Meanwhile the fugitives on the westbound express were nearing the town
in charge of the marshal of Lone Rock, and Helen (who had telegraphed
her plight to Hanscom and had received no reply) was in silent dread of
the ordeal which awaited her. Her confidence in the ranger had not
failed, but, realizing how difficult it was to reach him, she had small
hope of seeing his kindly face at the end of her journey.
"He may be riding some of those lonely heights this moment," she
thought, and wondered what he would do if he knew that she was
returning, a prisoner. "He would come to me," she said, in answer to her
own question, and the thought that in all that mighty spread of peak and
plain he was the one gracious and kindly soul lent a kind of glamour to
his name. "After all, a loyal soul like his is worth more than any mine
or mountain," she acknowledged.
The marshal, a small, quaint, middle-aged person with squinting glance
and bushy hair, was not only very much in awe of his lovely prisoner,
but so accustomed to going about in his shirt-sleeves that he suffered
acutely in the confinement of his heavy coat. Nevertheless, in spite of
his discomfort, he was very considerate in a left-handed way, and did
his best to conceal the official relationship between himself and his
wards. He not only sat behind them all the way, but he made no attempt
at conversation, and for these favors Helen was genuinely grateful. Only
as they neared the station did he venture to address her.
"Now the sheriff will probably be on hand," he said; "and if he is I'll
just naturally turn you over to him; but in case he isn't I'll have to
take you right over to the jail. I'm sorry, but that's my orders. So if
you'll kindly step along just ahead of me, people may not notice you're
in my charge."
Helen assured him that she would obey every suggestion, and that she
deeply appreciated his courtesy.
Kauffman's spirit was sadly broken. His age, the rough usage of the day
before, and this unwarranted second arrest had combined to take away
from him a large part of his natural courage. He insisted that Helen
should wire her Eastern friends, stating the case and appealing for
aid.
"We need help now," he said. "We are being persecuted."
Helen, however, remembering Carmody's kindness, said: "Don't be
discouraged, daddy. It may be that we are only witnesses and that after
we have testified we shall be released. Wait until to-morrow; I hate to
announce new troubles to my relatives."
"But we shall need money," he said, anxiously. "We have only a small
balance."
It was nearly six o'clock as they came winding down between the grassy
buttes which formed the gateway to the town, and the girl recalled, with
a wave of self-pity, the feeling of exaltation with which she had first
looked upon that splendid purple-walled canyon rising to the west. It had
appealed to her at that time as the gateway to a mystic sanctuary. Now
it was but the lair of thieves and murderers, ferocious and obscene.
Only one kindly human soul dwelt among those majestic, forested heights.
She was pale, sad, but entirely composed, and to Hanscom very beautiful,
as she appeared in the vestibule of the long day-coach, but her face
flushed with pleasure at sight of him, and as she grasped his hand and
looked into his fine eyes something warm and glowing flooded her heart.
"Oh, how relieved I am to find you here!" she exclaimed, and her lips
trembled in confirmation of her words. "I did not expect you. I was
afraid my telegram had not reached you."
"Did you telegraph me?" he asked. "I didn't get it--but I'm here all the
same," he added, and fervently pressed the hands which she had allowed
him to retain.
Oblivious of the curious crowd, she faced him in a sudden realization of
her dependence upon him, and her gratitude for his stark manliness was
so deep, so full, she could have put her hands about his neck. How
dependable, how simple, how clear-eyed he was!
He on his part found her greatly changed in both face and voice. She
seemed clothed in some new, strange dignity, and yet her glance was less
remote, less impersonal than before and her pleasure at sight of him
deeply gratifying. In spite of himself his spirits lightened.
"I have a lot to tell you," he began, but the sheriff courteously
interposed:
"Put her right into my machine--You go too, Hanscom."
"I couldn't prevent this," he began, sorrowfully, as he took a seat
beside her; "but you will not be put into a cell. Mrs. Throop will treat
you as a guest."
The self-accusation in his voice moved her to put her hand on his arm in
caressing reassurance. "Please don't blame yourself about that," she
said. "I don't mind. It's only for the night, anyway. Let us think of
to-morrow."
The ride was short and Mrs. Throop, a tall, dark, rather gloomy woman,
came to the door to meet her guests with the air of an old-fashioned
village hostess, serious but kindly.
"Mrs. Throop," said her husband. "This is Miss McLaren and her father,
Mr. Kauffman. Make them as comfortable as you can."
Mrs. Throop greeted Helen with instant kindly interest. "I am pleased to
know you. Come right in. You must be tired."
"I am," confessed the girl, "very tired and very dusty. I hope you
always put your prisoners under the hose."
"I'll give you my spare chamber," replied the matron, with abstracted
glance. "It's next the bath-room. I'm sorry, but I guess your father'll
have to go down below."
"What do you mean by that?"