“That’s easy enough. I met him at
the river, a little by surprise, and caught him before
he could even shout. Then I took his guns and
let him go.”
“But he didn’t come back to me?”
“No. He knew that I would be there.
I might have finished him without giving him a chance
to speak, girl, but I’d seen him with you and
I was curious. So I found out where you were
going and why, and let Wilbur go. I came back
and looked at you and found you asleep.”
She grew cold at the thought of him leaning over her.
“I watched you a long time, and I suppose I’ll
remember you always as I saw you then. You were
very beautiful with the shadow of your lashes against
your cheek—almost as beautiful as you are
now as you stand over there, fearing and loathing
me. I dared not let you see me, but I decided
to take care of you—for a while.”
“And now?”
“I have come to say farewell to you.”
“Let me see you once before you go.”
“No! You see, I fear you even more than
you fear me.” “Then I’ll follow
you.”
“It would be useless—utterly useless.
There are ways of becoming invisible in the mountains.
But before I go, tell me one thing: Have you
left the cabin to search for Pierre le Rouge in another
place?”
“No. I do not search for him.”
There was an instant of pause. Then the voice
said sharply: “Did Wilbur lie to me?”
“No. I started up the valley to find him.”
“But you’ve given him up?”
“I hate him—I hate him as much as
I loathe myself for ever condescending to follow him.”
She heard a quick breath drawn in the dark, and then
a murmur: “I am free, then, to hunt him
down!”
“Why?”
“Listen: I had given him up for your sake;
I gave him up when I stood beside you that first night
and watched you trembling with the cold in your sleep.
It was a weak thing for me to do, but since I saw you,
Mary, I am not as strong as I once was.”
“Now you go back on his trail? It is death
for Pierre?”
“You say you hate him?”
“Ah, but as deeply as that?” she questioned
herself.
“It may not be death for Pierre. I have
ridden the ranges many years and met them all in time,
but never one like him. Listen: six years
ago I met him first and then he wounded me—the
first time any man has touched me. And afterward
I was afraid, Mary, for the first time in my life,
for the charm was broken. For six years I could
not return, but now I am at his heels. Six are
gone; he will be the last to go.”
“What are you?” she cried. “Some
bloodhound reincarnated?”
He said: “That is the mildest name I have
ever been called.”
“Give up the trail of Pierre.”
And there, brought face to face with the mortal question,
even her fear burned low in her, and once more she
remembered the youth who would not leave her in the
snow, but held her in his arms with the strange cross
above them.
