SMYTHE'S LAST BUDGET
Seth had heard at the post-office that the deer were coming down
unusually early from their summer haunts high in the mountains. A fine
herd had been seen just above Bratner's, and Seth proposed to Marion
that she should have a try at them. They would start early in the
morning, stop the night at Bratner's, and be back home late the second
evening. Marion reluctantly consented, and before going to bed that
night she laid out woolen underwear, her stoutest riding costume, with
divided skirts and knickerbockers and tan boots lacing almost to her
knees. She did not want to go, but, as more than once before, she
yielded to Seth's insistence rather than attempt an explanation.
That night, however, summer departed from the Park. A dry storm
descended on the valley, and Marion lay awake while the wind howled
around the corners of the ranch house, of which every timber seemed to
be crying out in agony. She knew that high among the rocks the storm
was smashing about in fury, and even in its sheltered hollow the house
was hammered as if the elements were bent upon its annihilation. When
each prodigious outcry had spent itself and died away there was still
the moaning and fretting and troubled whimpering that reminded her of
the plaints of an invalid pleading for help between paroxysms of pain.
She was strangely depressed by it, unaccountably distressed, and was
glad when the first faint whitening of the window curtains told her of
the dawn. She arose and dressed--after a moment's hesitation--in the
costume she had prepared the night before. Seth surely would not
insist on the shooting trip in such weather, she thought, but it would
please him to see her dressed for it. Besides, the temperature of her
room reminded her that she would need warm clothes if she went out
anywhere on such a day.
"Good, Marion!" cried Seth sure enough, when he saw her at the
breakfast table. "Glad you're not discouraged by a little wind."
"But--you don't mean to go on a day like this?"
"Why not?"
"The wind, and--we'll get soaking wet."
"No, it's only a wind storm, and this is the tail end of it. The
sun'll be out in a couple of hours. We needn't start in a hurry. We'll
leave the horses as they are--they're all ready, bundles and the
rest--until we see."
Seth's optimism annoyed her, but she felt encouraged when, after
breakfast, she stepped out on the veranda and met the cold and
quarrelsome day. A rough blast struck her in the face; she saw a
ragged drift of clouds torn by the wind; and the whole landscape
seemed to have undergone a melancholy change. Dispirited beyond
measure, despite the one satisfaction that the weather gave, she
re-entered the house, and sank uneasily into an armchair by the fire.
But Seth's prediction was justified. Toward ten o'clock the wind
ceased, and patches of blue began to show in the blanket of gray.
Claire shared Marion's disinclination to go shooting on such a day (or
any other kind of a day, for her part!), and they stood at the window
actually deploring the blue rents in the clouds, when Marion uttered a
sharp exclamation of surprise.
"Smythe!" she gasped.
"On a day like this!" cried Claire.
He had dismounted quickly, and was walking toward the house; and as he
neared the steps Marion saw in his face what caused her to press her
hand on her bosom to still her heart. Something had happened! And she
had known it all the time--had known it even in her sleep!
Claire ran to the door and opened it.
"Well, Mr. Smythe!" she cried. "You're just in time to cheer us up.
We're deep in the mulligrubs."
He entered smiling, removing his sombrero with his customary flourish.
But as he advanced he shot a swift, keen look at Marion.
"Something's happened!" she repeated to herself.
But she came forward with a smile, and shook hands with Smythe,
searching his face. And he was warning her again. She could have
shrieked with impatience and anxiety, but she held herself, and
waited.
"A terrible night, wasn't it?" said Claire, giving Smythe a chair.
"Terrific!" replied he. "You know the big pine that hung over the road
just this side of Toumine's? Well, it's down, right across the road. I
had to ride around it, up among the underbrush."
"I didn't sleep at all, and I'm used to winds, too," said Claire.
"It got me up at daylight," Smythe went on. "It didn't look like much
of a day for riding, but I got nervous sitting around listening to my
good landlady--one of the young Martins is threatened with something
or other--and started out to see how the landscape had been changed.
There are trees down everywhere, and--" He paused. "What are you doing
this morning, Miss Gaylord?" he asked, very casually.
