The Heart of Thunder Mountain. Edfrid A. Bingham

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СКАЧАТЬ you if there is no way–”

      “Excuse me!” he broke in. “I don’t want you to talk to me. If I did–”

      He stopped, with a shrug. Marion felt her face reddening, but she dissembled her embarrassment.

      “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

      It was spoken archly, in her most playful, most kittenish manner, and so she was amazed to see his face distorted as if by some violent emotion. But he spoke with restraint, though in a tone that was hard and harsh.

      “Yes, I am afraid of you. The only thing in the world a man needs to fear is a woman.”

      The first effect of this speech was to surprise and shock her. The next was to make her heart leap. Had she come near the secret, after all? Then, finally, something deep in the man’s eyes roused in her a thrill of pity. In another minute she would have melted, in her compassion, and begged him humbly to pardon her. But at that instant Curly emerged from the barn, leading the sorrels; and the devil that lurks behind a woman’s tongue spoke for her before she was aware of it.

      “So you’d rather one of your men took me to Cousin Seth!”

      It was scarcely out before she regretted it with all her heart. If there was a devil behind her tongue there was another back of the somber shadows in Haig’s eyes. He flashed one comprehending look at her; his whole manner underwent a swift and terrifying change; he was again the Philip Haig of that day at the post office.

      “Great!” he exclaimed. “That will be the best joke of all. I’ll drive you home myself, of course.”

      For a moment Marion sat very still on the soap box, stunned, staring open-mouthed at Haig. What had she done? That mad speech! Then she leaped to her feet.

      “No! No!” she cried. “You shall not!”

      He smiled at her.

      “Shall not?” he repeated sardonically.

      “I mean–please not that!” she faltered.

      “Why not?” he demanded, almost gaily.

      “Oh, please! I didn’t mean it that way.”

      “Of course you didn’t mean it! Women never do mean it–that way. And I suppose you didn’t mean to let those men ride on to Paradise when they told you the horse was mine, did you?”

      “Oh!” cried Marion, almost in a scream. “How did you–know?”

      He laughed.

      “I happened to ask Larkin if he had met nobody on the road who could have directed him. He said there was no one but a ‘purty girl.’ That was you, wasn’t it?”

      She was speechless.

      “And my warning to Huntington. Did you deliver that?”

      “No,” she answered, scarcely above a whisper.

      “Of course not. That would have been too simple and honest and direct. You can’t be honest and straightforward to save your lives. You live by deception, and boast about your love of truth. Your deepest craving is for violence, while you prate about your gentle influence over men. I haven’t the least doubt in the world that Mrs. Huntington, for all her baby face, is back of all Huntington’s violence–thinks she’s a wonderful inspiration to him, with a special genius for the cattle business! And when she gets him killed–with your assistance–she’ll flop down, and weep–and you too, both of you–and wail that you didn’t mean it!”

      She recoiled from him, and leaned helplessly against the wall of the stable.

      “So you let the men ride on to Paradise,” he went on with relentless mockery, “and you let Huntington plunge into that business when you knew, from me, exactly what it meant. And you rode over here to-day–I wonder, now, if your foot’s really hurt, or if that also is some trick!”

      It was the merest chance shot. He had no suspicion that she had been shamming, for he had been too much annoyed by the whole incident to be critical of her demeanor. But the shot went home. The girl, without a word or cry, suddenly sank down on the box, with her face buried in her hands.

      There ensued a moment of tense silence. For all the bitterness that surged under his railing speech, Haig was not untouched by the sight of the girl, bent and cowering before him. But at the same time he was exasperated anew by the scene that was being enacted under the eyes of his two men.

      “Come!” he said presently, not without reluctant gentleness. “It’s growing late. We must start at once.”

      The words increased her terror. Through the hands that covered her eyes she could see Haig and Huntington–with revolvers drawn; and Claire’s white face–She rose impulsively, dropping her hands from her hot and tear-stained cheeks. She would confess all to him, though it should betray the inmost secret of her heart; and would beseech him not to go–

      “Don’t say it–here!” he commanded sharply, lowering his voice as he bent toward her. “They think there’s something queer about all this. Come!”

      She obeyed him silently, her resolution vanishing before his authority. Besides, there was yet time, somewhere on the road.

      CHAPTER VIII

      THE END OF HER STRATAGEM

      For some minutes there was no speech, no sound except the swift beat of the horses’ hoofs on the hard roadway, and the crisp crunching of wheels in the sand. Marion sat rigid, staring straight in front of her, yet seeing nothing. Dazed and benumbed, her thoughts were in a hopeless tangle, without beginnings, without ends. How she had bungled the whole thing! And she might have been so happy, there at his side.

      Twilight was coming on in the serene, clear beauty of the mountains: the distant peaks glowed like great opals in the sundown hues; there was an indescribable sweetness in the air, something magical in the soft but cold night breeze that began to pour down upon the valley from the eternal snows.

      Timidly, out of the corner of her eye, Marion glanced at Haig, and saw that he was gazing steadily at the changing colors on the distant range. But there was no beauty for her in that perfect panorama. The fire had gone out of her, and she was shivering. He must have felt her movement, for suddenly he leaned forward, lifted the edge of the heavy lap-robe that had lain neglected at their feet, and tucked it around her. She drew back with a quick intake of breath as his face was for an instant close to her own. A moment later he began to speak in a tone that surprised and encouraged her, so little did it resemble the tones he had employed before. It was as if nothing had happened, as if they had long been talking of things casual, impersonal to them both.

      “It’s different in the San Luis,” he said. “There’s red down there. Nature’s palette is a little short of red in this valley. Too much blue. Even nature sometimes gets a one-color obsession, like the painters. Here she’s gone off on blue. It’s the most dangerous color. Darwin says it was the last color produced in nature’s laboratory. Ordinarily it’s the least common in flowers and birds and insects. Hearn–Have you read Lafcadio Hearn? No? But you ought to, that is, if you care for such things. He goes after blue–the misuse of it. He says it’s the color most pleasureable to the eye in its purest intensity. But you mustn’t dab it on. A blue house is a crime. Blue’s overdone here too, blue sky, blue mists, blue shadows, blue lakes, blue flowers,–anemones, СКАЧАТЬ