The next afternoon Huntington, with painful diffidence, yet anxious to come to some sort of terms with Marion, proposed that she should begin her shooting lessons. She acquiesced in a manner that relieved him immensely, for she, on her side, was sorely in need of distraction. So they were presently on the hillside behind the ranch house with the rifles,––Seth’s Winchester and the little Savage he had bought for Claire, who, to his great disappointment, did not like guns, and never could be taught to see the sights with one eye closed. His delight, therefore, was unbounded when Marion took to the Savage with almost the quick adaptability of a man. True, her first shots went high and wild among the foliage, but she was fast getting the grip of the gun, and had actually once scraped the bark of the tree on which the target of white paper was tacked, when they were hailed by a cheerful voice demanding permission for an unarmed and perfectly harmless man to approach.

“Smythe!” growled Huntington, resenting the interruption. Then aloud, as heartily as he could: “Hello, Smythe! You’re quite safe.”

“What’s going on here, anyhow?” asked Smythe.

“Where are your boasted powers of observation?” retorted Marion.

“It’s more polite to ask.”

“In Paradise Park?” she queried, in a tone of mild surprise.

Seth’s face reddened as he stooped over a half-empty cartridge-box. He had congratulated himself too soon. But while Smythe and Marion exchanged more badinage he refilled the magazine of the Savage, and held it ready.

“Will you have another try?” he asked.

“Yes, please, if Mr. Smythe will only keep still. I know I can never hit anything if he talks.”

“I’m mum!” he answered.

The first shot went wild. So, indeed, the second and third.

“There! What did I tell you?” cried Marion petulantly.

“But I didn’t say a word!” protested Smythe.

“What were you thinking, then?”

“What a charming Diana––”

“Don’t think any more, please!”

“But I can’t stop thinking!”

“In that case you’d better talk. You certainly talk enough without thinking.”

“Bull’s-eye!” he cried joyously. “Now try again!”

“I suppose I must learn not to be bothered.”

She pressed her lips together, and steadied herself resolutely. She would show him! The next shot cut a furrow in the bark of the pine; the second struck within two inches of the target; and the third pinked the edge of the paper itself.

“That will do for this time,” she said, in some elation, as she handed the gun to Huntington.

“To-morrow you’ll do better,” he assured her. “And then we’ll try it at longer range.”

He began to pick up the cartridge boxes and his own rifle.

“You’re not riding to-day?” said Smythe.

“How did you guess it?” she demanded, laughing.

“Oh, a truce! A truce!” he pleaded. “I mean, if you are not going for a ride, will you walk up the hill there?”

He pointed toward the pines.

“Why?”

“To please me,” he answered.

But she caught a look in his eyes that decided her.

“Certainly, if you are so easily pleased.”

“Oh, I’m a very Lazarus at the table of life!” he retorted gaily. “Every crumb comforts me.”

She laughed, and stepped away with him among the rocks, while Huntington, still swearing at Smythe for a meddling fool, strode down the hill.

Marion surmised that Smythe had something to say to her. Had he heard already? Had the news of yesterday’s comedy, that was so near a tragedy, already spread far and wide over the Park? But that was scarcely possible, since Haig’s men would be silent, and Seth had kept Williams too busy all day for gossip.

They climbed the rocky slope without more words, clambering over bowlders and fallen tree trunks, until they reached the summit of the hill, and flung themselves down, hot and panting, on a great flat rock that commanded a sweeping view of the Park. At one side more hills rose, small mountains in themselves, thickly 115 wooded, with white peaks towering behind. On the other, the valley of the Brightwater lay green and bronze in the sun, with the white stream curling and curving among the meadows. Far across the valley, beyond the ridge that divided the Park in unequal halves––that fateful ridge!––the western range of mountains glittered, dazzling white.

Marion’s eyes at once sought out Thunder Mountain. What would it say to her to-day? Storm! Its top was half-hidden in a gray-black swirl of clouds, though the sun was bright on the snow-clad peaks around it.

“What do you see?” asked Smythe, as soon as his lungs would consent to speech.

“My mountain,” she answered, without turning her head.

“Which is that?”

“Thunder Mountain.”

“Umph! You’re welcome to it!”

She was silent.

“Why your mountain?” he asked presently.

“I don’t know.”

“But there must be a reason––or something.”

“That’s just it––something. It’s hideous, but it fascinates me. I can’t help thinking that––”

“That what?”

“I don’t know.”

They laughed together.

“It’s got a bad reputation,” said Smythe.

“Perhaps that’s the reason.”

Then she was embarrassed, thinking unexpectedly of another bad reputation in the Park.

“Perhaps,” he answered, smiling at the back of her head, where the tawny hair curved up adorably from the soft, white neck.

“Tell me about it!” she said at length.

“It’s a death trap.”

“You mean––men have gone up there?”

“Oh, yes!”

“How?”

“There’s a trail, what’s left of it. The Warpath, they call it.”

“The Warpath?”

“Yes. It was first a war trail, when fighting tribes lived in these mountains. But even the Indians didn’t use it often––only in midsummer. It’s a trail over bare rocks, marked by stones set up at long intervals. The Indians didn’t mark it. They had their own ways of knowing it. But after the Indians came trappers, hunters, prospectors, and some of them set up the stones. It would be a valuable short cut between the Park and the San Luis country, if it were safe. But it’s not. I’m told that many lives have been lost on it. I can’t find details except of one tragedy. Some ten years ago a party of English people, guests at the ranch that Haig now owns, went on a pleasure trip to Thunder Mountain. They meant to go only as far as timber line. It’s not difficult as far as the foot of the scarp that lifts to the flat top you see yonder. It’s done on horseback to that point––and across too, if you care to try it. But on top––that’s another matter. It isn’t the mountain itself that gets you. It’s the storms. The English party ventured on top, and three of them never came back. The wind hurled them into a chasm, 117 and their bodies were never recovered. That’s enough for me, thank you!”