She had been silent, watching him.
"We were going shooting, but we've been waiting to see if the weather
would change."
"Then you haven't been out?"
"Only on the veranda for a minute."
"Let's take a brisk walk, then. It'll do you good--warm you up a
little."
"Yes," she said weakly.
She went to her room for her hat, and pinning it on before the mirror,
started at sight of her face, which had grown very white. She was
almost incapable of thought. The hatpin slipped from her cold fingers,
and fell to the floor. She stared at it strangely before stooping to
pick it up. How could she bear to hear what Smythe had come to tell
her! But it was good of him to wait until he could tell her alone.
"Will you go too, Mrs. Huntington?" Smythe said, as Marion emerged
from her room.
Claire looked at Marion, and wondered at the whiteness of her face,
and the haunted look in her eyes. Nothing had been said, but she saw
there was something.
"No, thank you!" she said promptly. "The house suits me this
morning."
Smythe and Marion walked up the hill toward the tree where Marion had
practised shooting. Until they reached it neither spoke.
"Well?" said Marion, turning suddenly on him.
"Sunnysides has got away."
"And he?" she cried.
"Thrown, but not hurt."
She stared at him a moment, dazed. Then she threw back her head, and
clasped her hands on her breast.
"Oh!" she murmured. "But how you frightened me!"
Smythe looked at her silently; and presently, when she lowered her
eyes, she saw that his face was very grave. But Haig was unhurt, and
Sunnysides had escaped. She had prayed for just that.
"What is it?" she cried, leaning forward to clutch his arm.
"He's following."
"Following?"
"Yes. Alone."
"Where?"
"Yonder."
He pointed to the west.
"To the San Luis?"
"Yes."
"The way they brought him here?"
"No. Sunnysides has taken the trail over Thunder Mountain."
Her hand fell from his arm. She swayed, as if she would collapse.
Smythe grabbed her, with an arm around her waist, and led her,
unresisting and dumb, to a near rock, where he seated her gently, and
stood watching her. He had been too abrupt, he thought; but how else
could he have told her?
She struggled bravely.
"Tell me!" she said at length.
He knew little about the event at the ranch. There had been a terrific
struggle; Haig had almost conquered; then the outlaw had flung him
over his head, trampled one of his men, breaking his leg, and leaped
the fence to liberty.
"But--Thunder Mountain?" cried Marion.
"That's the strangest part of it," Smythe replied. "Even Haig refused
at first to believe it. Nobody knows whether it was deliberate or
accidental. It seems that 'Red' Davis, who works for Toumine, was
taking a load of hay to Lake Cobalt. He'd stopped just beyond the
junction of the main road and Haig's to fix the harness or something,
when he heard a furious galloping in Haig's road. He looked--and
Sunnysides must have been something worth seeing, as he came storming
down on the boy, with red eyes and foaming lips, the bridle reins
dangling at his knees, and the stirrups flying. 'Red' had never seen
him, but he'd heard a lot, and he jumped behind the wagon as if the
devil was after him. But the clatter of hoofs ceased suddenly, and the
boy peered around the hay to see what had happened. There was
Sunnysides, just at the junction, with his head high, snorting and
sniffing, first in the direction of the wagon, and then the other way
up the road. With a characteristic boyish burst of daring or deviltry,
'Red' leaped out from his shelter, and yelled. The horse leaped into
the air, let out a wild neigh, and bolted up the road toward the
post-office.
"'Red' watched him until he had disappeared, and then drove on. It
must have been half an hour later that he heard more mad galloping
behind him. He turned to look, and there came Haig, riding like all
fury.
"'Have you seen a horse?' he yelled as he reined up alongside the
wagon.
"'Well I just guess!' said the boy. 'Sunnysides. How did he--?'
"'How was the saddle--loose or not?' asked Haig.
"'No, it hadn't turned--if that's what--'
"'Thank you!' replied Haig, starting on.
"'Wait!' the boy shouted. 'He ain't gone that way!'
"'What?'
"'I say, he ain't gone that way.'
