Ware returned to headquarters toward evening of the next day. He had
ridden hard and long, but he listened to Thorne's definition of his new
duties with kindling eye, and considerable appearance of quiet
satisfaction. Bob met him outside the office.
"You aren't living up to your part, Ware," said he, with mock anxiety.
"According to Hoyle you ought to draw your gun, whirl the cylinder, and
murmur gently, Aha!"
"Why should I do that?" asked Ware, considerably mystified.
"To see if your weapon is in order, of course."
"How would a fool trick like that show whether my gun's in shape?"
"Hanged if I know," confessed Bob, "but they always do that in books and
on the stage."
"Well, my gun will shoot," said Ware, shortly.
It was then too late to visit Welton that evening, but at a good hour
the following morning Bob announced his intention of going over to the
mill.
"If you're going to be my faithful guardian, you'll have to walk," he
told Ware. "My horse is up north somewhere, and there isn't another
saddle in camp."
"I'm willing," said Ware; "my animals are plumb needy of a rest."
At the last moment Amy joined them.
"I have a day off instead of Sunday," she told them, "and you're the
first humans that have discovered what two feet are made for. I never
can get anybody to walk two steps with me," she complained.
"Never tried before you acquired those _beautiful_ gray elkskin boots
with the _ravishing_ hobnails in 'em," chaffed Bob.
Amy said nothing, but her cheeks burned with two red spots. She chatted
eagerly, too eagerly, trying to throw into the expedition the air of a
holiday excursion. Bob responded to her rather feverish gaiety, but Ware
looked at her with an eye in which comprehension was slowly dawning. He
had nothing to add to the rapid-fire conversation. Finally Amy inquired
with mock anxiety, over his unwonted silence.
"I'm on my job," replied Ware briefly.
This silenced her for a moment or so, while she examined the woods about
them with furtive, searching glances as though their shadows might
conceal an enemy.
To Bob, at least, the morning conduced to gaiety, for the air was crisp
and sparkling with the wine of early fall. Down through the sombre
pines, here and there, flamed the delicate pink of a dogwood, the orange
of the azaleas, or the golden yellow of aspens ripening already under
the hurrying of early frosts. The squirrels, Stellar's jays,
woodpeckers, nuthatches and chickadees were very busy scurrying here and
there, screaming gossip, or moving diligently and methodically as their
natures were. All the rest of the forest was silent. Not a breath of
wind stirred the tallest fir-tip or swayed the most lofty pine branch.
Through the woodland spaces the sunlight sparkled with the inconceivable
brilliance of the higher levels, as though the air were filled with
glittering particles in suspension, like the mica snowstorms of the peep
shows inside a child's candy egg.
They dipped into the cañon of the creek and out again through the yellow
pines of the other side. They skirted the edge of the ancient clearing
for the almost prehistoric mill that had supplied early settlers with
their lumber, and thence looked out through trees to the brown and
shimmering plain lying far below.
"My, I'm glad I'm not there!" exclaimed Amy fervently; "I always say
that," she added.
"A hundred and eleven day before yesterday, Jack Pollock says," remarked
Bob.
So at last they gained the long ridge leading toward the mill and saw a
hundred feet away the mill road, and the forks where their own wagon
trail joined it.
At this point they again entered the forest, screened by young growth
and a thicket of alders.
"Look there," Amy pointed out. "See that dogwood, up by the yellow pine.
It's the most splendiferous we've seen yet. Wait a minute. I'm going to
get a branch of it for Mr. Welton's office. I don't believe anybody ever
picks anything for him."
"Let me--" began Bob; but she was already gone, calling back over her
shoulder.
"No; this is my treat!"
The men stopped in the wagon trail to wait for her. Bob watched with
distinct pleasure her lithe, active figure making its way through the
tangle of underbrush, finally emerging into the clear and climbing with
swift, sure movements to the little elevation on which grew the
beautiful, pink-leaved dogwoods. She turned when she had gained the
level of the yellow pine, to wave her hand at her companions. Even at
the distance, Bob could make out the flush of her cheeks and divine the
delighted sparkle of her eyes.
But as she turned, her gesture was arrested in midair, and almost
instantly she uttered a piercing scream. Bob had time to take a half
step forward. Then a heavy blow on the back of his neck threw him
forward. He stumbled and fell on his face. As he left his feet, the
crash of two revolver shots in quick succession rang in his ears.