“I’ve got to see Wade about Huldah,” Creed asserted doggedly. “I promised her—I told her——”
Judith drew back.
“Well, see Wade then!” she choked. “There he is,” and she pointed to the wall of greenery behind which her quicker eyes had detected a man who stole, rifle on shoulder, through the bushes toward a point by the path-side.
“What do I care?” she flung at him. “What is it to me?—you and your Huldy, and your grand plans, and your killin’ up folks and a-gittin’ run out o’ the Turkey Tracks! Settle it as best ye may—I’ve said my last word!”
Her breast heaved convulsively. Bitter, corroding tears burned in her flashing eyes; rage, jealousy, thwarted passion, tenderness denied, and utter terror of the outcome—the time after—all these tore her like wild wolves, as she turned and fled swiftly up the path she had come.
The pale young fellow with the marred, stricken face, standing by the mule, looked after her heavily. Those flying feet were carrying away from him, out of his life, all that made that life beautiful and blest. Yet Creed set his jaw resolutely, and facing about once more, addressed himself to the situation as it was.
“Wade—Wade Turrentine!” he called. “Come out of there. I see you. Come out and talk to me.”
With all the composure in life Wade slouched into the opening of the path.
“You’ve got good eyes,” was his sole comment. Then, as the other seemed slow to begin, “What might you want speech with me about?” he inquired.
“It’s about Huldah,” Creed opened the question volubly now. “You love her, and she loves you. She came over to warn me because we are old acquaintances and friends, and I guess she don’t want you to get into trouble. Is it true that her life is not safe if she stays here on the mountain?”