"I'm not."
"Yes, you are. You're both all of a tremble and white as two sheep--"
"It isn't that," wailed the girl; "but I've twisted my foot again." Her
moan of pain broke the spell that bound Peggy.
"Would you leave, please, for a moment?" she called to the owner of the
cabin. "I've got to get up and doctor my patient."
"Sure!" he exclaimed, moving toward the door. "If I can do anything let
me know."
As soon as her patient's aching foot was eased Peggy opened the door and
peeped out. A faint flare of yellow had come into the east, and beside
the fire, rolled in his blanket, the ranger was sleeping. Frost covered
everything and the air was keen.
"He's out there on the cold ground--with only one blanket."
"What a shame! Tell him to come inside--I'm not afraid of him."
"Neither am I--but I don't believe he'll come. It's 'most morning,
anyway--perhaps I'd better not disturb him."
"Take one of these quilts to him--that will help some."
Mrs. Adams lifted one of the coverlets and, stealing softly up, was
spreading it over the sleeper when he woke with a start, a wild glare of
alarm in his eyes.
"Oh, it's you!" he said in relief. Then he added, as he felt the extra
cover: "That's mighty white of you. Sure you don't need it?"
"We can spare it. But won't you come inside? I'm sorry we drove you out
of your cabin."
"That's all right. I'm used to this. Good night. I'm just about dead for
sleep."
Thus dismissed, Peggy went back and lay down beside Alice. "He says he's
quite comfortable," she remarked, "and I hope he is, but he doesn't look
it."
When she woke again it was broad daylight and Alice was turning
restlessly on her hard bed. In the blaze of the sun all the mystery of
the night vanished. The incident of the return of the ranger to his
cabin was as natural as the coming of dawn.
"He probably makes regular trips through here," said Mrs. Adams.
But the wounded girl silently differed, for she had read in the man's
eyes and voice a great deal more than belonged to the commonplace
character of a forest-ranger. That first vision of his face burned deep.
She had seen on the wall of the station at "the road" the description of
a train-robber which tallied closely with this man's general appearance,
and the conviction that she was living in the hidden hut of an outlaw
grew into a certainty. "I must not let him suspect my discovery," she
thought.
Mrs. Adams (who had not read the placard) treated the young fellow as if
he were one of the forest wardens, manifesting complete confidence in
him.
He deftly helped her about breakfast, and when she invited him into the
cabin he came readily, almost eagerly, but he approached Alice's bed
with a touch of hesitation, and his glance was softer and his voice
gentler as he said:
"Well, how do you stack up this morning?"
"Much better, thank you."
"Must have been a jolt--my coming in last night the way I did?"
"I guess the 'jolt' was mutual. You looked surprised."
He smiled again, a faint, swift half-smile. "Surprised! That's no name
for it. For a minute I thought I'd fallen clear through. I hope you
didn't get a back-set on account of it."
"Oh no, thank you."
"How many men are in your party?"
"Six, counting the guides."
"Who are the men?"
She named them, and he mused darkly, his eyes on her face. "I reckon I
can't wait to make their acquaintance. I'm going on down the Green River
to-day. I'm sorry to miss 'em. They must be a nice bunch--to leave two
women alone this way."
He ate heartily, but with a nicety which betrayed better training than
is usual to men in his position. He remained silent and in deep thought,
though his eyes were often on Alice's face.
As he rose to go he said to Peggy: "Would you mind doing up a little
grub for me? I don't know just when I'll strike another camp."
"Why, of course! I'll be glad to. Do you have to go?"
"Yes, I must pull out," he replied, and while she was preparing his
lunch he rolled a blanket and tied it behind his saddle. At last he
re-entered the cabin and, again advancing to Alice's bedside, musingly
remarked: "I hate to leave you women here alone. It doesn't seem right.
Are you sure your party will return to-night?"
"Either to-night or to-morrow. Professor Ward intends to climb Fremont
Peak."
"Then you won't see him for three days." His tone was that of one who
communes with himself. "I reckon I'd better stay till to-morrow. I don't
like the feeling of the air."
She explained that Gage, one of the guides, would return in case the
professor wished to remain in the heights.
"Well, I'll hang around till toward night, anyhow."
He went away for half an hour, and upon his return presented a cleanly
shaven face and a much less savage look and bearing. He hovered about
the door, apparently listening to Peggy's chatter, but having eyes only
for the wounded girl. He seized every slightest excuse to come in, and
his voice softened and his manner changed quite as markedly, and at
last, while Mrs. Adams was momentarily absent, he abruptly said:
"You are afraid of me; I can see it in your eyes. I know why. You think
you know who I am."
