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"Ten days' hard riding."
"Oh! That night ride to and from Stonebridge nearly killed me. But I could
walk very far, and climb for ever."
"Fay, we'll get out of the country if I have to carry you."
When they arrived at the cabin Fay turned on the porch step and, with her
face nearer a level with his, white and sweet in the moonlight, with her eyes
shining and unfathomable, she was more than beautiful.
"You've never been inside my house," she said. "Come in. I've something for
you."
"But it's late," he remonstrated. "I suppose you've got me a cake or
pie something to eat. You women all think Joe and I have to be fed."
"No. You'd never guess. Come in," she said, and the rare smile on her face
was something Shefford would have gone far to see.
"Well, then, for a minute."
He crossed the porch, the threshold, and entered her home. Her dim, white
shape moved in the darkness. And he followed into a room where the moon shone
through the open window, giving soft, mellow, shadowy light. He discerned
objects, but not clearly, for his senses seemed absorbed in the strange warmth
and intimacy of being for the first time with her in her home.
"No, it's not good to eat," she said, and her laugh was happy. "Here "
Suddenly she abruptly ceased speaking. Shefford saw her plainly, and the
slender form had stiffened, alert and strained. She was listening.
"What was that?" she whispered.
"I didn't hear anything," he whispered back.
He stepped softly nearer the open window and listened.
Clip-clop! clip-clop! clip-clop! Hard hoofs on the hard path outside!
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A strong and rippling thrill went over Shefford. In the soft light her eyes
seemed unnaturally large and black and fearful.
Clip-clop! clip-clop!
The horse stopped outside. Then followed a metallic clink of spur against
stirrup thud of boots on hard ground heavy footsteps upon the porch.
A swift, cold contraction of throat, of breast, convulsed Shefford. His only
thought was that he could not think.
"Ho Mary!"
A voice liberated both Shefford's muscle and mind a voice of strange, vibrant
power. Authority of religion and cruelty of will these Mormon attributes
constituted that power. And Shefford suffered a transformation which must have
been ordered by demons. That sudden flame seemed to curl and twine and shoot
along his veins with blasting force. A rancorous and terrible cry leaped to
his lips.
"Ho Mary!" Then came a heavy tread across the threshold of the outer room.
Shefford dared not look at Fay. Yet, dimly, from the corner of his eye, he
saw her, a pale shadow, turned to stone, with her arms out. If he looked, if
he made sure of that, he was lost. When had he drawn his gun? It was there, a
dark and glinting thing in his hand. He must fly not through cowardice and
fear, but because in one more moment he would kill a man. Swift as the thought
he dove through the open window. And, leaping up, he ran under the dark
pinyons toward camp.
Joe Lake had been out late himself. He sat by the fire, smoking his pipe. He
must have seen or heard Shefford coming, for he rose with unwonted alacrity,
and he kicked the smoldering logs into a flickering blaze.
Shefford, realizing his deliverance, came panting, staggering into the light.
The Mormon uttered an exclamation. Then he spoke, anxiously, but what he said
was not clear in Shefford's thick and throbbing ears. He dropped his pipe, a
sign of perturbation, and he stared.
But Shefford, without a word, lunged swiftly away into the shadow of the
cedars. He found relief in action. He began a steep ascent of the east wall, a
dangerous slant he had never dared even in daylight, and he climbed it without
a slip. Danger, steep walls, perilous heights, night, and black canyon the
same these he never thought of. But something drove him to desperate effort,
that the hours might seem short.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The red sun was tipping the eastern wall when he returned to camp, and he was
neither calm nor sure of himself nor ready for sleep or food. Only he had put
the night behind him.
The Indian showed no surprise. But Joe Lake's jaw dropped and his eyes
rolled. Moreover, Joe bore a singular aspect, the exact nature of which did
not at once dawn upon Shefford.
"By God! you've got nerve or you're crazy!" he ejaculated, hoarsely.
Then it was Shefford's turn to stare. The Mormon was haggard, grieved,
frightened, and utterly amazed. He appeared to be trying to make certain of
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Shefford's being there in the flesh and then to find reason for it.
"I've no nerve and I am crazy," replied Shefford. "But, Joe what do you mean?
Why do you look at me like that?"
"I reckon if I get your horse that'll square us. Did you come back for him?
You'd better hit the trail quick."
"It's you now who're crazy," burst out Shefford.
"Wish to God I was," replied Joe.
It was then Shefford realized catastrophe, and cold fear gnawed at his
vitals, so that he was sick.
"Joe, what has happened?" he asked, with the blood thick in his heart.
"Hadn't you better tell me?" demanded the Mormon, and a red wave blotted out
the haggard shade of his face.
"You talk like a fool," said Shefford, sharply, and he strode right up to
Joe.
"See here, Shefford, we've been pards. You're making it hard for me. Reckon
you ain't square."
Shefford shot out a long arm and his hand clutched the Mormon's burly
shoulder.
"Why am I not square? What do you mean?"
Joe swallowed hard and gave himself a shake. Then he eyed his comrade
steadily.
"I was afraid you'd kill him. I reckon I can't blame you. I'll help you get
away. And I'm a Mormon! Do you take the hunch? . . . But don't deny you killed
him!"
"Killed whom?" gasped Shefford.
"Her husband!"
Shefford seemed stricken by a slow, paralyzing horror. The Mormon's changing
face grew huge and indistinct and awful in his sight. He was clutched and
shaken in Joe's rude hands, yet scarcely felt them. Joe seemed to be bellowing
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