“If you don’t think I’m telling the truth,” he snapped, “I’ll go and kiss every pretty girl in camp to prove it! You’ve been here twenty years. I can’t touch you. I can’t deport you. And I’m mighty glad of it! As for killing Vladimir and his brother, I’m going to do my best to get you medals for the performance. I’m going to set my men on these fool farmers and chase ’em home. We’ll sue them for the houses they’ve burnt. We’ll put that sheriff in jail. We’ll—we’ll—— Cunningham, you lucky son-of-a-gun, I’m going to be best man and kiss the bride!”
But Cunningham was already preceding him in that occupation.
18
It was a very, very long time later. Cunningham was sitting peacefully upon the veranda of a house among tall mountains. His eyes roved the length of a valley that was closed in at the farther end by precipitous cliffs. There were small, contented sounds from the house behind him.
A motor-car rolled up a smooth, graded roadway. A man by the road saw the occupant of the car and shouted a greeting. Cunningham sprang to his feet and ran down to meet it.
Gray tumbled out of the car and gripped Cunningham’s hand.
“I brought my fishing-rods,” he announced exuberantly. “Where’s that stream you were writing about?”
“Find it in the morning,” said Cunningham happily. “How d’you like our valley?”
Gray came up the steps and stared out at the empty space below him. There were tall buildings down in the valley floor—great concrete buildings, with a tall shaft-house where motors whirred and an engine puffed.
“There ain’t any such place!” announced Gray firmly. “I’m dreaming it! I found a concrete road leading here. I passed half a dozen motor-trucks on the way. And one scoundrel waved at me from a steering-wheel and I’ll swear he’s the chap that had a knife in the small of my back once, ready to stick it in.”