“Has nobody in the Park ever been across?” Marion persisted.

“Old Parker––Jim Parker’s father––crossed it once, many years ago. But he came back another way, around by Tellurium. Young Parker has been as far as the Devil’s Chair. That’s the top of the notch where the wind sucks you into it––unless, by good chance, it blows you away from it.”

“And no one else?” Marion insisted, breathless.

“One other man has gone to the Twin Sisters. That’s halfway over.”

“Who was that?” she asked; as if she did not know.

“He balked at the women, you see.”

Smythe chuckled.

“The Twin Sisters,” Smythe went on, “are two huge gray rocks, I’m told, vaguely resembling carved figures. The trail passes between them. There’s no other possible way, and when the wind is blowing it shoots out between them like water from a fire-hose. Haig was caught just there by a storm. He came back fighting mad, and swore he’d cross Thunder Mountain yet, or die there. But that reminds me. I’ve got news for you.”

“News?” asked Marion, with a start.

Her first thought was of Sunnysides. Had Haig decided not to wait for Farrish? But no! It would be something about yesterday’s sensation.

“It keeps well, I see,” she said lightly.

“I didn’t want to excite you so soon after that long climb.”

“Thank you! If you think I can’t stand it you just keep it to yourself––if you can!”

“But I came expressly to tell you.”

“Then why don’t you expressly tell me? Don’t be exasperating, Mr. Smythe!”

He grinned exultantly.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve been eavesdropping.”

“What?”

“Not intentionally. Pure accident. But I didn’t stick my fingers in my ears.”

“No, I can understand that.”

“Thanks. It was this way: I was fishing––for fish, really. Under a clump of willows, just where the road from Haig’s joins the main valley road. You know?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Haig and another man, Higgins, it turned out to be––he’s a Denver lawyer––with his family for an outing down at Cobalt Lake. It appeared he’d been up to see Haig partly on business and partly just for a friendly visit. They separated there, after a little conversation.

“‘It’s strange you’ve never heard a word from him,’ said Higgins.

“‘Four years,’ answered Haig.

“‘He’s probably off in South Africa somewhere.’

“‘Or India. It’s a long trail be followed, no doubt.’

“‘You can only wait, I suppose,’ Higgins said.

“‘Well, I’ve nothing else to do,’ Haig replied, with a laugh.” Smythe paused.

“That’s something to think about,” he said musingly. “Who is this ‘he’? And why is Haig waiting for 119 him? Well, that was all I heard about that. Higgins next asked Haig if he wouldn’t please change his mind about riding down to see them.

“‘No,’ Haig answered. ‘I never go anywhere. I’m not very sociable, no longer a gregarious creature. Ask my neighbors about that!’

“‘Oh, hang your neighbors! This is different. We’re not living here, and we can’t pester you. But you see I got Hail Columbia from my wife for not bringing you to see her in Denver, and she’s dead set on getting acquainted with you here. She says you’re the most unselfish man in the world. I’d be jealous if––’

“‘Oh, come now!’ protested Haig, laughing.

“‘It’s true. So you’ll drop this hermit business for once, won’t you? It will give my wife much pleasure.’

“There was a little silence.

“‘Well, have your own way,’ said Haig at last ‘I suppose a man’s got to humor his lawyer, if he doesn’t want to lose a plain case some day. But I warn you. I’m not very amusing, that is, I trust not.’

“‘Good!’ cried Higgins. ‘We’ll not keep you long. The day after to-morrow, shall we say? Right! Now good-by! And don’t let Huntington pot you––before you’ve seen Mrs. Higgins.’

“They both laughed at that. Higgins drove off down the valley in his road wagon, and Haig galloped toward home. And then I found a trout had run away with my hook. Big fellow too, and clever as Satan. Scuttled away under a rock and worked loose before I could get after him. But it was a good day’s fishing just the same, don’t you think?”

She did not reply at once; and Smythe discreetly 120 busied himself tossing stones at an impertinent chipmunk that popped in and out among the rocks and fallen limbs.

“Have you seen this Mrs. Higgins?” asked Marion suddenly.

“No,” Smythe answered gravely, though his eyes twinkled wickedly. “But Higgins is sixty at least, and I fancy his wife’s too old to be––” A warning look checked him. “But really, Miss Gaylord, you ought not to jump down my throat after I’ve brought you such an interesting knot for your pretty hands to untie.”

She laughed at his lugubrious countenance, then stood up, and reached out a hand to him, letting him hold it for just a breath of time.

“No, you’re a good friend. I know it.”

“I’m not very deep,” he said, with a touch of dejection. “Nobody ever takes me very seriously. But I hope you’ll trust me!”

“Indeed I will! But come! We must go back.”

So they went slipping and sliding down the hill, digging their heels into the ground, clinging to rocks and trees to check their swift descent, laughing at their wild plunges and gyrations. At the house, when they had rested a while on the veranda, Marion dismissed Smythe as quickly as she could without abruptness; and when he had gone she hastened to her room, and locked the door, and flung herself down on the bed, with her hands clasped behind her head, to stare up at the ceiling in a whirl of thoughts. There was a mystery! There was a motive behind Haig’s conduct! “The most unselfish man in the world” And she repeated the words over and over again, and gathered them to her heart.