, and Pete gave him a long pull at his ever-ready flask.
“I’m sorry, Bill!” said Haig, looking down at him.
“It’s my own fault,” replied Craven. “An’ it serves me damned right for lettin’ him get by me.”
Haig smiled grimly, then turned to the other men with orders. He was ominously quiet; even the dullest of them, the slow-witted Curly, saw and wondered at the unusual calm that showed on his face and in his accents.
“Now then, business!” he said, with swift decision. “You’ll take the sorrels, Curly, and drive to Tellurium for the doctor. Don’t be afraid to drive them; I’ll not be on your back for that. Pete, go to the cottage, and bring my gun. Jim knows where it is. Farrish––where’s Farrish?”
“Here!”
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He came leading two ponies from their stalls.
“What are you doing, Farrish?”
“I supposed we’d better find out where he’s gone, and see if––”
“There’s no doubt where he’s headed for, is there?” Haig interrupted. “And who’s going to stop him? No, saddle Trixy!”
“But you’re not going alone?” said Farrish.
“Yes.”
“But––”
“Bill’s knocked out. Curly’s off as soon as he can start for Tellurium. That leaves you and Pete to look after the ranch. I may be gone some time.”
“But you can’t rope him alone!” protested Farrish.
“I don’t expect to. There isn’t a horse in the Park that could overtake him. He’ll make for the San Luis, of course. I’ll get help there. Now then, Farrish, you’re in charge of the ranch. If anything should happen to me, Jim knows where all my papers are. That’s all.”
Farrish hastened to saddle Trixy, coiling a rope at the saddle horn, and strapping a slicker behind the saddle. At this moment came Pete from the cottage, bringing the revolver and cartridge belt, which Haig buckled on while Farrish led Trixy out in front of the stable.
There was a word or two more to Farrish, about the cattle and the hay, and Haig swung himself into the saddle.
“Wait!” cried Pete, running out of the stable.
He handed a flask of whisky to Haig, who took it, smiling, and thrust it into a pocket of his coat.
“Sure cure for everything, eh, Pete?”
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But he reached down, and clasped Pete’s hand.
“You will be cold, maybe,” said the Indian simply.
“All right, men!” said Haig. “You’ll take good care of Craven, of course. And you’ll use your best judgment about everything, Farrish. I’m not coming back without Sunnysides.”
He put spurs to the little bay mare, and dashed away. Pete and Farrish stood watching him until he had turned the point of the ridge.
“Hell!” said Farrish.
In the cottage door stood a figure in blue silks, intently gazing after the disappearing horseman.
“He catchum, allee light!” murmured Slim Jim.
202CHAPTER XIXSMYTHE’S LAST BUDGET
Seth had heard at the post-office that the deer were coming down unusually early from their summer haunts high in the mountains. A fine herd had been seen just above Bratner’s, and Seth proposed to Marion that she should have a try at them. They would start early in the morning, stop the night at Bratner’s, and be back home late the second evening. Marion reluctantly consented, and before going to bed that night she laid out woolen underwear, her stoutest riding costume, with divided skirts and knickerbockers and tan boots lacing almost to her knees. She did not want to go, but, as more than once before, she yielded to Seth’s insistence rather than attempt an explanation.
That night, however, summer departed from the Park. A dry storm descended on the valley, and Marion lay awake while the wind howled around the corners of the ranch house, of which every timber seemed to be crying out in agony. She knew that high among the rocks the storm was smashing about in fury, and even in its sheltered hollow the house was hammered as if the elements were bent upon its annihilation. When each prodigious outcry had spent itself and died away there was still the moaning and fretting and troubled whimpering that reminded her of the plaints of an invalid pleading for help between paroxysms of pain. She was strangely depressed203by it, unaccountably distressed, and was glad when the first faint whitening of the window curtains told her of the dawn. She arose and dressed––after a moment’s hesitation––in the costume she had prepared the night before. Seth surely would not insist on the shooting trip in such weather, she thought, but it would please him to see her dressed for it. Besides, the temperature of her room reminded her that she would need warm clothes if she went out anywhere on such a day.
“Good, Marion!” cried Seth sure enough, when he saw her at the breakfast table. “Glad you’re not discouraged by a little wind.”
“But––you don’t mean to go on a day like this?”
