"But you're not going alone?" said Farrish.

"Yes."

"But--"

"Bill's knocked out. Curly's off as soon as he can start for Tellurium. That leaves you and Pete to look after the ranch. I may be gone some time."

"But you can't rope him alone!" protested Farrish.

"I don't expect to. There isn't a horse in the Park that could overtake him. He'll make for the San Luis, of course. I'll get help there. Now then, Farrish, you're in charge of the ranch. If anything should happen to me, Jim knows where all my papers are. That's all."

Farrish hastened to saddle Trixy, coiling a rope at the saddle horn, and strapping a slicker behind the saddle. At this moment came Pete from the cottage, bringing the revolver and cartridge belt, which Haig buckled on while Farrish led Trixy out in front of the stable.

There was a word or two more to Farrish, about the cattle and the hay, and Haig swung himself into the saddle.

"Wait!" cried Pete, running out of the stable.

He handed a flask of whisky to Haig, who took it, smiling, and thrust it into a pocket of his coat.

"Sure cure for everything, eh, Pete?"

But he reached down, and clasped Pete's hand.

"You will be cold, maybe," said the Indian simply.

"All right, men!" said Haig. "You'll take good care of Craven, of course. And you'll use your best judgment about everything, Farrish.

I'm not coming back without Sunnysides."

He put spurs to the little bay mare, and dashed away. Pete and Farrish stood watching him until he had turned the point of the ridge.

"h.e.l.l!" said Farrish.

In the cottage door stood a figure in blue silks, intently gazing after the disappearing horseman.

"He catchum, allee light!" murmured Slim Jim.

CHAPTER XIX

SMYTHE'S LAST BUDGET

Seth had heard at the post-office that the deer were coming down unusually early from their summer haunts high in the mountains. A fine herd had been seen just above Bratner's, and Seth proposed to Marion that she should have a try at them. They would start early in the morning, stop the night at Bratner's, and be back home late the second evening. Marion reluctantly consented, and before going to bed that night she laid out woolen underwear, her stoutest riding costume, with divided skirts and knickerbockers and tan boots lacing almost to her knees. She did not want to go, but, as more than once before, she yielded to Seth's insistence rather than attempt an explanation.

That night, however, summer departed from the Park. A dry storm descended on the valley, and Marion lay awake while the wind howled around the corners of the ranch house, of which every timber seemed to be crying out in agony. She knew that high among the rocks the storm was smashing about in fury, and even in its sheltered hollow the house was hammered as if the elements were bent upon its annihilation. When each prodigious outcry had spent itself and died away there was still the moaning and fretting and troubled whimpering that reminded her of the plaints of an invalid pleading for help between paroxysms of pain.

She was strangely depressed by it, unaccountably distressed, and was glad when the first faint whitening of the window curtains told her of the dawn. She arose and dressed--after a moment's hesitation--in the costume she had prepared the night before. Seth surely would not insist on the shooting trip in such weather, she thought, but it would please him to see her dressed for it. Besides, the temperature of her room reminded her that she would need warm clothes if she went out anywhere on such a day.

"Good, Marion!" cried Seth sure enough, when he saw her at the breakfast table. "Glad you're not discouraged by a little wind."

"But--you don't mean to go on a day like this?"

"Why not?"

"The wind, and--we'll get soaking wet."

"No, it's only a wind storm, and this is the tail end of it. The sun'll be out in a couple of hours. We needn't start in a hurry. We'll leave the horses as they are--they're all ready, bundles and the rest--until we see."

Seth's optimism annoyed her, but she felt encouraged when, after breakfast, she stepped out on the veranda and met the cold and quarrelsome day. A rough blast struck her in the face; she saw a ragged drift of clouds torn by the wind; and the whole landscape seemed to have undergone a melancholy change. Dispirited beyond measure, despite the one satisfaction that the weather gave, she re-entered the house, and sank uneasily into an armchair by the fire.

But Seth's prediction was justified. Toward ten o'clock the wind ceased, and patches of blue began to show in the blanket of gray.

Claire shared Marion's disinclination to go shooting on such a day (or any other kind of a day, for her part!), and they stood at the window actually deploring the blue rents in the clouds, when Marion uttered a sharp exclamation of surprise.

"Smythe!" she gasped.

"On a day like this!" cried Claire.

He had dismounted quickly, and was walking toward the house; and as he neared the steps Marion saw in his face what caused her to press her hand on her bosom to still her heart. Something had happened! And she had known it all the time--had known it even in her sleep!

Claire ran to the door and opened it.

"Well, Mr. Smythe!" she cried. "You're just in time to cheer us up.

We're deep in the mulligrubs."

He entered smiling, removing his sombrero with his customary flourish.

But as he advanced he shot a swift, keen look at Marion.

"Something's happened!" she repeated to herself.

But she came forward with a smile, and shook hands with Smythe, searching his face. And he was warning her again. She could have shrieked with impatience and anxiety, but she held herself, and waited.

"A terrible night, wasn't it?" said Claire, giving Smythe a chair.

"Terrific!" replied he. "You know the big pine that hung over the road just this side of Toumine's? Well, it's down, right across the road. I had to ride around it, up among the underbrush."

"I didn't sleep at all, and I'm used to winds, too," said Claire.

"It got me up at daylight," Smythe went on. "It didn't look like much of a day for riding, but I got nervous sitting around listening to my good landlady--one of the young Martins is threatened with something or other--and started out to see how the landscape had been changed.

There are trees down everywhere, and--" He paused. "What are you doing this morning, Miss g.a.y.l.o.r.d?" he asked, very casually.

She had been silent, watching him.

"We were going shooting, but we've been waiting to see if the weather would change."

"Then you haven't been out?"

"Only on the veranda for a minute."