"Haig stared at him suspiciously. Was the boy trying to trick him, in
emulation of his elders? He was about to ride on, disdaining to heed
him, when something in the boy's honest face struck his attention.
"'Are you dreaming?' he cried.
"'No, I ain't!' retorted Davis, deeply offended.
"'Where did he go then?' demanded Haig.
"'Yander,' answered 'Red.'
"Haig was incredulous.
"'It's the truth!' protested the boy. And then he told Haig what he
had seen.
"'But how in hell--' Haig began.
"Then suddenly it came to him.
"'Thunder Mountain!' he cried. Then, half to himself: 'The trail drops
down from Thunder Mountain--somewhere--into the Black Lake country,
and then--over the Sangre de Cristo is the San Luis. _But how does he
know that?_'
"'He knows a lot, he does!' said 'Red.'
"Then Haig was off, flinging back 'Thank you!' at the boy. But he took
the precaution to confirm 'Red's' story at the post-office. Thompson
himself had seen Sunnysides, still going like the wind. Tom Banks came
in a little later with news of the outlaw well up the road toward
Norton's, and Haig after him. So there's no doubt the way they've
gone. But it's a losing game if Sunnysides can keep up the speed he
was hitting when he was last seen."
"A losing game!" She, better than anybody else in the Park, knew what
that meant. She rose slowly, and looked across the Park at Thunder
Mountain, now lost among the clouds. No, not quite; for through a rift
she was just able to make out the timber line on the mountain's
jutting shoulder. Above that she knew the bleak rocks rose sheer to
the bald head that was battered by tempests, seared by lightning,
swept smooth by the winds that never ceased.
So this was the message! This was what Thunder Mountain had said to
her! This was the answer to her questions! Day after day she had
studied it, when storms gathered on that frowning head, when vapors
made a smudge there in the midst of the glittering assemblage of the
peaks, and when, for a meager hour, once in a while, the summit stood
clear in the sunshine, as if the tortured mountain, condemned to
everlasting punishment, had been given a brief reprieve.
Now, at last, she understood. Somewhere on that evil trail was Philip.
He could never cross Thunder Mountain! Sunnysides might, perhaps; but
he--he had tried, and failed. Others had tried, and--died for it. But
he would try again; she knew how desperately he would throw himself
upon that fatal head. And then? It was the end!
But she must know. She could not stay there.
She started down the hill, running; and Smythe followed her in
amazement and alarm. He did not like that last look on her face.
"Wait!" he called, in a voice that for once rang with authority.
She stopped, and let him overtake her.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"I'm going to Murray's--for news," she answered.
"No!" he cried. "That's madness."
"It's necessary," she rejoined. "And there's no danger."
"How do you know?"
"I met Mrs. Murray once at the post-office. She talked to me about
Murray's ranch--it's in a gulch just below timber line. She asked me
to come and visit her--and I'm going."
"Then I'll go with you!" retorted Smythe.
She looked at him intently, and smiled in a way that puzzled and
disturbed him. But before he could make any considerable effort to
analyze it, the smile had fled, and he was following Marion helplessly
down the hill.
At the steps of the veranda she paused, and waited for him.
"I'll be out in a minute," she said; and left him seating himself
uneasily, his perplexity plainly showing in his face.
Marion opened the door, and faltered on the threshold. Seth was there
with Claire; and she must face them both.
"Mr. Smythe wants me to go for a ride with him," she said, advancing
smilingly. "We can start to-morrow on the shooting trip, can't we,
Cousin Seth?"
She had not often called him "Cousin Seth" of late; and he was
delighted.
"Well," he said reflectively, "I'd rather planned starting to-day, but
if to-morrow suits you better it's all right, Marion. Go along with
your young man!"
Claire was studying her anxiously, and Marion hastened to disarm her.
"Thank you, Seth!" she said. "You see, I'm not feeling quite myself
this morning--such a night I had! A short ride will be about all I'm
good for. I'll feel better to-morrow."
"Well, then, dear," said Claire, "you'll not be gone long, will you?"
"Don't worry!" was the evasive reply. "Mr. Smythe will take good care
of me."
