But Wanza was not at her father’s house. When questioned Captain Grif said she had not been home since noon. He had supposed she was with Mrs. Batterly at Hidden Lake. I left a note for the girl to be given her as soon as she came in, saying nothing to old Grif of the tragedy at Hidden Lake, and then, thoroughly disheartened, I took the road for Cedar Dale.
I made short work of reaching home. I put Buttons into a gallop, and rode like Tam o’ Shanter through the night, whipped on by the witches of adversity. I reached the meadow. I rode through the stubble. The unlighted cabin seemed to exhale an almost inexorable malevolency as I came upon it. It greeted me—empty and pitiless. Even my cupboard was bare.
Toward midnight, unable to breathe the atmosphere of the cabin, racked with despair, and agog with restlessness, I stole out, clumsy footed, to the willows on the river bank. Here I found my canoe. I slid it into the water, stepped in and paddled away, seeking surcease from my thoughts beneath the tent of night.
The friendly current bore me on. Soon I came opposite the old cottonwood stump, gleaming white among the shadows. I laid aside my paddle and drifted along close to the high willow-bordered banks, the cold, clear stars above me. The silence and the motion of the canoe were soporific. I was weak and worn from my recent illness. My head kept nodding. I closed my eyes. After a time I slept.
The hoot-hoot of an owl awakened me. I raised my head and looked about me. The darkness had deepened. The stars had a redder glow and the mountains stood up like invincible agate gates against the black sky, shutting in this little bit of the great world. The night air was cold. I shivered and jerked my arms mightily to induce circulation. And then hunger assailed me and I began to think of food.
I took my paddle and swung my canoe about. Suddenly, as one remembers a feast when hard pressed for sustenance, I recalled the doughnuts and goodies that Haidee had been wont to place in the hollow stump for Joey. Well, I knew the cache was empty now.
I reached the stump. I thrust my hand gropingly within the recess, smiling whimsically at my fatuous impulse. My fingers encountered a small object, smooth and heavy to the touch. I drew it forth. It was a six-chambered revolver, loaded in five of its chambers. The sixth chamber contained a discharged cartridge.
A tremor ran over me. Slow horror chilled my veins. I sickened as my fingers passed over the cold polished surface, recalling the livid face of the dead man in the cabin. Mechanically, at last, I slipped the weapon into my pocket and took up the paddle.
I slept no more that night. The next morning with an attorney I visited Haidee in her cell in the village jail. My poor friend was stricken. Her pallor was marked, and her great soft eyes held the pitiful appeal of a hunted deer. She told the attorney her story straight. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she faced me with the question, barely voiced:
“You believe in my innocence?”