To the outlaw in the Rocky Mountain cabin in that stormy night it was in
every respect the climax of his life. As he sat in the doorway, looking
at the fire and over into the storm beyond, he realized that he was
shaken by a wild, crude lyric of passion. Here was, to him, the pure
emotion of love. All the beautiful things he had ever heard or read of
girlhood, of women, of marriage, rose in his mind to make this night an
almost intolerable blending of joy and sorrow, hope and despair.
To stay time in its flight, to make this hour his own, to cheat the law,
to hold the future at bay--these were the avid desires, the vague
resolutions, of his brain. So sure as the day came this happiness would
end. To-morrow he must resume his flight, resigning his new-found jewel
into the hands of another. To this thought he returned again and again,
each time with new adoration for the girl and added fury and hate
against his relentless pursuers and himself. He did not spare himself!
"Gad! what a fool I've been--and yet, if I had been less a fool I would
not be here and I would never have met her." He ended with a glance
toward Alice.
Then he arose, closed the door of the cabin, and stood without beside
the fire, so that the women might prepare for bed. His first thought of
suicide came to him. Why not wait with his love as long as
possible--stay till the law's hand was in the air above his head,
uplifted to strike, and then, in this last moment, die with this latest,
most glorious passion as climax to his career? To flee meant endless
fear, torment. To be captured meant defeat, utter and final dismay.
A knock upon the door startled him, and Peggy's voice cut short his
meditation. "You can come in now, Mr. Smith," she said.
The broad crystals were still falling thickly and the fire was hissing
and spluttering around a huge root which he had rolled upon it. In its
light the cabin stood hardly higher than a kennel, and yet it housed the
woman whose glance had transformed his world into something mystical. A
man of commonplace ancestry would have felt only an animal delight in
shelter and warmth, but this youth was stirred to a spiritual
exaltation. The girl's bosom, the rounded beauty of her neck, appealed
to him, but so also did the steady candor of her gaze and the sweet
courage of her lips. Her helplessness roused his protective instinct,
and her words, the sound of her voice, so precise, so alien-sweet,
filled him with bitter sadness, and he re-entered the house in such
spirit of self-abasement as he had never known before.
He lay down upon the hard floor in silence, his audacity gone, his
reckless courage deep-sunk in gloomy foreboding.
Alice, on her part, could not free her mind from the burden of his
crime. He was so young and so handsome, to be hunted like a noxious
beast! She had at the moment more concern of him than of Ward, and in
this lay a certain disloyalty. She sighed deeply as she thought of the
outlaw resuming his flight next day. Would it not be better for him to
sacrifice himself to the vengeance of the state at once and so end it?
What right had she to shield him from the law's demand? "He is a
criminal, after all. He must pay for his rash act."
She could not sleep, and when he rose to feed the fire she softly asked,
"Does it still storm?"
"No," he answered in a tone that voiced disappointment; "the sky is
clear."
"Isn't that cheering!" she exclaimed, still in the same hushed voice.
"For you," he replied. "For me it's another story." He felt the desire
for a secret consultation which moved her, and on his way back to his
corner he halted and fixed his eyes upon her in hungry admiration of her
fire-lit face. Then he spoke: "I should have pulled out before the storm
quit. They can trail me now. But no matter; I've known you."
She still kept to ambiguous speech. "Wouldn't it be better to give up
and take your--misfortune, and begin again? Professor Ward and I will do
all we can to help you."
"That's mighty white of you," he responded, slowly. "But I can't stand
the thought of confinement. I've been free as an Injun all my life.
Every way of the wind has been open to me. No; just as long as I can
find a wild spot I must keep moving. If it comes to 'hands up!' I take
the short cut." He tapped his revolver as he spoke.
"You mustn't do that," she entreated. "Promise me you won't think of
that!"
He made a stride toward her, but a movement of her companion checked
him.
"Is it morning?" Peggy sleepily asked.
"Not quite," answered the outlaw, "but it's time for me to be moving.
I'd like to hear from you some time," he said to Alice, and his voice
betrayed his sadness and tenderness. "Where could I reach you?"
She gave her address with a curious sense of wrong-doing.
He listened intently. "I'll remember that," he said, "when I've
forgotten everything else. And now--" He reached his hand to her and she
took it.
"Poor boy! I'm sorry for you!" she whispered.
Her words melted his heart. Dropping on his knees beside her bed, he
pressed her fingers to his lips, then rose. "I'll see you
again--somewhere--some time," he said, brokenly. "Good-by."
No sooner had the door closed behind the outlaw than Peggy rose in her
place beside Alice and voiced her mystification. "Now what is the
meaning of all that?"
"Don't ask me," replied the girl. "I don't feel like talking, and my
foot is aching dreadfully. Can't you get up and bathe it? I hate to ask
you--but it hurts me so."
Peggy sprang up and began to dress, puffing and whistling with
desperation. As soon as she was dressed she ran to the door and opened
it. All was still a world of green and white. "The fire is almost out,"
she reported, "and I can see Mr. Smith's horse's tracks."
V
It was about ten o'clock when a couple of horsemen suddenly rounded the
point of the forest and rode into the clearing. One of them, a slender,
elderly man with gray, curly beard and a skin like red leather,
dismounted and came slowly to the door, and though his eyes expressed
surprise at meeting women in such a place, he was very polite.
"Mornin', ma'am," he said, with suave inflection.
"Good morning," Peggy replied.
"Fine snowy mornin'."
"It is so." She was a little irritated by the fixed stare of his round,
gray eyes.
He became more direct. "May I ask who you are and how you happen to be
here, ma'am?"
"You may. I'm Mrs. Adams. I came up here with my husband, Professor
Adams."
"Where is he?"
"He has gone up the trail toward Fremont. He is a botanist."
"Is that his horse's tracks?"