“I might ha been mistook. My eyes ain’t so good as they was.”
Power broke into a run, and Granite followed slowly, those keen eyes of his, which ill-deserved the charge he had levied against them, searching the trees and the broken ground behind the hut for some sign of the two people whom he had undoubtedly observed.
With one last cry of “Nancy!” Power hurried past the dog, who was greeting him with tail-wagging and a rumbling growl which meant, “I’m glad you’ve come back, but why didn’t you come sooner?” He peered through the doorway into the room beyond, and his glance fell on the note, resting on the table beside the gun.
“Oh, it’s all right,” he announced, in a tone of vast relief. “Someone has called her away, and here is the explanation.”
Meanwhile, the dog was obviously inviting his master to a scouting expedition among the trees and brushwood to the left of the cabin’s front, and Granite was so puzzled by the animal’s behavior that he paid no heed to Power during the next few seconds; moreover, the fact that Nancy had left a written message showed that, although something unusual might have occurred, it was not necessarily alarming. Then he heard a queer sort of sob, or groan, and, glancing at Power, saw that in his face which brought a dismayed question to his own lips.
“God A’mighty, Mr. Power, what’s got ye?” he cried.
Power made no reply. He seemed as though stricken with a palsy. He absolutely reeled, and would have tumbled headlong had he not, by chance, staggered back against the jamb of the door. Granite caught him by the arm lest he should fall, and Nancy’s letter dropped from his nerveless fingers, and fluttered to the ground.
“Don’t give way like that,” urged the guide. “She ain’t dead, anyhow. Has she left you bad news?”
Power looked at the man as though he did not recognize him. A baleful light gleamed in his eyes. Had Willard been present then, it was not he who would have been the slayer, unless he contrived to be extraordinarily quick with his weapons.
“She has gone,” he said, in the monotone of tragedy; for there are moments in life when the voice loses its flexible notes, and mere speech becomes a mechanical effort.