"Yes; I'm sure of it."
"What makes you think so?"
"I saw your picture in the railway station."
He regarded her darkly. "Well, I trust you. You won't give me away. I'm
not so sure of her." He nodded his head toward the open door.
"What would be the good of my betraying you?"
"Two thousand dollars' reward is a big temptation."
"Nonsense! If I told--it would be for other reasons. If I were to betray
your hiding-place it would be because society demands the punishment of
criminals."
"I'm not a criminal. I never lifted a cent from any man. I didn't get a
dollar from the express company--but I tried--I want you to know,
anyway," he continued, "that I wouldn't rob an individual--and I
wouldn't have tried this, only I was blind drunk and desperate. I needed
cash, and needed it bad."
"What did you need it for?" asked Alice, with a steady look.
He hesitated, and a flush crept across his brown face. His eyes wavered.
"Well, you see, the old home was mortgaged--and mother was sick--"
"Oh, bosh! Tell me the truth," she demanded. "The papers said you did it
for a girl. Why not be honest with me?"
"I will," he responded, impulsively. "Yes, that's right. I did it for a
girl--and afterward, when I was on the run, what did she do? Threw me
down! Told everything she knew--the little coyote--and here I am hunted
like a wolf on account of it." His face settled into savage lines for a
moment. But even as he sat thus another light came into his eyes. His
gaze took account of Alice's lips and the delicate, rounded whiteness of
her neck and chin. Her like he had never met before. The girls he had
known giggled; this one smiled. His sweetheart used slang and talked of
cattle like a herder, but this woman's voice, so sweet and flexible,
made delightfully strange music to his ears.
Peggy's return cut short his confidence, and while she was in the cabin
he sat in silence, his eyes always on the girl. He seized every
opportunity to speak to her, and each time his voice betrayed increasing
longing for her favor.
Mrs. Adams, who had conceived a liking for him, ordered him about as
freely as though he were a hired guide, and he made himself useful on
the slightest hint.
Alice, on her part, was profoundly interested in him, and whenever her
foot would permit her to think of anything else, she pitied him. In the
madness of his need, his love, he had committed an act which made all
the world his enemy, and yet, as she studied his form and expression,
her heart filled with regret. He was very attractive in the Western way,
with nothing furtive or evasive about him.
With a directness quite equal to his own she questioned him about his
reckless deed.
"Why did you do it?" she exclaimed in despair of his problem.
"I don't know. Hanged if I do, especially now. Since seeing you I think
I was crazy--crazy as a loon. If I'd done it for you, now, it wouldn't
have been so wild. You're worth a man's life. I'd die for you."
This outburst of passion, so fierce and wild, thrilled the girl; she
grew pale with comprehension of his mood. It meant that the sight of her
lying there had replaced the old madness with a new one. She was
unprepared for this furious outflaming of primitive admiration.
"You mustn't talk like that to me," she protested, as firmly as she
could.
He sensed her alarm. "Don't you be scared," he said, gently. "I didn't
mean to jar you. I only meant that I didn't know such women as you were
in the world. I'd trust you. You've got steady eyes. You'd stick by the
man that played his whole soul for you, I can see that. I come of pretty
good stock. I reckon that's why you mean so much to me. You get hold of
me in a way I can't explain."
"Why don't you fly?" she asked him. "Every minute you spend here
increases your danger. The men may return at any moment."
"That's funny, too," he answered, and a look of singular, musing
tenderness fell over his face. "I'd rather sit here with you and take my
chances."
"But you must not! You are imperiling your life for nothing."
"You're mistaken there. I'm getting something every minute--something
that will stay with me all my life. After I leave you it doesn't matter.
I came into the hills just naturally, the way the elk does. After that
girl reported me, life didn't count. Seeing you has changed me. It
matters a whole lot to me this minute, and when I leave you it's stormy
sunset for me, sure thing."
Alice gazed upon him with steady eyes, but her bosom rose and fell with
the emotion which filled her heart. She debated calling for Mrs. Adams,
but there was something in the droop of the outlaw's head, in the tone
of his voice, which arrested her. However sudden and frenzied his
admiration might seem to others, it was sincere and manly, of that she
was persuaded. Nevertheless, she was deeply perturbed.
"I wish you would go," she entreated at last, huskily. "I don't want to
see you taken. You have made yourself a criminal and I ought not to find
excuses for you, but I do. You're so young. It doesn't seem as if you
knew what you were doing. Why don't you ride away into the wild north
country and begin a new life somewhere? Can't you escape to Canada?"