"'Thunder Mountain!' he cried. Then, half to himself: 'The trail drops down from Thunder Mountain--somewhere--into the Black Lake country, and then--over the Sangre de Cristo is the San Luis. _But how does he know that?_'

"'He knows a lot, he does!' said 'Red.'

"Then Haig was off, flinging back 'Thank you!' at the boy. But he took the precaution to confirm 'Red's' story at the post-office. Thompson himself had seen Sunnysides, still going like the wind. Tom Banks came in a little later with news of the outlaw well up the road toward Norton's, and Haig after him. So there's no doubt the way they've gone. But it's a losing game if Sunnysides can keep up the speed he was. .h.i.tting when he was last seen."

"A losing game!" She, better than anybody else in the Park, knew what that meant. She rose slowly, and looked across the Park at Thunder Mountain, now lost among the clouds. No, not quite; for through a rift she was just able to make out the timber line on the mountain's jutting shoulder. Above that she knew the bleak rocks rose sheer to the bald head that was battered by tempests, seared by lightning, swept smooth by the winds that never ceased.

So this was the message! This was what Thunder Mountain had said to her! This was the answer to her questions! Day after day she had studied it, when storms gathered on that frowning head, when vapors made a smudge there in the midst of the glittering a.s.semblage of the peaks, and when, for a meager hour, once in a while, the summit stood clear in the sunshine, as if the tortured mountain, condemned to everlasting punishment, had been given a brief reprieve.

Now, at last, she understood. Somewhere on that evil trail was Philip.

He could never cross Thunder Mountain! Sunnysides might, perhaps; but he--he had tried, and failed. Others had tried, and--died for it. But he would try again; she knew how desperately he would throw himself upon that fatal head. And then? It was the end!

But she must know. She could not stay there.

She started down the hill, running; and Smythe followed her in amazement and alarm. He did not like that last look on her face.

"Wait!" he called, in a voice that for once rang with authority.

She stopped, and let him overtake her.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm going to Murray's--for news," she answered.

"No!" he cried. "That's madness."

"It's necessary," she rejoined. "And there's no danger."

"How do you know?"

"I met Mrs. Murray once at the post-office. She talked to me about Murray's ranch--it's in a gulch just below timber line. She asked me to come and visit her--and I'm going."

"Then I'll go with you!" retorted Smythe.

She looked at him intently, and smiled in a way that puzzled and disturbed him. But before he could make any considerable effort to a.n.a.lyze it, the smile had fled, and he was following Marion helplessly down the hill.

At the steps of the veranda she paused, and waited for him.

"I'll be out in a minute," she said; and left him seating himself uneasily, his perplexity plainly showing in his face.

Marion opened the door, and faltered on the threshold. Seth was there with Claire; and she must face them both.

"Mr. Smythe wants me to go for a ride with him," she said, advancing smilingly. "We can start to-morrow on the shooting trip, can't we, Cousin Seth?"

She had not often called him "Cousin Seth" of late; and he was delighted.

"Well," he said reflectively, "I'd rather planned starting to-day, but if to-morrow suits you better it's all right, Marion. Go along with your young man!"

Claire was studying her anxiously, and Marion hastened to disarm her.

"Thank you, Seth!" she said. "You see, I'm not feeling quite myself this morning--such a night I had! A short ride will be about all I'm good for. I'll feel better to-morrow."

"Well, then, dear," said Claire, "you'll not be gone long, will you?"

"Don't worry!" was the evasive reply. "Mr. Smythe will take good care of me."

On that she kissed Claire, nodded brightly to Huntington, and hurried away. Almost running in her eagerness, she led the way to the stable, where two horses stood saddled, with rifles in leather cases hanging from the saddlebows, and bundles strapped behind. Smythe started to remove the gun from Tuesday's saddle.

"No, leave it there!" commanded Marion.

"Certainly. But why?" asked Smythe.

"I don't know," she replied. "It just occurred to me."

"But the bundle? You won't need that."

"No. But yes--leave it! It's not very big."

Smythe looked at her keenly, and with a vague suspicion; but there was no confusion in her face or manner. She was, in fact, not thinking of the bundle or the gun; or if she thought of them--Such rigid instruments as words, worn blunt with usage and misuse, are quite inadequate to describe the faint and fugitive character of that thought,--the idea still in its inception, inchoate, embryo. She was going to Murray's for news of Philip Haig; and all beyond that purpose was--beyond.

Smythe was not satisfied, but he could say no more; for Marion was already mounting Tuesday, and he could only follow.

At the edge of the little wood below the ranch house Marion turned in the saddle, and saw Claire standing in the doorway. She waved her hand, and Claire waved hers in response; and then the trees came between them, as they had done a hundred times that summer. But now a lump rose in Marion's throat. Dear Claire! She had been so good to her!

They emerged from the woods, and Marion spurred Tuesday to the gallop, and Smythe came galloping behind. For some distance down the valley she made a point of keeping well ahead of him, by this means avoiding conversation, for which she was not prepared. Her eyes continually sought the dark, gaunt ma.s.s of rock that was then, little by little, breaking through the reek on Thunder Mountain. Philip would be up there soon. He had--how many hours the start of her? She checked Tuesday's gait, and let Smythe come up beside her.

"What time was it when he pa.s.sed the post-office?" she asked.

"About eight o'clock."

And now it was almost noon! She spurred her pony on.

They turned the corner at Thompson's, galloping, and caught a glimpse of Mrs. Thompson in the doorway, with a look of wonder on her face.

Two miles beyond they swerved without lessening their speed into a less-traveled road that presently was winding in and out among the timber, which opened at the end of another mile, and showed them Norton's ranch in its sheltered valley among the foothills. It was from Norton's, or near it, that the last word had come of Haig and Sunnysides; so there was no need to stop for confirmation of their direction. The valley narrowed to a gulch, and the forest came down on either side, and the road ahead of them was swallowed up in shade.

Here, as if at the entrance to some unknown (for she had never been past Norton's, in all her rides about the Park), her purpose required that Marion should rid herself of Smythe. Moreover, there was Claire to be thought of; and she did not want Huntington to be riding up the trail after her that night.

"Now, Mr. Smythe," she said, reining up in the first shadow of the woods, "I've something for you to do for me."

"What is it?" he asked in surprise.

"I want you to leave me now, and take a message to Mrs. Huntington."

"But I can't--leave you."

"Yes, you must."

"But you're not going on alone!"