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good of you."
"May I go in?" asked Ruth.
"Reckon so," replied Henninger, scratching his head. He appeared to be
tractable, and probably was good-natured under pleasant conditions. "She ought
to have somethin' to eat. An' nobody 'pears to have remembered that we're so
set up."
He unbarred the huge, clumsy door and allowed Ruth to pass in.
"Joe, you can go in if you want," he said. "But hurry out before Elder Smith
comes back from his dinner."
Joe mumbled something, gave a husky cough, and then went in.
Shefford experienced great difficulty in presenting to this mild Mormon a
natural and unagitated front. When all his internal structure seemed to be in
a state of turmoil he did not see how it was possible to keep the fact from
showing in his face. So he turned away and took aimless steps here and there.
"'Pears like we'd hev rain," observed Henninger. "It's right warm an' them
clouds are onseasonable."
"Yes," replied Shefford. "Hope so. A little rain would be good for the
grass."
"Joe tells me Shadd rode in, an' some of his fellers."
"So I see. About eight in the party."
Shefford was gritting his teeth and preparing to endure the ordeal of
controlling his mind and expression when the door opened and Joe stalked out.
He had his sombrero pulled down so that it hid the upper half of his face. His
lips were a shade off healthy color. He stood there with his back to the door.
"Say, what Mary needs is quiet to be left alone," he said. "Ruth says if she
rests, sleeps a little, she won't get fever. . . . Henninger, don't let
anybody disturb her till night."
"All right, Joe," replied the Mormon. "An' I take it good of Ruth an' you to
concern yourselves."
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A slight tap on the inside of the door sent Shefford's pulses to throbbing.
Joe opened it with a strong and vigorous sweep that meant more than the mere
action.
"Ruth reckon you didn't stay long," he said, and his voice rang clear. "Sure
you feel sick and weak. Why, seeing her flustered even me!"
A slender, dark-garbed woman wearing a long black hood stepped uncertainly
out. She appeared to be Ruth. Shefford's heart stood still because she looked
so like Ruth. But she did not step steadily, she seemed dazed, she did not
raise the hooded head.
"Go home," said Joe, and his voice rang a little louder. "Take her home,
Shefford. Or, better, walk her round some. She's faintish . . . . And see
here, Henninger "
Shefford led the girl away with a hand in apparent carelessness on her arm.
After a few rods she walked with a freer step and then a swifter. He found it
necessary to make that hold on her arm a real one, so as to keep her from
walking too fast. No one, however, appeared to observe them. When they passed
Ruth's house then Shefford began to lose his fear that this was not Fay
Larkin. He was far from being calm or clear-sighted. He thought he recognized
that free step; nevertheless, he could not make sure. When they passed under
the trees, crossed the brook, and turned down along the west wall, then doubt
ceased in Shefford's mind. He knew this was not Ruth. Still, so strange was
his agitation, so keen his suspense, that he needed confirmation of ear, of
eye. He wanted to hear her voice, to see her face. Yet just as strangely there
was a twist of feeling, a reluctance, a sadness that kept off the moment.
They reached the low, slow-swelling slant of wall and started to ascend. How
impossible not to recognize Fay Larkin now in that swift grace and skill on
the steep wall! Still, though he knew her, he perversely clung to the
unreality of the moment. But when a long braid of dead-gold hair tumbled from
under the hood, then his heart leaped. That identified Fay Larkin. He had
freed her. He was taking her away. Then a sadness embittered his joy.
As always before, she distanced him in the ascent to the top. She went on
without looking back. But Shefford had an irresistible desire to took again
and the last time at this valley where he had suffered and loved so much.
XVI. SURPRISE VALLEY
From the summit of the wall the plateau waved away in red and yellow ridges,
with here and there little valleys green with cedar and pinyon.
Upon one of these ridges, silhouetted against the sky, appeared the stalking
figure of the Indian. He had espied the fugitives. He disappeared in a niche,
and presently came again into view round a corner of cliff. Here he waited,
and soon Shefford and Fay joined him.
"Bi Nai, it is well," he said.
Shefford eagerly asked for the horses, and Nas Ta Bega silently pointed down
the niche, which was evidently an opening into one of the shallow canyon. Then
he led the way, walking swiftly. It was Shefford, and not Fay, who had
difficulty in keeping close to him. This speed caused Shefford to become more
alive to the business, instead of the feeling, of the flight. The Indian
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entered a crack between low cliffs a very narrow canyon full of rocks and
clumps of cedars and in a half-hour or less he came to where the mustangs were
halted among some cedars. Three of the mustangs, including Nack-yal, were
saddled; one bore a small pack, and the remaining two had blankets strapped on
their backs.
"Fay, can you ride in that long skirt?" asked Shefford. How strange it seemed
that his first words to her were practical when all his impassioned thought
had been only mute! But the instant he spoke he experienced a relief, a
relaxation.
"I'll take it off," replied Fay, just as practically. And in a twinkling she
slipped out of both waist and skirt. She had worn them over the short
white-flannel dress with which Shefford had grown familiar.
As Nack-yal appeared to be the safest mustang for her to ride, Shefford
helped her upon him and then attended to the stirrups. When he had adjusted
them to the proper length he drew the bridle over Nack-yal's head and, upon
handing it to her, found himself suddenly looking into her face. She had taken [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]