"Good-by, Trixy!" he said softly.

But wait! How many shots left? He examined the revolver. Two! For an instant he was stricken again with dread. Then his left hand felt for the belt at his waist; and he laughed nervously. What a state he was in! There were cartridges to burn!

The gun came slowly down to an aim, then waved in his hand as he pulled the trigger.

"h.e.l.l!" he muttered.

He tried again, pulling himself together, and gritting his teeth. The second report rang out, and echoed high among the rocks. The mare's head fell, her body quivered, one hind foot kicked out; and she was gone.

Oh, yes! He could hit good horses! But not Sunnysides.

He ejected the exploded cartridges, and filled the chambers with fresh ones; then lay back and rested again, the gun still clutched in his hand. And why did he wait? To get strength, for one thing. He wanted to sit up to do it, since he could not stand. And then--there was another trouble. Four times before he had tried to do it, and something had happened,--something different and utterly unexpected each time had checked him. It had not so much mattered then, because he could afford to wait. But now--

He drew upon the last of his reserves of strength, and sat up--too suddenly. An excruciating pain shot through his injured leg, and radiated like flame through every nerve and tissue of his body. The revolver, half lifted, fell from his fingers. Swaying, he groped for it, clutched it again, and frantically raised it to his head. And when he felt the hard muzzle just above his ear, he pulled the trigger. And so the third report went ringing through the quiet valley, and Philip Haig sank backward on the greensward, and lay still.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE MIRACLE

Between two storms, the peace that lay upon the seared and battered head of Thunder Mountain, like the peace that comes to a sufferer between paroxysms of pain, was of a kind unknown to lower levels. In all the range of natural phenomena, in all the gamut of sensation, there is nothing else at once so beautiful, inspiring, and appalling as utter silence; and nothing else so rare. To the sea, the desert, and the peak it is given in few and perfect hours; but neither to the desert nor to the sea is it given in such transcendency as to the peak. And on no peak could silence ever have seemed so like a miracle as on the flat top of Thunder Mountain between two storms.

It were hazardous to say how far Marion was conscious of the beautiful, inspiring, and appalling nature of that silence. She was too deeply intent upon her purpose to be conscious of much besides the material difficulties in her path. She knew that on the gray-black surface of the mountain nothing stirred; that the winds were still; that no murmur of forest or ripple of water or soft pulsation of a living world was there. It was a dead place, dead these many ages; and all its a.s.sociations in her mind were those of death and the living terror of death. But she was not afraid. True, she was beset by fears, but they only hovered over her, brushing her face with their black wings. True also, her eyes roved wide, as if at any instant something unknown and dreadful would come upon her out of that blue sky, from behind the next rock barrier, or up from the mountain's ugly heart itself. But these were superficial fears, and in her heart she was not afraid.

From the moment that she emerged upon the first terrace, where Haig had stood some hours before, she knew that she would not go back until (and unless) she found him. That had been her purpose from the beginning, from the time she ran down the hill above Huntington's, with Smythe following in alarm; but it had been hidden from her until, in the exaltation that ensued upon the finding of the ashes of Haig's fire, she drove her pony up the last ascent, and knew that if the mountain had claimed Philip it must claim her too.

But this thought was, in a sense, as superficial as her fears; for in her soul there lived a perfect faith. Through all her grief and jealousy and anger and despair she had never entirely lost the pure light of her star. She never doubted deeply that her love would triumph, even when reason told her that it had already failed; and the very words with which she had consented to leave the Park by the last stage were hollow, though they contained a prayer. She had prayed for a miracle; and the miracle had happened. Why should she be afraid?

So she was not surprised when the Twin Sisters welcomed her without so much as a gentle puff of wind upon her cheek; when the Devil's Chair, though she held her breath at sight of what lay below, was scarce more difficult than the ridge in Paradise Park; and when the central waste, where the storm had leaped on Haig, held no evil in store for her. The only obstacles encountered were those presented by the trail itself; and these, as Smythe had told her, though by no means trivial, were not insurmountable to one with a clear eye and steady nerves. It was never the trail itself that was deadly; it was the wind that would blow her into a chasm, the mist that would decoy her from the path, and the storm that would beat her down among the stones. But there was no wind, no mist, no storm; and if that was not a miracle--

Several times, to be sure, she missed the trail: once in the second field of loose stones, before she had become accustomed to the signs; once on a wide floor of solid rock, where Tuesday slipped and fell, and she rose a little stunned, and in a brief confusion; and once, the most alarming of all, when she was for half an hour lost in that granite wilderness that to Haig had suggested a cemetery of the G.o.ds.

But faith sustained her, and her purpose stood in the stead of courage that might have faltered and even failed. The one moment when something like despair struck at her heart was that when she found the bruised and dirty saddle cast aside by the runaway, and thought at first that it was Philip's; and the one moment of real terror was that in which, on the summit of the last ridge, she looked back and saw that dark gray vapors were surging up out of the chasm below the Devil's Chair.

It chanced that in following the trail from the sharp turn on the last rock floor to the brink of the cliff (the last pyramid stands some fifty yards back from it), Marion arrived at about the same distance to the left of the drop-off as Haig had brought up at the right of it. From this point even less of the meadow was visible than Haig had seen at the first view, and the ma.s.s of fallen and tumbled granite appeared even more formidable. Her immediate sensation was of tragic despair, as the evidence of her eyes for one instant overwhelmed her faith. But where was Philip? And Sunnysides?

