Part 36 (2/2)

”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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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!”

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