CHAPTER XXVIII—THE FUGITIVE

One thought dominated Marion Harlan’s brain as she packed her

belongings into the little handbag in her room at the Arrow—an

overpowering, monstrous, hideous conviction that she had accepted

charity from the man who was accused of murdering her father! There

was no room in her brain for other thoughts or emotions; she was

conscious of nothing but the horror of it; of the terrible uncertainty

that confronted her—of the dread that Taylor _might_ be guilty! She

wanted to believe in him—she _did_ believe in him, she told herself as

she packed the bag; she could not accept the word of Keats as final.

And yet she could not stay at the Arrow another minute—she could not

endure the uncertainty. She must go away somewhere—anywhere, until the

charge were proved, or until she could see Taylor, to look into his

eyes, there to see his guilt or innocence.

She felt that the charge could not be true; for Taylor had treated her

so fairly; he had been so sympathetically friendly; he had seemed to

share her grief over her father’s death, and he had seemed so sincere

in his declaration of his friendliness toward the man. He had even

seemed to share her grief; and in the hallowed moments during which he

had stood beside her while she had looked into her father’s room, he

might have been secretly laughing at her!

And into her heart as she stood in the room, now, there crept a mighty

shame—and the shadow of her mother’s misconduct never came so close as

it did now. For she, too, had violated the laws of propriety; and what

she was receiving was not more than her just due. And yet, though she

could blame herself for coming to the Arrow, she could not excuse

Taylor’s heinous conduct if he were guilty.

And then, the first fierce passion burning itself out, there followed

the inevitable reaction—the numbing, staggering, sorrowing realization

of loss. This in turn was succeeded by a frenzied desire to go away

from the Arrow—from everybody and everything—to some place where none

of them would ever see her again.

She started toward the door, and met Parsons—who was looking for her.

He darted forward when he saw her, and grasped her by the shoulders.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

She told him, and the man’s face whitened.

“I was asleep, and heard nothing of it,” he said. “So that man Keats

said they had plenty of evidence! You are going away? I wouldn’t,

girl; there may have been a mistake. If I were you——”

Her glance of horror brought Parsons’ protests to an end quickly. He,

too, she thought, was under the spell of Taylor’s magnetism. That, or

every person she knew was a prey to those vicious and fawning

instincts to which she had yielded—the subordination of principle to

greed—of ease, or of wealth, or of place.

She shuddered with sudden repugnance.

For the first time she had a doubt of Parsons—a revelation of that

character which he had always succeeded in keeping hidden from her.

She drew away from him and walked to the door, telling him that _he_

might stay, but that she did not intend to remain in the house another

minute.

She found a horse in the stable—two, in fact—the ones Taylor had

insisted belonged to her and Martha. She threw saddle and bridle on

hers, and was mounting, when she saw Martha standing at the stable

door, watching her.

“Yo’ uncle says you goin’ away, honey—how’s that? An’ he done say

somethin’ about Mr. Squint killin’ your father. Doan’ you b’lieve no

fool nonsense like that! Mr. Squint wouldn’t kill nobody’s father!

That deputy man ain’t nothin’ but a damn, no-good liar!”

Martha’s vehemence was genuine, but not convincing; and the girl

mounted the horse, hanging the handbag from the pommel of the saddle.

“You’s sure goin’!” screamed the negro woman, frantic with a dread

that she was in danger of losing the girl for whom she had formed a

deep affection.

“You wait—you hear!” she demanded; “if you leave this house I’s a

goin’, too!”

Marion waited until Martha led the other horse out, and then, with the

negro woman following, she rode eastward on the Dawes trail, not once

looking back.

And not a word did she say to Martha as they rode into the space that

stretched to Dawes, for the girl’s heart was heavy with

self-accusation.

They stopped for an instant at Mullarky’s cabin, and Mrs. Mullarky

drew from the girl the story of the morning’s happenings. And like

Martha, Mrs. Mullarky had an abiding faith in Taylor’s innocence.

More—she scorned the charge of murder against him.

“Squint Taylor murder your father, child! Why, Squint Taylor thought

more of Larry Harlan than he does of his right hand. An’ you ain’t

goin’ to run away from him—for the very good reason that I ain’t goin’

to let you! You’re upset—that’s what—an’ you can’t think as straight

as you ought to. You come right in here an’ sip a cup of tea, an’ take

a rest. I’ll put your horses away. If you don’t want to stay at the

Arrow while Taylor, the judge, an’ all the rest of them are pullin’

the packin’ out of that case, why, you can stay right here!”

Yielding to the insistent demands of the good woman, Marion meekly

consented and went inside. And Mrs. Mullarky tried to make her

comfortable, and attempted to soothe her and assure her of Taylor’s

innocence.

But the girl was not convinced; and late in the afternoon, despite

Mrs. Mullarky’s protests, she again mounted her horse and, followed by

Martha, set out toward Dawes, intending to take the first east-bound

train out of the town, to ride as far as the meager amount of money in

her purse would take her. And as she rode, the sun went down behind

the big hill on whose crest sat the big house, looming down upon the

level from its lofty eminence; and the twilight came, bathing the

world with its somber promise of greater darkness to follow. But the

darkness that was coming over the world could not be greater than that

which reigned in the girl’s heart.