Then a suspicion flashed into her mind. Perhaps she had missed the trail,--the real trail. She could not have been mistaken in the signs; there was the last pyramid in plain view still from where she stood.

But it was not unlikely that there was another trail from the sharp turn where she had been confused for a moment, another exit made necessary by the disruption of the cliff. She paused uncertainly, looking now at the great heap of stone below her,--a thousand feet of jagged rock and sliding sand,--and now back at the toilsome way she had come. And then her eyes were caught by something that held her spellbound with horror. Up to the rocky skyline from beyond the barrier she had lately crossed there swept a tumbling mist, as gray-black as the rock itself; and an instant after she felt a stinging blow of wind on her cheek, and heard a low whisper in the air around her.

She was roused by a sound that brought her up rigid and alert in the saddle. What was that? A faint report, as of a gun--from somewhere.

She listened, turning her head slowly and cautiously, and holding her breath. A long time, it seemed to her, she listened; and heard only that warning whisper of the wind across the flat. But there! Another!

It came up faintly from below, expiring at the very edge of the precipice. She peered guardedly down into the chasm, and saw nothing but the vast pile of debris, and a bit of green meadow over against the edge of the black forest. But it was a gun! She began now to examine the edge of the cliff. To her left it fell sheer away hundreds of feet to the lower ma.s.ses of fallen stone; and there was no trail on that side. Dismounting, she led her horse slowly along the brink at her right; and so came at length to the spot where the trail dropped to the first incline. It seemed incredible; but then, even as the word framed itself in her mind, her heart bounded up into her throat.

There--there--under her eyes were hoofprints, the print of steel shoes in the sand; and they went down, down, down. And, as if to remove the last of doubt and hesitancy, there came wavering up from below a third thin report, a little more distinct than the others, and undeniable.

She lifted her face toward the sky, and pressed her hands upon her breast.

"G.o.d help us! G.o.d help us--both!" she murmured.

Then she remounted Tuesday, and forced him over the edge of the cliff.

Haig lay on his back, his head against the stone by which he had recovered the coveted revolver. A handkerchief dyed red and blackened with powder stains lay against one cheek. His right hand still clutched the revolver.

He did not move, and she thought him dead. Then, through the blackness that enveloped her, she dully and slowly comprehended that his eyes were closed, not staring up at her. She knelt swiftly, and pressed her head to his breast; and then leaped to her feet with a wild outcry.

Tuesday stood a few yards away, with tail outstretched and nostrils distended, gazing affrightedly at the body of Trixy lying in her wretched heap. Marion ran to the saddle, and tore at the thongs that held her bundle; jerked it loose, and bore it quickly to Haig's side; and in a few seconds had placed the mouth of her whisky flask between Haig's lips, and let a little of the liquid trickle down his throat.

But there was no response, and she stood up again, looking for water.

The brook that had seemed so far away from Haig was at no distance for her flying feet; and she was back on the run with her sombrero filled.

Dashing the water into Philip's face, she was off again for more. With this she bathed his face and neck and wrists; and then set herself to slapping the palms of his hands with her own.

Still there was no response. But when she pressed her head to his breast once more she was a.s.sured that she had not been mistaken; his heart was beating feebly--but beating. A second time she put the whisky flask to his lips; and returned to the limp hands, rubbing them, slapping them until her own burned and ached.

Hours it seemed, and ages flowing away into eternity. The sky was darkening, and from the top of Thunder Mountain came a m.u.f.fled roar that was echoed back and forth across the valley. She looked up at the towering cliff, and trembled. And then, with the last fading reverberation, there came another sound that brought her leaning down close to Philip's face. Was it a sigh, or only--

"Philip! Philip! Philip!" she called, softly at first, then in a cry that rang across the meadow.

At last a quiver went through the limp figure; the eyes were opened, only to be quickly closed again, as if the light had hurt them. She called to him again, in pleading accents. The eyelids fluttered, and he looked up into the face of the girl bending over him. It was a puzzled, uncomprehending look. And thereupon his lips moved.

"Yes, Philip! What is it?"

"I don't understand," he whispered.

"It's Marion!" she cried. "Don't you know me?"

"But--where?"

"I don't know. Thunder Mountain."

"Yes, I know that!" he said, with a note of impatience. "Sunnysides and--all that. But--you?"

"I followed, and found you."

A weak smile flickered on his lips. She saw that he did not believe her.

"Look! Look!" she cried. "It's Marion. And yonder--is Tuesday."

He moved his head a little, and stared at the pony still standing fascinated and terrified by the stillness of poor Trixy.

"It's--impossible!" he muttered. "You couldn't--"

He made an effort to look up at the cliff down, which he had come.

"But it's quite true, Philip. I'm here."

But she saw that he was still groping in the dark. He lifted his right hand, and touched his head, while the expression of perplexity grew rather than lessened on his face. She saw that there was not only a gash in the left temple, but a furrow on the right side of his head, a swollen red streak where the hair had been burned away. And the black stains on the handkerchief, and the revolver clutched in his hand.