“Why not?”
“The wind, and––we’ll get soaking wet.”
“No, it’s only a wind storm, and this is the tail end of it. The sun’ll be out in a couple of hours. We needn’t start in a hurry. We’ll leave the horses as they are––they’re all ready, bundles and the rest––until we see.”
Seth’s optimism annoyed her, but she felt encouraged when, after breakfast, she stepped out on the veranda and met the cold and quarrelsome day. A rough blast struck her in the face; she saw a ragged drift of clouds torn by the wind; and the whole landscape seemed to have undergone a melancholy change. Dispirited beyond measure, despite the one satisfaction that the weather gave, she re-entered the house, and sank uneasily into an armchair by the fire.
But Seth’s prediction was justified. Toward ten o’clock the wind ceased, and patches of blue began to204show in the blanket of gray. Claire shared Marion’s disinclination to go shooting on such a day (or any other kind of a day, for her part!), and they stood at the window actually deploring the blue rents in the clouds, when Marion uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise.
“Smythe!” she gasped.
“On a day like this!” cried Claire.
He had dismounted quickly, and was walking toward the house; and as he neared the steps Marion saw in his face what caused her to press her hand on her bosom to still her heart. Something had happened! And she had known it all the time––had known it even in her sleep!
Claire ran to the door and opened it.
“Well, Mr. Smythe!” she cried. “You’re just in time to cheer us up. We’re deep in the mulligrubs.”
He entered smiling, removing his sombrero with his customary flourish. But as he advanced he shot a swift, keen look at Marion.
“Something’s happened!” she repeated to herself.
But she came forward with a smile, and shook hands with Smythe, searching his face. And he was warning her again. She could have shrieked with impatience and anxiety, but she held herself, and waited.
“A terrible night, wasn’t it?” said Claire, giving Smythe a chair.
“Terrific!” replied he. “You know the big pine that hung over the road just this side of Toumine’s? Well, it’s down, right across the road. I had to ride around it, up among the underbrush.”
“I didn’t sleep at all, and I’m used to winds, too,” said Claire.
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“It got me up at daylight,” Smythe went on. “It didn’t look like much of a day for riding, but I got nervous sitting around listening to my good landlady––one of the young Martins is threatened with something or other––and started out to see how the landscape had been changed. There are trees down everywhere, and––” He paused. “What are you doing this morning, Miss Gaylord?” he asked, very casually.
She had been silent, watching him.
“We were going shooting, but we’ve been waiting to see if the weather would change.”
“Then you haven’t been out?”
“Only on the veranda for a minute.”
“Let’s take a brisk walk, then. It’ll do you good––warm you up a little.”
“Yes,” she said weakly.
She went to her room for her hat, and pinning it on before the mirror, started at sight of her face, which had grown very white. She was almost incapable of thought. The hatpin slipped from her cold fingers, and fell to the floor. She stared at it strangely before stooping to pick it up. How could she bear to hear what Smythe had come to tell her! But it was good of him to wait until he could tell her alone.
“Will you go too, Mrs. Huntington?” Smythe said, as Marion emerged from her room.
Claire looked at Marion, and wondered at the whiteness of her face, and the haunted look in her eyes. Nothing had been said, but she saw there was something.
“No, thank you!” she said promptly. “The house suits me this morning.”
206
Smythe and Marion walked up the hill toward the tree where Marion had practised shooting. Until they reached it neither spoke.
“Well?” said Marion, turning suddenly on him.
“Sunnysides has got away.”
“And he?” she cried.
“Thrown, but not hurt.”
She stared at him a moment, dazed. Then she threw back her head, and clasped her hands on her breast.
“Oh!” she murmured. “But how you frightened me!”
Smythe looked at her silently; and presently, when she lowered her eyes, she saw that his face was very grave. But Haig was unhurt, and Sunnysides had escaped. She had prayed for just that.
“What is it?” she cried, leaning forward to clutch his arm.
“He’s following.”
“Following?”
“Yes. Alone.”
“Where?”
“Yonder.”
He pointed to the west.
“To the San Luis?”
“Yes.”
“The way they brought him here?”
“No. Sunnysides has taken the trail over Thunder Mountain.”
