“Magdalene Virey, my G—d!” he exclaimed.
Who was Elliott Virey’s daughter? The mystery was insoluble. It was plain to him now that he must kill Elliott Virey with his bare hands, like he had killed Baldy McKue, breaking his arms, one at a time, then his legs, then his ribs seriatim, then his neck—and that was about all.
X
That night Elliott Virey engaged as usual in his favorite outdoor sport. Rock after rock, boulder and yet more bould, crashed, streaked, hurtled down the mountain. Singly, in pairs, in column of fours, in mass formation, by dozens and hundreds, they crashed and boomed as the madman hurled them at the humble dwelling of his lawful wife.
The time had come! Adam Larey started up the slope.
“Virey,” he roared above the thunder of the rocks, “I’m going to break your bones like I done Baldy McKue’s.”
The madman heard him.
“Fore!” he yelled and with one last supreme effort tore loose the whole mountain side. Down it came with a thunderous roar, a cataclysmic rush, and with it came Virey. It swept the cabin from its underpinning.
As the mass of rocks bearing the little shack crashed past Adam Larey, the saintly woman leaned far out o’er the window sill and handed him a small photograph.
“Woncefell, the Wanderer,” she said in a low, clear voice, “take it. It is my daughter, my child, not Elliott’s. With the clairvoyant truth given to a dying woman, I tell you that you and she will meet. Go find her. And now, I do not know where we’re going but we’re certainly on our way. You’ll excuse my leaving you, won’t you? Her name is Ruth. Au revoir!”