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 depressed 203 by 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 to 204 show 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.

“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.”

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 watching 207 her. 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.

“‘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, and 209 then––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 Thunder 210 Mountain! 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.

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.”

“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.

“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.”

“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.