Her hand fell from his arm. She swayed, as if she would collapse. Smythe grabbed her, with an arm around her waist, and led her, unresisting and dumb, to a near rock, where he seated her gently, and stood watching207her. He had been too abrupt, he thought; but how else could he have told her?
She struggled bravely.
“Tell me!” she said at length.
He knew little about the event at the ranch. There had been a terrific struggle; Haig had almost conquered; then the outlaw had flung him over his head, trampled one of his men, breaking his leg, and leaped the fence to liberty.
“But––Thunder Mountain?” cried Marion.
“That’s the strangest part of it,” Smythe replied. “Even Haig refused at first to believe it. Nobody knows whether it was deliberate or accidental. It seems that ‘Red’ Davis, who works for Toumine, was taking a load of hay to Lake Cobalt. He’d stopped just beyond the junction of the main road and Haig’s to fix the harness or something, when he heard a furious galloping in Haig’s road. He looked––and Sunnysides must have been something worth seeing, as he came storming down on the boy, with red eyes and foaming lips, the bridle reins dangling at his knees, and the stirrups flying. ‘Red’ had never seen him, but he’d heard a lot, and he jumped behind the wagon as if the devil was after him. But the clatter of hoofs ceased suddenly, and the boy peered around the hay to see what had happened. There was Sunnysides, just at the junction, with his head high, snorting and sniffing, first in the direction of the wagon, and then the other way up the road. With a characteristic boyish burst of daring or deviltry, ‘Red’ leaped out from his shelter, and yelled. The horse leaped into the air, let out a wild neigh, and bolted up the road toward the post-office.
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“‘Red’ watched him until he had disappeared, and then drove on. It must have been half an hour later that he heard more mad galloping behind him. He turned to look, and there came Haig, riding like all fury.
“‘Have you seen a horse?’ he yelled as he reined up alongside the wagon.
“‘Well I just guess!’ said the boy. ‘Sunnysides. How did he––?’
“‘How was the saddle––loose or not?’ asked Haig.
“‘No, it hadn’t turned––if that’s what––’
“‘Thank you!’ replied Haig, starting on.
“‘Wait!’ the boy shouted. ‘He ain’t gone that way!’
“‘What?’
“‘I say, he ain’t gone that way.’
“Haig stared at him suspiciously. Was the boy trying to trick him, in emulation of his elders? He was about to ride on, disdaining to heed him, when something in the boy’s honest face struck his attention.
“‘Are you dreaming?’ he cried.
“‘No, I ain’t!’ retorted Davis, deeply offended.
“‘Where did he go then?’ demanded Haig.
“‘Yander,’ answered ‘Red.’
“Haig was incredulous.
“‘It’s the truth!’ protested the boy. And then he told Haig what he had seen.
“‘But how in hell––’ Haig began.
“Then suddenly it came to him.
“‘Thunder Mountain!’ he cried. Then, half to himself: ‘The trail drops down from Thunder Mountain––somewhere––into the Black Lake country, and209then––over the Sangre de Cristo is the San Luis.But how does he know that?’
“‘He knows a lot, he does!’ said ‘Red.’
“Then Haig was off, flinging back ‘Thank you!’ at the boy. But he took the precaution to confirm ‘Red’s’ story at the post-office. Thompson himself had seen Sunnysides, still going like the wind. Tom Banks came in a little later with news of the outlaw well up the road toward Norton’s, and Haig after him. So there’s no doubt the way they’ve gone. But it’s a losing game if Sunnysides can keep up the speed he was hitting when he was last seen.”
“A losing game!” She, better than anybody else in the Park, knew what that meant. She rose slowly, and looked across the Park at Thunder Mountain, now lost among the clouds. No, not quite; for through a rift she was just able to make out the timber line on the mountain’s jutting shoulder. Above that she knew the bleak rocks rose sheer to the bald head that was battered by tempests, seared by lightning, swept smooth by the winds that never ceased.
So this was the message! This was what Thunder Mountain had said to her! This was the answer to her questions! Day after day she had studied it, when storms gathered on that frowning head, when vapors made a smudge there in the midst of the glittering assemblage of the peaks, and when, for a meager hour, once in a while, the summit stood clear in the sunshine, as if the tortured mountain, condemned to everlasting punishment, had been given a brief reprieve.
