She remembered the note she had received from him that morning, and groped for it in the bosom of her dress. It had reached her by a special messenger, and its tone, for Peter, was urgent and serious. She found it at last, and straightened out its creases. She was thankful 254 for the occupation, and lingered over it before she read it over again.
“Dear Eve,
“Has Elia returned home? He left camp two mornings ago, before sun up. I’ve been hunting him ever since, but can’t locate him. I’ve a shrewd idea that he’s on the trail of your Will, but can’t be sure. Anyway, I’m worried to death about him, and, as a last resource, thought he might have gone back to you. Send word by the bearer.
“Yours,
“Peter Blunt.”
Elia gone. The thought filled her with dismay. Elia was the one person in the world she still clung to. And now he had gone––been spirited away.
She thought of the poor stricken lad with his crooked body. She loved him as she might have loved a child of her own. Yes, he was much more to her than her brother. Had not she cared and struggled for him all these years? He had become part of her very life.
And Peter, in whose care she had left him, had failed her. Who on earth could she trust, if not Peter? She blamed him, blamed him bitterly; but, in her heart, she knew she had no right to. Peter would not willingly hurt her, and she knew well enough that if Elia had gone it was through no carelessness of this gentle, kindly man.
She put the note away, and sat staring into the fire. The change of thought had eased the pitch of her nerves for a moment. If she could only blot that other out altogether––but even as the wish was formulated in her 255 brain, the horror and dread were on her again crushing her.
She sprang to her feet and paced the room with rapid, uneven strides. She could not rest. The dread of the return of the vigilantes obsessed her. She found herself vaguely wondering if they were all out. Was Doc Crombie out? No, she knew he wasn’t. That was something. That was the man she most dreaded. To her heated imagination he seemed inevitable. He could not fail in his self-imposed mission. He would hunt his man down. He would never pause until the wretched victim was swinging at the rope end.
She shuddered. This sort of thing had never before impressed its horror upon her as it did now. How should it? It had always seemed so far away, so remote from her life. And now––oh, God, to think that its shadow was so near her!
Then for a second her struggling brain eased with an undefined hope. She was thinking of how they had tried to track Will before, and how they had failed. She tried to tell herself that then their incentive had been even greater. Had it not been the greed of gold? And she well knew its power with these men. Yes, it suggested hope. But that one passing gleam vanished all too swiftly. She felt in her inmost heart that no such luck would serve him now. These men were bloodhounds on a trail of blood. They were demanding a life, nor would they lift their noses from the scent until their work was accomplished.
It was not the man. It was not the thought of his life that drove her frantic now. It was the horror of such an end to her wretched marriage. The wife of a cattle-thief! 256 The widow of a man lynched by his fellow citizens! She buried her face in her hands, and hard, dry sobs racked her body.