The morning was well advanced when a far, faint halloo broke through
the silence of the valley. The ranger stood like a statue, while
Peggy cried out:
“It’s one of our men!”
Alice turned to the outlaw with anxious face. “If it’s the sheriff
stay in here with me. Let me plead for you. I want him to know what
you’ve done for us.”
The look that came upon his face turned her cold with fear. “If it
is the sheriff--” He did not finish, but she understood.
The halloo sounded nearer and the outlaw’s face lightened. “It’s one
of your party. He is coming up from below.”
Impatiently they waited for the new-comer to appear, and though he
seemed to draw nearer at every shout, his progress was very slow. At
last the man appeared on the opposite bank of the stream. He was
covered with snow and stumbling along like a man half dead with
hunger and fatigue.
“Why, it’s Gage!” exclaimed Peggy.
It was indeed the old hunter, and as he drew near his gaunt and
bloodless face was like that of a starved and hunted animal. His
first word was an anxious inquiry, “How are ye?”
“All well,” Peggy answered.
“And the crippled girl?”
“Doing nicely. Thanks to Mr. Smith here, we did not freeze. Are you
hungry?”
The guide looked upon the outlaw with glazed, protruding eyes.
“Hungry? I’m done. I’ve been wallerin’ in the snow all night and I’m
just about all in.”
“Where are the others?” called Alice from her bed.
Gage staggered to the door. “They’re up at timber-line. I left them
day before yesterday. I tried to get here, but I lost my bearin’s
and got on the wrong side o’ the creek. ’Pears like I kept on the
wrong side o’ the hog-back. Then my horse gave out, and that set me
afoot. I was plum scared to death about you folks. I sure was.”
Peggy put some food before him and ordered him into silence. “Talk
later,” she said.
The outlaw turned to Alice. “That explains it. Your Professor Ward
trusted to this man to take care of you and stayed in camp. You
can’t blame him.”
Gage seemed to have suddenly become old, almost childish. “I never
was lost before,” he muttered, sadly. “I reckon something must have
went wrong in my head. ’Pears like I’m gettin’ old and foolish.”
Alice exchanged glances with the outlaw. It was plain that he was in
no danger from this dazed and weakened old man who could think of
nothing but the loss of his sense of direction.
As the day advanced the sun burned clear. At noon it was warm enough
to leave the door open, and Alice, catching glimpses of the flaming
world of silver and purple and gold, was filled with a desire to
quit her dark corner.
“I’m going to get up!” she exclaimed. “I won’t lie here any longer.”
“Don’t try it!” protested Peggy.
“I’m going to do it!” she insisted. “I can hobble to the door if you
help me.”
“I’ll carry you,” said the outlaw. “Wrap her up and I’ll get her a
seat.”
And so, while Mrs. Adams wrapped her patient in a blanket, the
outlaw dragged one of the rough, ax-hewn benches to the door and
covered it with blankets. He put a stone to heat and then re-entered
just as Alice, supported by Peggy, was setting foot to the floor.
Swiftly, unhesitatingly, and very tenderly he put his arms about her
and lifted her to the bench in the doorway before the fire.
It was so sweet to feel that wondrous body in his arms. His daring
to do it surprised her, but her own silent acquiescence, and the
shiver of pleasure which came with the embarrassment of it, confused
and troubled her.
“That’s better,” he said as he dropped to the ground and drew the
blankets close about her feet. “I’ll have a hot stone for you in a
minute.”
He went about these ministrations with an inward ecstasy which shone
in his eyes and trembled in his voice. But as she furtively studied
his face and observed the tremor of his hands in tender ministration
she lost all fear of him.
After three days in her dark corner of the hut the sunshine was
wondrously inspiring to the girl, although the landscape on which
she gazed was white and wild as December. It was incredible that
only a few hours lay between the flower-strewn valley of her
accident and this silent and desolate, yet beautiful, wilderness of
snow. And so, as she looked into the eyes of the outlaw, it seemed
as though she had known him from spring to winter, and her wish to
help him grew with every hour of their acquaintanceship.
She planned his defense before Ward and Adams. “When they know how
kind and helpful he has been they can but condone his one rash
deed,” she argued in conclusion.
He was sitting at her feet, careless of time, the law, content with
her nearness, and mindful only of her comfort, when a distant
rifle-shot brought him to his feet with the swiftness of the
startled stag.
“That’s your expedition,” he said, “or some one who needs help.”
Again the shots rang out, _one_, _two_, _three_--_one_, _two_,
_three_.
“It’s a signal! It’s your party!”
Peggy uttered a cry of joy and rushed outside, but Alice turned an
unquiet gaze on the outlaw. “You’d better fly!”
“What is the use?” he answered, bitterly. “The snow is so deep there
is no show to cross the range, and my horse is weak and hungry.”
Gage appeared at the door. “Lemme take your gun, stranger; I want to
answer the signal.”
“Where’s your own?”
“I left it on my horse,” the old man answered, sheepishly.
The young fellow looked at Alice with a keen glitter in his eyes.
“I’ll make answer myself,” he said; “I’m very particular about my
barkers.”
Alice, as she heard his revolver’s answering word leap into the
silent air and bound and rebound along the cliffs, was filled with a
sudden fear that the sheriff might be guided back by the sound--and
this indeed the fugitive himself remarked as he came back to his
seat beside her.
“If he’s anywhere on this side of the divide he’ll sure come back.
But I’ve done my best. The Lord God Almighty has dropped the snow
down here and shut me in with you, and I’m not complaining.”
There was no answer to be made to this fatalism of utterance, and
none to the worship of his eyes.
“Lift me up!” commanded Alice; “I want to look out and see if I can
see anybody.”
The outlaw took her in his arms, supporting her in the threshold in
order that she might see over the vast sea of white. But no human
being was to be seen.
“Take me back--inside,” Alice said to the man who had her in his
arms. “I feel cold here.”
Once again, and with a feeling that it was, perhaps, for the last
time, he carried her back to her bench and re-enveloped her in her
blankets.
“Stay here with me now,” she whispered to him, as she looked up into
his face.
And the outlaw, filled with gladness and pride, threw himself on the
floor beside her.