She gave him careful instructions as to how to find
the trail, and urged him to haste.
“If you get him,” she advised, “better
keep right on over the range.”
He paused, with his foot in the stirrup.
“You seem pretty certain he’s taken to
the mountains.”
“It’s your only chance. They’ll
get him anywhere else.”
He mounted and prepared to ride off. He would
have shaken hands with her, but the horse was still
terrified at her shrouded figure and veered and snorted
when she approached. “However it turns
out,” he said, “you’ve done your
best, and I’m grateful.”
The horse moved off and left her standing there, her
cowl drawn forward and her hands crossed on her breast.
She stood for a moment, facing toward the mountains,
oddly monkish in outline and posture. Then she
turned back toward the town.
Dick had picked up life again where he had left it
off so long before. Gone was David’s house
built on the sands of forgetfulness. Gone was
David himself, and Lucy. Gone not even born into
his consciousness was Elizabeth. The war, his
work, his new place in the world, were all obliterated,
drowned in the flood of memories revived by the shock
of Bassett’s revelations.
Not that the breaking point had revealed itself as
such at once. There was confusion first, then
stupor and unconsciousness, and out of that, sharply
and clearly, came memory. It was not ten years
ago, but an hour ago, a minute ago, that he had stood
staring at Howard Lucas on the floor of the billiard
room, and had seen Beverly run in through the door.
“Bev!” he was saying. “Bev!
Don’t look like that!”
He moved and found he was in bed. It had been
a dream. He drew a long breath, looked about
the room, saw the woman and greeted her. But
already he knew he had not been dreaming. Things
were sharpening in his mind. He shuddered and
looked at the floor, but nobody lay there. Only
the horror in his mind, and the instinct to get away
from it. He was not thinking at all, but rising
in him was not only the need for flight, but the sense
of pursuit. They were after him. They
would get him. They must never get him alive.
Instinct and will took the place of thought, and whatever
closed chamber in his brain had opened, it clearly
influenced his physical condition. He bore all
the stigmata of prolonged and heavy drinking; his
nerves were gone; he twitched and shook. When
he got down the fire-escape his legs would scarcely
hold him.
The discovery of Ed Rickett’s horse in the courtyard,
saddled and ready, fitted in with the brain pattern
of the past.
