THE TURNING OF COONEY
When she again felt sure of her strength she began to unsaddle Cooney.
The cinches bothered her stiffened fingers, but she had them worked
loose at last, and lifted the heavy saddle off, smiling grimly at her
own strength. When she took off the blanket she warmed her hands a
moment in its heat. Then she stripped off the bridle, and the little
horse, after a moment's mouthing to rest his jaws from the bit, fell to
grazing. As he seemed inclined to stay by her, she broke a switch from
one of the nearby bushes and cut him sharply. Even after this he
galloped off but a little way, with astonished, resentful shakings of
his head. She had wanted him to be on his way back over the miles he had
come before the thing was done.
She glanced shrewdly about her. She was far away from the cabin, a
night's ride at Cooney's best trail pace, and in a region rough and
untraveled, except as an occasional way to the lower valleys. There were
no trails about her, no dead camp fires, no trees rimmed by the axe or
scarred by a "blaze." There was life enough of a sort; jays called
harshly, and squirrels barked their alarm; and half a dozen grouse eyed
her from a few yards' distance, with a sort of half-timid stupidity. But
there was no life to touch hers. She walked about the chosen thicket,
admiring its denseness, not notable in any way, but casual, improbable
to the searching eye.
"The hardest thing!" It was satire now, and she murmured it as such,
done with all fighting. It was good to anticipate the thing, the
restfulness of extinction--or not, as that might be. That was no matter.
She was beaten in this life. It was good to know that in a moment she
would feel as little as Randall Teevan--or as much. She unconsciously
drew herself up at the thought of facing that withered fop.
She rejoiced in the warming air. She would take a long breath of it, and
then the triumphant exit. She stepped a few paces forward to peer about
a low-growing spruce that had shaded her. She had a last fancy for
following the echo of her shot to the farther valley wall.
As she lifted the curtain boughs the sun dazzled her. She would see its
golden points, she thought, when she shut her eyes in the thicket. She
shut them quickly now, to prove this, and saw the myriad dancing lights.
As she opened her eyes again and turned to draw back into the wood there
was imprinted curiously on her recovering vision a silhouette of the
lake cabin. She shut them quickly again, dreading memories she was
forever done with, and laughing in the certainty that the cabin was
miles away. Then she looked again, blinking dazedly in the sunlight, and
the cabin loomed before her across the clearing.
As she stared desperately, her mind roused to frantic denials, her eyes
straining to banish this monstrous figment, the door of the cabin opened
and Ewing came out. She sprang forward with an impulse to shatter the
illusion by some quick movement. But her eyes still beheld him,
bareheaded, turning his face up to the sun. He stretched his arms and
drew deep breaths. He had never seemed so tall. His look had a kind of
triumph in it.
She swayed under the shock of the thing, feeling herself grow faint.
Cooney had betrayed her. Some time in the night, at one of those
confusing bends in the trail, he had turned. He had brought her home.
Ewing's head had turned as she moved; his eyes were on her. She saw the
rapt gladness in his face and beheld him approach her across the
clearing. She managed another step or two and gained the support of a
felled tree. As Ewing came up she essayed a little smile of nonchalance.
"Cooney--" she begun. The word came itself, but she felt easier under
the sound of her own voice and went on--"Cooney came with me. I didn't
go at all. I rode--but you see--" She beamed on him with explanatory
embarrassment--"I took an early morning ride--it was so pleasant--and I
thought I was lost--indeed I did, and I took off his saddle. I left it
right there--" She pointed with the literal exactness of a child in its
narrative of adventure--"right there behind that tree, and then I found
I was--found I was closer to home than I thought."
He had not seemed to hear her, but stood looking narrowly, as if she
were still far away. Gradually his eyes widened, as if he were drawing
her close to him. He took a step toward her, with arms half raised.
"I'm so ashamed--" he muttered; "but you--you let me think that."
His voice brought her to sudden agonized alarm. The blood ebbed from her
face and she almost staggered toward him.
"Did you do it--do _that_?" she whispered, ready to fall.
"No; I found out in time. I found out everything--everything you didn't
tell me." He was shaken with longing, yet shamed into restraint before
her.
"I'm so ashamed--I came as soon as I could to tell you. I rode all night
to be here, to tell you as soon as I could."
"You didn't do it--you didn't do it?" she insisted pitifully.
"I stopped in time." She muttered this over and over, and at last the
truth struggled into her chilled brain.
"You dear, dear fool!" she said with a little sobbing laugh.
Again his arms were half raised to her, but she turned swiftly and ran
to Cooney, who had fallen to grazing a little way off, throwing her arms
about his neck and weeping out incoherent words of endearment.
Ewing gathered his strength, like a wrestler who has been pressed to the
ground, but lifts himself with infinite effort, and went resolutely
toward her. Gently he unclasped her arms from Cooney's neck.
THE END
A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE
David Harum.
Illustrated Edition. With 70 full-page and text pictures by B. West
Clinedinst, and other text designs by C. D. Farrand, and a biography of
the author by Forbes Heermans. 12mo. $1.50.
"What seems to us to be the final judgment of 'David Harum' is given in
the _North American Review_ by no less a personage than John Oliver
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"'It would not be presumptuous to say,' opines Mrs. Craigie, 'well
remembering the magnificent ability of certain English authors of the
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summerin' with"--no. Social equality and independence of thought, in
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Mail and Express._
"'David Harum' is one of those extremely rare and perfectly fresh
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D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
THE LEADING NOVEL OF TODAY.
The Fighting Chance.
By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. Illustrated by A. B. Wenzell. 12mo. Ornamental
Cloth, $1.50.
In "The Fighting Chance" Mr. Chambers has taken for his hero, a young
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Landis."--_New York Evening Sun._
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end."--_Detroit Free Press._
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D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
Transcriber's Note:
Spelling, grammar, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained as
in the original publication except as follows:
Page 9
you'll _git_ somewhur's, I says _changed to_
you'll _git_ somewhur's,' I says
Page 14
comsummation of this mild adventure _changed to_
consummation of this mild adventure
Page 23
considered is so quietly _changed to_
considered it so quietly
front of "art emporiums." on _changed to_
front of "art emporiums," on
Page 33
rainment was donned _changed to_
raiment was donned
Page 48
sasshaying down Fifth Avenue _changed to_
sashaying down Fifth Avenue
Page 50
that man every marry _changed to_
that man ever marry
Page 84
vista of heartshaking surprises _changed to_
vista of heart-shaking surprises
Page 133
latest golf and yatching news _changed to_
latest golf and yachting news
Page 243
slay me an you will _changed to_
slay me an' you will
Page 292
walked by the lake, revolving _changed to_
walked by the lake, resolving
Page 311
with a gesture of replusion _changed to_
with a gesture of repulsion