On that she kissed Claire, nodded brightly to Huntington, and hurried
away. Almost running in her eagerness, she led the way to the stable,
where two horses stood saddled, with rifles in leather cases hanging
from the saddlebows, and bundles strapped behind. Smythe started to
remove the gun from Tuesday's saddle.
"No, leave it there!" commanded Marion.
"Certainly. But why?" asked Smythe.
"I don't know," she replied. "It just occurred to me."
"But the bundle? You won't need that."
"No. But yes--leave it! It's not very big."
Smythe looked at her keenly, and with a vague suspicion; but there was
no confusion in her face or manner. She was, in fact, not thinking of
the bundle or the gun; or if she thought of them--Such rigid
instruments as words, worn blunt with usage and misuse, are quite
inadequate to describe the faint and fugitive character of that
thought,--the idea still in its inception, inchoate, embryo. She was
going to Murray's for news of Philip Haig; and all beyond that purpose
was--beyond.
Smythe was not satisfied, but he could say no more; for Marion was
already mounting Tuesday, and he could only follow.
At the edge of the little wood below the ranch house Marion turned in
the saddle, and saw Claire standing in the doorway. She waved her
hand, and Claire waved hers in response; and then the trees came
between them, as they had done a hundred times that summer. But now a
lump rose in Marion's throat. Dear Claire! She had been so good to
her!
They emerged from the woods, and Marion spurred Tuesday to the gallop,
and Smythe came galloping behind. For some distance down the valley
she made a point of keeping well ahead of him, by this means avoiding
conversation, for which she was not prepared. Her eyes continually
sought the dark, gaunt mass of rock that was then, little by little,
breaking through the reek on Thunder Mountain. Philip would be up
there soon. He had--how many hours the start of her? She checked
Tuesday's gait, and let Smythe come up beside her.
"What time was it when he passed the post-office?" she asked.
"About eight o'clock."
And now it was almost noon! She spurred her pony on.
They turned the corner at Thompson's, galloping, and caught a glimpse
of Mrs. Thompson in the doorway, with a look of wonder on her face.
Two miles beyond they swerved without lessening their speed into a
less-traveled road that presently was winding in and out among the
timber, which opened at the end of another mile, and showed them
Norton's ranch in its sheltered valley among the foothills. It was
from Norton's, or near it, that the last word had come of Haig and
Sunnysides; so there was no need to stop for confirmation of their
direction. The valley narrowed to a gulch, and the forest came down on
either side, and the road ahead of them was swallowed up in shade.
Here, as if at the entrance to some unknown (for she had never been
past Norton's, in all her rides about the Park), her purpose required
that Marion should rid herself of Smythe. Moreover, there was Claire
to be thought of; and she did not want Huntington to be riding up the
trail after her that night.
"Now, Mr. Smythe," she said, reining up in the first shadow of the
woods, "I've something for you to do for me."
"What is it?" he asked in surprise.
"I want you to leave me now, and take a message to Mrs. Huntington."
"But I can't--leave you."
"Yes, you must."
"But you're not going on alone!"
"I'm not afraid. I've got my rifle. Besides, I'll be at Murray's
before dark, and there, as you know, I shall be in good hands. But
Claire will worry unless she knows where I am."
"She'll worry just the same."
"No. She knows Mrs. Murray very well."
"But----"
"Good-by, Mr. Smythe!"
She reached her hand to him, and he took it reluctantly.
"It's all wrong, Miss Gaylord!" he protested. "I'm convinced that I'm
acting like a fool. If anything happens to you, I'll----"
"Nothing will happen to me. Good-by!"
Smythe watched her until she was swallowed up by the woods; he looked
at the pines piling up to the distant crests of the mountains, mass on
mass, and solitude enfolding deeper solitude; he listened to the long,
low, rolling murmur of the forest, sweet but menacing. Then, with the
inward comment that he was several kinds of a blithering idiot, he
turned and rode back toward the Park, evolving various interesting but
futile theories to explain the fact that he, a man of undoubted
intelligence, had always acted the part of the giddy fool in moments
of emergency. And there was Huntington--another fool! He could foresee
a pretty dialogue between them.