Part 42 (1/2)

”Philip!” she said gently. ”I know that--perhaps--it's a foolish question to ask. You mustn't call me silly. But--do you believe in miracles?”

”Miracles be d.a.m.ned!” he blurted out. ”I'll see--”

She put her hand over his mouth.

”Listen, Philip!” she went on. ”I prayed for a miracle, and it has happened. Perhaps there'll be another; who knows? We'll wait and see.

If nothing happens, why--Do you think I'm afraid?”

He made no answer, and she needed none.

CHAPTER XXIV

HAIG'S ARGUMENT

When she had unsaddled Tuesday, and left him grazing near the ”camp,”

Marion set out with Murray's hatchet and knife to cut splints for Haig's broken leg. Haig watched her run across the meadow, leap the brook, and hurry on to a grove of quaking aspens at the edge of the forest. Then he lay back to consider the logic of the situation, with the following result, which appeared to him unanswerable:

First. The girl yonder had already saved his life once, and was doing her best, though against impossible odds, to save it again. Her motive was one that need not be dwelt upon in this fatal crisis. The fact remained that for him she was facing certain death, and he must do all in his power to save her. That was the starting point from which all reckonings must be made.

Second. His own case was hopeless. Long before he should be able to move from where he lay, the valley would be buried in snow to half the height of those pines yonder. If she remained with him her case would be hopeless too. Death would be inevitable for both of them: death from starvation, from exposure, from cold. They had neither food, nor proper clothing, nor shelter of any kind. The hardiest mountaineer would not dream, of attempting to pa.s.s eight or nine months of winter in a place like that, even with his two arms and two legs free. He, with his broken leg, and she, a woman, would not survive an eighth or a ninth of that period.

Third. The chances of rescue. There would be no search for him, he reflected with a grim smile. But for Marion, undoubtedly. To-morrow morning, Marion not having returned, Murray would start out to find her. There was not one chance in a thousand that, at this season, there would be such another day as the one now ending, and ending in storm. But suppose that Murray should make his way across the summit, and find them. Murray could do nothing for a man with a broken leg at the bottom of a gulch with a cliff on one side and miles on miles of mountain forest on the other sides. As for Marion, if she would not go at his, Haig's, command, she would certainly pay little heed to Murray. So Murray would accomplish nothing. However, it would not come to that. Murray would be driven back by the winds. He would ride down to the Park and give the alarm. Search parties would be formed, and they would a.s.sail the mountain. But fifty men would be no stronger than one man on Thunder Mountain. It was just possible that some of them might force their way across the flat between storms. But every day that possibility, such as it was, would grow less. It would be madness for the girl to wait. She had crossed the mountain once; she knew the way; and if the winds should permit rescuers to come to her they would permit her to go to them. It was her only chance, however desperate; to remain where she was meant certain death.

Fourth. She would not, it was quite clear, stir from his side as long as he was alive. Therefore he must do quickly what he had tried to do before.

The idea was so familiar to him by now that it required no contemplation.

He raised his head, and looked toward the stone where his revolver lay; and then toward the aspen grove where Marion labored. His gaze rested on her for some minutes. It was too late for her to start to-night, even if there were no storm on the mountain. And if he did it now she would face a night of solitude and terror, perhaps would not live through it. He would wait till morning; and when she should have gone for wood, or water--

She came back presently with an armload of small limbs she had hacked from the youngest trees. Her left hand bled where she had awkwardly struck it with the hatchet; and there were tears in her eyes, which she tried to conceal from him. He was sorry for her--and angry. It was not his fault; he had done all he could, even to brutality.

”Did you tell Huntington, or his wife, what you were going to do?” was his first speech.

”No. But I sent Mr. Smythe--he rode with me as far as Norton's--I sent him back with a message that I was going to stop the night at Murray's.”

”And the Murrays? What did you tell them?”

”That I'd be back before night. But why do you ask?”

”I'm thinking that Smythe is a fool, and Murray is a blockhead.”

”They did all they could to stop me,” she answered quietly.

She had begun to strip the bark and twigs from the green limbs; and he watched her crude efforts for a moment.

”I think I might manage that part of it,” he said at length. ”You must build a fire.”

She started to obey him, but stopped short, and looked at him in sudden fear and suspicion.