Now, at last, she understood. Somewhere on that evil trail was Philip. He could never cross Thunder210Mountain! Sunnysides might, perhaps; but he––he had tried, and failed. Others had tried, and––died for it. But he would try again; she knew how desperately he would throw himself upon that fatal head. And then? It was the end!
But she must know. She could not stay there.
She started down the hill, running; and Smythe followed her in amazement and alarm. He did not like that last look on her face.
“Wait!” he called, in a voice that for once rang with authority.
She stopped, and let him overtake her.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I’m going to Murray’s––for news,” she answered.
“No!” he cried. “That’s madness.”
“It’s necessary,” she rejoined. “And there’s no danger.”
“How do you know?”
“I met Mrs. Murray once at the post-office. She talked to me about Murray’s ranch––it’s in a gulch just below timber line. She asked me to come and visit her––and I’m going.”
“Then I’ll go with you!” retorted Smythe.
She looked at him intently, and smiled in a way that puzzled and disturbed him. But before he could make any considerable effort to analyze it, the smile had fled, and he was following Marion helplessly down the hill.
At the steps of the veranda she paused, and waited for him.
“I’ll be out in a minute,” she said; and left him seating himself uneasily, his perplexity plainly showing in his face.
211
Marion opened the door, and faltered on the threshold. Seth was there with Claire; and she must face them both.
“Mr. Smythe wants me to go for a ride with him,” she said, advancing smilingly. “We can start to-morrow on the shooting trip, can’t we, Cousin Seth?”
She had not often called him “Cousin Seth” of late; and he was delighted.
“Well,” he said reflectively, “I’d rather planned starting to-day, but if to-morrow suits you better it’s all right, Marion. Go along with your young man!”
Claire was studying her anxiously, and Marion hastened to disarm her.
“Thank you, Seth!” she said. “You see, I’m not feeling quite myself this morning––such a night I had! A short ride will be about all I’m good for. I’ll feel better to-morrow.”
“Well, then, dear,” said Claire, “you’ll not be gone long, will you?”
“Don’t worry!” was the evasive reply. “Mr. Smythe will take good care of me.”
On that she kissed Claire, nodded brightly to Huntington, and hurried away. Almost running in her eagerness, she led the way to the stable, where two horses stood saddled, with rifles in leather cases hanging from the saddlebows, and bundles strapped behind. Smythe started to remove the gun from Tuesday’s saddle.
“No, leave it there!” commanded Marion.
“Certainly. But why?” asked Smythe.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It just occurred to me.”
“But the bundle? You won’t need that.”
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“No. But yes––leave it! It’s not very big.”
Smythe looked at her keenly, and with a vague suspicion; but there was no confusion in her face or manner. She was, in fact, not thinking of the bundle or the gun; or if she thought of them––Such rigid instruments as words, worn blunt with usage and misuse, are quite inadequate to describe the faint and fugitive character of that thought,––the idea still in its inception, inchoate, embryo. She was going to Murray’s for news of Philip Haig; and all beyond that purpose was––beyond.
Smythe was not satisfied, but he could say no more; for Marion was already mounting Tuesday, and he could only follow.
At the edge of the little wood below the ranch house Marion turned in the saddle, and saw Claire standing in the doorway. She waved her hand, and Claire waved hers in response; and then the trees came between them, as they had done a hundred times that summer. But now a lump rose in Marion’s throat. Dear Claire! She had been so good to her!
They emerged from the woods, and Marion spurred Tuesday to the gallop, and Smythe came galloping behind. For some distance down the valley she made a point of keeping well ahead of him, by this means avoiding conversation, for which she was not prepared. Her eyes continually sought the dark, gaunt mass of rock that was then, little by little, breaking through the reek on Thunder Mountain. Philip would be up there soon. He had––how many hours the start of her? She checked Tuesday’s gait, and let Smythe come up beside her.
213
“What time was it when he passed the post-office?” she asked.
“About eight o’clock.”
And now it was almost noon! She spurred her pony on.
They turned the corner at Thompson’s, galloping, and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Thompson in the doorway, with a look of wonder on her face. Two miles beyond they swerved without lessening their speed into a less-traveled road that presently was winding in and out among the timber, which opened at the end of another mile, and showed them Norton’s ranch in its sheltered valley among the foothills. It was from Norton’s, or near it, that the last word had come of Haig and Sunnysides; so there was no need to stop for confirmation of their direction. The valley narrowed to a gulch, and the forest came down on either side, and the road ahead of them was swallowed up in shade.
