Buck returned abruptly to his contemplation of the night, but his thoughts were no longer the happy thoughts of the lover. Without knowing it he was proving to himself that there were other things in the world which could entirely obscure the happy light which the presence of Joan shed upon his life.
The Padre sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, while his pipe burned hot and the smoke of it rose thickly. It was the only outward sign he gave of any emotion. Buck suddenly forgot the night. A desperate thought was running hotly through his brain. His friend’s admission had set his fertile young brain working furiously. It was traveling just whither a vivid imagination carried it. A reckless purpose was swiftly formulating.
After a while he turned again. His resolve was taken on the impulse of the moment.
“Padre,” he said, “you shall never——” But his sentence remained incomplete. He broke off, listening.
The other was listening too.
There was the sharp cracking of a forest tree—one of those mysterious creakings which haunt the woodland night. But there was another sound too. The trained ears of these men caught its meaning on the instant. It was the vague and distant sound of wheels upon the soft bed of the sandy trail.
“A heavy wagon, an’—two hosses,” said Buck.
The Padre nodded.
“Coming from the direction of the farm. Sounds like the old team,—and they’re being driven too fast for heavy horses. Joan hasn’t got a saddle-horse of her own.”
His last remark explained his conviction, and the suggestion found concurrence in Buck’s mind.