So he passed forward like one in a fabric of spider-webs
almost fearing to breathe lest the whole house should
puff away to shreds before him. Half the boards,
fallen from the ceiling, revealed the bare rafters
above; below there were ragged holes in the flooring.
In one place a limb, torn by lightning or wind from
its overhanging tree, had crashed through the corner
of the roof and dropped straight through to the ground.
At last he reached a habitable room in the front of
the house. It was a new shell built inside the
old wreck, with four stout corner-posts supporting
cross-beams, which in turn held up the mouldering roof.
In the centre was a rude table and on either side
a bunk built against the wall. Perhaps this was
where Drew lived on the occasions of his visits to
the old ranchhouse.
Out of the gloom of the place, Bard stepped with a
shrug of the shoulders, like one who shakes off the
spell of a nightmare. He strode through the doorway
and took the slant, warm sun of the afternoon full
in his face.
He found himself in front of the only spot on the
entire premises which showed the slightest care, the
mound of a grave under the shelter of two trees whose
branches were interwoven overhead in a sort of impromptu
roof. From the surface of the mound all the weeds
and grasses had been carefully cleared away, and around
its edge ran a path covered with gravel and sand.
It was a wellbeaten path with the mark of heels still
comparatively fresh upon it.
The headstone itself bore not a vestige of moss, but
time had cracked it diagonally and the chiselled letters
were weathered away. He studied it with painful
care, poring intently over each faint impression.
He who cared for the grave had apparently been troubled
only to keep the stone free from dirt—the
lettering he must have known by heart. At length
Bard made out this inscription:
Here sleeps
Joan
Wife of William
drew
She chose this
place for rest
A BIT OF STALKING
It seemed as if the peaceful afternoons of Logan were
ended forever, for the next day the scene of interruption
was repeated under almost identical circumstances,
save that the tree under which the shepherd sat was
a little larger. Larger also was the man who rode
over the brow of the hill to the east. The most
durable cattle-pony would have staggered under the
bulk of that rider, and therefore he rode a great,
patient-eyed bay, with shoulders worthy of shoving
against a work-collar; but the neck tapered down small
behind a short head, and the legs, for all their breadth
at shoulder and hip, slipped away to small hoofs,
and ankles which sloped sharply to the rear, the sure
sign of the fine saddle-horse.
Yet the strong horse was winded by the burden he bore,
a mighty figure, deep-chested, amply shouldered, an
ideal cavalier for the days when youths rode out in
armour-plate to seek adventures and when men of fifty
still lifted the lance to run a “friendly”
course or two in the lists.