Here, as if at the entrance to some unknown (for she had never been past Norton’s, in all her rides about the Park), her purpose required that Marion should rid herself of Smythe. Moreover, there was Claire to be thought of; and she did not want Huntington to be riding up the trail after her that night.
“Now, Mr. Smythe,” she said, reining up in the first shadow of the woods, “I’ve something for you to do for me.”
“What is it?” he asked in surprise.
“I want you to leave me now, and take a message to Mrs. Huntington.”
“But I can’t––leave you.”
“Yes, you must.”
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“But you’re not going on alone!”
“I’m not afraid. I’ve got my rifle. Besides, I’ll be at Murray’s before dark, and there, as you know, I shall be in good hands. But Claire will worry unless she knows where I am.”
“She’ll worry just the same.”
“No. She knows Mrs. Murray very well.”
“But–––”
“Good-by, Mr. Smythe!”
She reached her hand to him, and he took it reluctantly.
“It’s all wrong, Miss Gaylord!” he protested. “I’m convinced that I’m acting like a fool. If anything happens to you, I’ll–––”
“Nothing will happen to me. Good-by!”
Smythe watched her until she was swallowed up by the woods; he looked at the pines piling up to the distant crests of the mountains, mass on mass, and solitude enfolding deeper solitude; he listened to the long, low, rolling murmur of the forest, sweet but menacing. Then, with the inward comment that he was several kinds of a blithering idiot, he turned and rode back toward the Park, evolving various interesting but futile theories to explain the fact that he, a man of undoubted intelligence, had always acted the part of the giddy fool in moments of emergency. And there was Huntington––another fool! He could foresee a pretty dialogue between them.
215CHAPTER XX“THE TRAIL HELD TRUE”
The forest enveloped her, but she sheltered herself in its heart, and was glad of its soothing silence. The wind had died down to a rustling murmur in the highest foliage; through rifts in the dark-green canopy she caught glimpses of a cool blue sky; and there was a rooty sweetness in the air.
Mile by mile the road, a mere track traveled by Murray’s team at long intervals, grew rougher and more difficult. Soon it had abandoned the easy grades for the gulch, and climbed steep mountain sides, in a devious course through heavy timber, dropping to tumbling rivulets, climbing again to hang on the edges of high cliffs, dodging here and there among massive, outjutting rocks. Four hours she rode thus, mounting, ever mounting, with glimpses now and then of the forests massed green-black below, and glimpses even of the Park itself, around the shoulder of a hill,––a patch of green and violet bright with sunshine. And then, when weariness had begun to weigh upon her, and as the shadows of the forest turned to glooms, she saw with a thrill of expectation that the road dipped ahead of her into a little gulch that lay hidden away in a cleft of the mountains. She must surely be near her destination now; and sure enough, she was riding presently along the bank of a roaring stream; beyond her was a216small meadow of a brilliant green, and at the far edge of it a log cabin, with friendly smoke curling from the chimney.
But she was surprised and disappointed. She had expected, on reaching Murray’s, to see the stark head of Thunder Mountain towering above it, near and sheer. It was nowhere visible; not even the silvery peaks, its neighbors, were to be seen; there were only forests heaped on forests to the sky line. The trail, then, must be longer than she thought; and she seemed to be no closer to him than when she had studied the bald head of the mountain through the clouds.
She was welcomed by Mrs. Murray with cordiality, but in some surprise. A stout and jovial person, whose spirits appeared not to have been lowered in the least degree by the loneliness of her surroundings, Mrs. Murray was a helpful hostess to Marion, who was now in a state of deep dejection. A little boy and his smaller sister, both very dirty but rugged and red-cheeked, played in the open space before the cabin. The week’s washing was on the line, and from behind it, at the sound of a horse’s hoof beats, came Mrs. Murray, staring in amazement. Wonders on wonders in that solitude, where nothing ever happened! First a runaway horse of unheard-of color, saddled and bridled, dashing past the cabin, and almost trampling the children at their play; then Philip Haig, with his set face and burning eyes, making inquiries, and asking for a bite to eat; and then–––
“Well! If it ain’t Miss Gaylord!” cried Mrs. Murray, as she rushed to greet her. “What in the world–––”
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She paused on that, recalling suddenly what she had heard at Thompson’s of Marion’s nursing Haig back to life, and intuitively associating her appearance there with his. Marion saw the thought reflected in the woman’s honest face, and knew that after all the happenings of the summer, and the gossip that had followed, her better course was to be frank with Mrs. Murray from the start. Besides she could not wait to ask her questions by any indirection.
