“I don’t know,” she replied. “It just occurred to me.”
“But the bundle? You won’t need that.”
“No. But yes––leave it! It’s not very big.”
Smythe looked at her keenly, and with a vague suspicion; but there was no confusion in her face or manner. She was, in fact, not thinking of the bundle or the gun; or if she thought of them––Such rigid instruments as words, worn blunt with usage and misuse, are quite inadequate to describe the faint and fugitive character of that thought,––the idea still in its inception, inchoate, embryo. She was going to Murray’s for news of Philip Haig; and all beyond that purpose was––beyond.
Smythe was not satisfied, but he could say no more; for Marion was already mounting Tuesday, and he could only follow.
At the edge of the little wood below the ranch house Marion turned in the saddle, and saw Claire standing in the doorway. She waved her hand, and Claire waved hers in response; and then the trees came between them, as they had done a hundred times that summer. But now a lump rose in Marion’s throat. Dear Claire! She had been so good to her!
They emerged from the woods, and Marion spurred Tuesday to the gallop, and Smythe came galloping behind. For some distance down the valley she made a point of keeping well ahead of him, by this means avoiding conversation, for which she was not prepared. Her eyes continually sought the dark, gaunt mass of rock that was then, little by little, breaking through the reek on Thunder Mountain. Philip would be up there soon. He had––how many hours the start of her? She checked Tuesday’s gait, and let Smythe come up beside her.
“What time was it when he passed the post-office?” she asked.