Lightning’s Despair
Lightning had never made the trip into Hartspool at such a speed. His
horse had understood the thing expected of it at the moment of setting
out. The savage Mexican spurs on the old man’s heels had told the
willing creature all and more than it wanted to know, and Lightning
had raced into the busy township. He had ignored every familiar
stopping-place. He wanted none of them. He rode straight on to Doc
Blanchard’s house.
The doctor was away--gone for a prolonged holiday to the east.
Lightning blasphemed, as was inevitable. But the hired man who informed
him could give not a glimmer of hope. The Doc, he assured him, wouldn’t
return in weeks, maybe months. It was a medical conference of very
great importance. And in the end the old man was forced to return home,
disappointed, hopeless, helpless.
His journey home was no less rapid. His outward journey had been
inspired by his desire to obtain help. His homeward journey was
inspired by his desire that Molly should lack no help that he could
render. And as a consequence Barney Lake never even obtained a glimpse
of his faithful customer.
But Lightning’s return home afforded him one of the worst moments of
his old life. Within half an hour of his arrival, at an hour when
supper should have been preparing, and everything should have been
snugged down for the night, he learned something of the extent of the
disaster that had befallen. Molly had disappeared. She had completely
vanished, and, apparently, with her had gone her pinto mare.
For a brief while the old man thought she had possibly ridden out for
some form of pastime, perhaps feeling that the evening air and a good
gallop would help to restore her after that which had happened at noon.
But a close scrutiny of the state of things generally quickly convinced
him that something desperate was wrong. The team had not been fed. The
cows were standing at the corral fence waiting to be admitted and fed.
And in the house there was not a sign of any preparation of supper. It
was this, to him, amazing state of things that stirred within him the
full sense of disaster.
He set to work feverishly to repair the neglect. He fed his team and
the rest of the horses; he saw to the cows and hayed them. He raced
through his round of chores, even to hauling water for the house. Then
he bestowed such food as his pockets would contain, saddled a fresh
horse, and set out, determined to ride till darkness defeated his
search.
It was long after darkness when he turned. And as he came to the farm
again he looked eagerly for a light shining in the window of the
living-room. There was none. The house was as empty as he had left it,
and the pinto’s stall at the barn was still waiting the return of its
occupant.
After a long, wakeful night Lightning set out again. This time he
prepared for all eventualities. He turned the horses out into the
fifty-acre pasture, which, in Molly’s dreams of the future, had been
ultimately intended to come under the plough. The cows, too, were
turned loose. Fortunately they were no longer in milk, and their need
could be easily satisfied with the grass feed, and the waters of the
creek. Then, with a mind at rest so far as the farm was concerned,
and with his guns slung about his lean body, he set out to scour the
countryside, determined to continue his search until the worst was
known.
His first search lay in the direction of McFardell’s homestead. It was
a natural instinct that prompted him. His crude mind indicated that
as being the most likely direction. But disappointment awaited him.
The place was still deserted. It was precisely as he had left it once
before, even to the broken doors which his heavy boots had destroyed.
From the homestead his course radiated over the surroundings of hill
and forest. He searched with every instinct alert, and with eyes that
never in his long years had been keener for such a task. But every hour
only added to his disappointment; every moment deepened his despair.
Noon came and passed. He ate and rested his horse. Then he continued as
he had planned. His next effort carried him back beyond the farm into
the valley of Dan Quinlan. He meant to ride till night, return to the
farm to sleep, and, with a fresh horse, set out again on the following
morning.
He had scoured the woods along the creek. He had sought every rising
ground that could afford him breadth of view. He had searched as never
in his life had he thought to search in that amazing wilderness. And
more than half the afternoon had spent itself when, utterly dispirited,
he turned and crossed the creek at the water-hole. There was nothing
left him but to retrace his steps and search the far side of the valley.
At last he reached the opening of the gorge of Three-Way Creek. His
old body was weary and his heart was sick. Yet he drew rein at the
edge of the water just above its junction with the bigger stream and
contemplated the wide-flung entrance to the western gap. It was not
that it interested him deeply. He had always known of its existence.
But never in all his years on the farm had he attempted to explore it.
Now, however, he wondered. Now he gazed at it with a new interest.
Yes, nothing must be left to chance. To-morrow----
He turned an ear alertly. Every nerve was on edge, and nothing escaped
him, sight nor sound. Now, though probably indistinguishable to
ordinary hearing, there came to him, clear, and beyond all question
of doubt, the plodding sound of hoofs. He waited well-nigh breathless
while he decided the direction in which the hoofs were travelling. And
a sigh escaped him. The hoofs were approaching--rapidly.
He lifted his reins and turned his horse heading for the gorge. He
urged the wary beast through the bare-trunk aisles of the twilit woods.
Just ahead of him there was a wide patch of sunlight, and he made for
it. And as he came to the edge of the clearing a rider, mounted on a
coal-black horse and leading a familiar pinto pony, broke from the wood
directly opposite him.