“Have you seen him?” she demanded eagerly.
“Yes, he was here––about noontime. The look on his face!”
She threw up her hands in a gesture that indicated the abandonment of all hope for such a man.
“And Sunnysides?”
“Long before him. The critter almost run over my two babies, playin’ there before the door. Poor dears, scared almost out o’ their skins!”
“What did he say?”
“Nothin’. That is, not much. About the horse first. My man told him it ain’t no use tryin’ to ketch him, an’ it’s foolish to try to cross Thunder Mountain. Murray’s been here ten years, an’ ain’t gone much further’n the edge of it. Storms allus drove him back. An’ what’s the use, when he’s got wife an’ childer to look after? Of course Haig–––”
“What did he say then?”
“He says he c’n cross if Sunnysides can, an’ if they can’t they’ll fight it out up there. My man asks why he didn’t go ’round a safe way an’ wait for Sunnysides in the San Luis, if he thinks the horse’s goin’ back home. Haig says he’d made up his mind to cross218Thunder Mountain some time, an’ now’s as good a time as any. But it’s–––” She was checked at last by the look of anguish on Marion’s face. “But you just come in. It’s supper time, almost, an’ you must be right hungry. Murray’ll be here soon, an’ he’ll put up your horse.”
In the cabin there was to be seen at first just one big room, with two beds at one end, a table surrounded by chairs in the middle, and a stove in the midst of kettles and pans and tubs at the other. But presently Marion noticed a kind of balcony above the beds, and she learned later that this was the “spare bedroom” in which she would be stowed away for the night.
“He was hungry too,” Mrs. Murray went on, being careful, however, to confine herself to the material side of the subject. “He ate some dinner, an’ then, after we give up tryin’ to stop him, Murray said he’d got to take somethin’ with him to eat, an’ some blankets. He hadn’t a thing, mind you, an’ didn’t want to take nothin’, but he did take a good-sized strip o’ bacon and some bread––I’d just did the bakin’––an’ a fryin’-pan an’ matches an’ a knife. Murray done ’em up in a pair o’ blankets, an’ stuck in a leather coat with sheepskin inside, an’ hung a hatchet on his saddle. He’ll need ’em––if he gits across into the Black Lake country, which’s worse some ways than Thunder Mountain––forest’t ain’t never been touched, an’ bad lands, an’–––”
Murray’s entrance interrupted this speech, which was becoming painful to her guest, in spite of the good woman’s resolution to say nothing discouraging. Murray, a bearded, rough fellow in whose face shone good219nature and contentment with the living he made out of his cows and chickens and few head of stock feeding in the mountain meadows, received a whispered hint, and obediently talked of other things than Haig and the runaway. They supped on bacon and eggs, with bread and butter and milk; and an hour afterwards Marion was tucked away in a comfortable bed in that queer “spare bedroom” up against the eaves of the log cabin.
Exhaustion soon brought her sleep. But in the middle of the night she was awakened by a storm that swept high over the ranch house, scarcely touching it in its sheltered hollow, but shrieking and wailing among the rocks and pines. She sat up in her bed to listen! Thunder Mountain! Before her eyes there rose, out of the dark of the cabin, a vision of Philip prone among the rocks of that terrible summit, struck down by the wind, or felled by a thunderbolt, drenched with rain, and perishing of cold. There came, above the howling of the wind, a deafening crash of thunder that rolled away in sullen bellowing. She buried her face among the pillows to shut out the frightful sound; and at length, when the tumult had died away to recur no more, she lay weeping softly until sleep came again to her relief. She did not wake again till morning.
“How much farther up can I go?” asked Marion at breakfast.
“You don’t mean–––” began Mrs. Murray in alarm.
“No,” replied Marion quickly. “I don’t mean the top. But can’t I ride near enough to see it?”
“You c’n go to timber line safe enough,” said Murray.