The joy in him was a living flame even as this realization pressed upon him. He was like a man who had found life after a period of something that was worse than death, and with his happiness he felt himself twisted upon an upheaval of conflicting sensations and half convictions out of which, in spite of his effort to hold it back, suspicion began to creep like a shadow. But it was not the sort of suspicion to cool the thrill in his blood or frighten him, for he was quite ready to concede that Mary Standish was a fugitive, and that her flight from Seattle had been in the face of a desperate necessity. What had happened aboard ship was further proof, and her presence at his range a final one. Forces had driven her which it had been impossible for her to combat, and in desperation she had come to him for refuge. She had chosen him out of all the world to help her; she believed in him; she had faith that with him no harm could come, and his muscles tightened with sudden desire to fight for her.
In these moments he became conscious of the evening song of the tundras and the soft splendor of the miles reaching out ahead of them. He strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of the mounted figures when they came up out of hollows to the clough-tops, but the lacy veils of evening were drawing closer, and he looked in vain. Bird-song grew softer; sleepy cries rose from the grasses and pools; the fire of the sun itself died out, leaving its radiance in a mingling of vivid rose and mellow gold over the edge of the world. It was night and yet day, and Alan wondered what thoughts were in the heart of Mary Standish. What had driven her to the Range was of small importance compared with the thrilling fact that she was just ahead of him. The mystery of her would be explained tomorrow. He was sure of that. She would confide in him. Now that she had so utterly placed herself under his protection, she would tell him what she had not dared to disclose aboard the Nome. So he thought only of the silvery distance of twilight that separated them, and spoke at last to Stampede.
“I’m rather glad you brought her,” he said.
“I didn’t bring her,” protested Stampede. “She came.” He shrugged his shoulders with a grunt. “And furthermore I didn’t manage it. She did that herself. She didn’t come with me. I came with her.”
He stopped and struck a match to light his pipe. Over the tiny flame he glared fiercely at Alan, but in his eyes was something that betrayed him. Alan saw it and felt a desire to laugh out of sheer happiness. His keen vision and sense of humor were returning.
“How did it happen?”
Stampede puffed loudly at his pipe, then took it from his mouth and drew in a deep breath.
“First I remember was the fourth night after we landed at Cordova. Couldn’t get a train on the new line until then. Somewhere up near Chitina we came to a washout. It didn’t rain. You couldn’t call it that, Alan. It was the Pacific Ocean falling on us, with two or three other oceans backing it up. The stage came along, horses swimming, coach floating, driver half drowned in his seat. I was that hungry I got in for Chitina. There was one other climbed in after me, and I wondered what sort of fool he was. I said something about being starved or I’d have hung to the train. The other didn’t answer. Then I began to swear. I did, Alan. I cursed terrible. Swore at the Government for building such a road, swore at the rain, an’ I swore at myself for not bringin’ along grub. I said my belly was as empty as a shot-off cartridge, and I said it good an’ loud. I was mad. Then a big flash of lightning lit up the coach. Alan, it was her sittin’ there with a box in her lap, facing me, drippin’ wet, her eyes shining—and she was smiling at me! Yessir, smiling.”
Stampede paused to let the shock sink in. He was not disappointed.
Alan stared at him in amazement. “The fourth night—after—” He caught himself. “Go on, Stampede!”