He said: “Mary, how lovely you are.
If I go I will have you for a few days—for
a week at most, all to myself.”
She shook her head. From the window behind her
the sunset light flared in her hair, flooding it with
red-gold.
“All the time that we are gone, you will never
say things like this, Dick?”
“I suppose not. I should be near you, but
terribly far away from your thoughts all the while.
Still, you will be near. You will be very beautiful,
Mary, riding up the trail through the pines, with all
the scents of the evergreens blowing about you, and
I—well, I must go back to a second childhood
and play a game of suppose—”
“A game of what?”
“Of supposing that you are really mine, Mary,
and riding out into the wilderness for my sake.”
She stepped a little closer, peering into his face.
“No matter what you suppose, I’m sure
you’ll leave that part of it merely a game,
Dick!”
He laughed suddenly, though the sound broke off as
short and sharp as it began.
“Haven’t I played a game all my life with
the fair ladies? And have I anything to show
for it except laughter? I’ll go with you,
Mary, if you’ll let me.”
“Dick, you’ve a heart of gold! What
shall I take?”
“I’ll make the pack up, and I’ll
be back here an hour after dark and whistle.
Like this—”
And he gave the call of Boone’s gang.
“I understand. I’ll be ready.
Hurry, Dick, for we’ve very little time.”
He hesitated, then: “All the time we’re
on the trail you must be far from me, and at the end
of it will be Pierre le Rouge—and happiness
for you. Before we start, Mary, I’d like
to—”
It seemed that she read his mind, for she slipped
suddenly inside his arms, kissed him, and was gone
from the room. He stood a moment with a hand
raised to his face.
“After all,” he muttered, “that’s
enough to die for, and—” He threw
up his long arms in a gesture of resignation.
“The will of God be done!” said Wilbur,
and laughed again.
She was ready, crouched close to the window of her
room, when the signal came, but first she was not
sure, because the sound was as faint as a memory.
Moreover, it might have been a freakish whistling
in the wind, which rose stronger and stronger.
It had piled the thunder-clouds higher and higher,
and now and again a heavy drop of rain tapped at her
window like a thrown pebble.
So she waited, and at last heard the whistle a second
time, unmistakably clear. In a moment she was
hurrying down to the stable, climbed into the saddle,
and rode at a cautious trot out among the sand-hills.
For a time she saw no one, and commenced to fear that
the whole thing had been a gruesomely real, practical
jest. So she stopped her horse and imitated the
signal whistle as well as she could. It was repeated
immediately behind her—almost in her ear,
and she turned to make out the dark form of a tall
horseman.
