Dejected and despairing we hurried on, Brent stopping now and then to signal some hoped for, unseen observer. There was nothing in our hearts that we could find to say to one another that would better the situation or make it worse—if that could have been possible.
The howling of the wind through the mountains and down across the open country with its tall waving grass seemed to emphasize the dismal solitude. No living thing had crossed our path. Nothing but rain. It seemed eternal.
“There’s a clearing over to the right,” Brent called to me. I glanced casually.
From where we were walking I judged it to be a clearing about one hundred feet in circumference. When the wind blew the grass aside we noticed a slight eminence in the center of the bare looking ground that could not be mistaken for other than what it was. A small rough wooden cross was its marker.
We deliberately walked on. The sight brought to mind more forcibly the tragic puzzle in which our own lives had become involved.
“Now I know,” I said to Brent, “how Weston felt when he went to the Lodge to see if young McClintick was there. And here we’re doing the same thing.”
“We’re almost there,” Brent said, quietly. His voice betrayed a sort of fear that when we did get there, we’d find out the worst.
There wasn’t a sign of anyone about as we neared camp. The men were keeping indoors and out of the storm.
We were standing before the Lodge door!
It seemed as though we had been away from it for years. And no one to welcome us! Not a sound came from within.