"Paulina," said his wife, "is gone. She is acting strangely these days,—goes and comes, I don't know where."
"Get a boy, then," said her husband, "and send him to the ranch. There is a bare chance we may stop them there. Portnoff, there is another pony here; saddle and follow me. We'll take the cross trail. And pray God," he added, "we may be in time!"
Great masses of liver-coloured clouds were piling up in the west, blotting out the light from the setting sun. Over all a heavy silence had settled down, so that in all the woods there was no sound of living thing. Lashing his pony into a gallop, heedless of the obstacles on the trail, or of the trees overhead, Brown crashed through scrub and sleugh, with old Portnoff following as best he could. Mile after mile they rode, now and then in the gathering darkness losing the trail, and with frantic furious haste searching it again, till at length, with their ponies foaming and trembling, and their own faces torn and bleeding with the brush, they emerged into the clearing above the ravine.
Meantime, the ghastly tragedy was being enacted. Impatiently at the cave mouth French and Kalman waited the coming of those they were to meet. At length, in the gathering gloom, Rosenblatt appeared, coming up the ravine. He was pale and distraught.
"I have ridden hard," he said, "and I am shaken with my ride. My papers are in my cabin. I shall get them."
In a few moments he returned, bringing with him a bottle and two cups.
"Drink!" he said. "No? Then I will." He poured out a cup full of raw whiskey and drank it off. "My partner is late," he said. "He will be here in a few moments. Meantime, we can look over the papers."
"It is too dark here," said French. "We can't see to read. You have in your cabin a light, let us go there."
"Oh," cried Rosenblatt hastily, "it is more comfortable here. I have a lantern."
He rummaged in the sides of the cave and produced a lantern.