He shook his head decidedly. Then he flung himself back into his chair and gazed out down the valley. He raised his eyes to the eternal snows crowning the peaks which rose up in almost every direction about him. He scanned the dark glades of the forest which clothed their lower slopes. Then his gaze came back to the little world of his own creation. That shelter he had designed for erring souls, who, like himself, had fallen by the wayside of life. His amusement was dead, and he promptly negatived his hasty conclusion.
“No, Sis,” he said. “We don’t need to worry a thing. There’s no police boys’ll ever locate this ranch. Dan Quinlan chased these hills ten years before he lit on this valley—by chance. There’s only you, and me, and Larry knows the way in and ways out of it. And there’s fifty miles of hills, and gorges, and mountain streams, like a Chinese maze, for any feller who don’t know what we know about Three-Way Creek before he can locate us. No. Don’t worry. But things have changed. We need to reckon with that boy. We need to watch out. I’ll have to put Dan wise. And you—why, you must keep tab on little Molly. I owed her father, and I’ll need to pay his little girl. Nothing’s going to stop that. You must see her as soon as you can. If you run into him, why, you’ll not be worried losing him in these hills. And you’ll be the best one to locate the thing he’s doing. Here’s Larry coming along with a big eat look written all over his freckled features. I’ll have to tell him.”
CHAPTER XXII
The Awakening
MOLLY was sitting up in her bed, with the grey daylight searching the night shadows that still lurked in the little bedroom that had known her from her earliest days.
Under the small window was the old drawer-chest that supported a painted mirror, before which the girl was accustomed to dress. Near by stood a home-made chair with a rawhide seat. In one dim corner of the room the folds of a cotton curtain hung down over the few garments of which her outer wardrobe consisted. And against the far wall, opposite the end of the bed, was a trunk, surrounded and adorned by a flounced covering of large-patterned cotton. The board flooring of the place had some of its bareness disguised by one or two home-made rugs. Yet, for all its bare comfort, the room had always contained for Molly a wealth of content and happy memory.
She was in her homely night apparel, with her knees drawn up under the well-worn bed-covering. Her arms were clasped about her knees, and she was staring hopelessly into the slowly receding shadows.
The silence was intense. As yet not even the wild-fowl on the river were stirring. And no sound of any sort came up from the slumbering kine in the corral.
Molly was alone with the dawn and her waking thoughts. She was alone with memory. And, strangely enough, never in all her life had she known such a profound dispiritedness. Slowly her eyes filled with tears. Her lips moved, quivering spasmodically. Then the storm of grief overflowed down her cheeks.
For some time her face was buried in the coarse sheeting of her bed. Then, with a quick movement, her head was flung up. She clad herself hurriedly in her working clothes. She bathed her face and hands, and adjusted her hair before the little mirror which reflected just sufficient light for the process. Then she moved to the chest with its floral-patterned cover.
For many minutes she moved about in her moccasin slippers. The lid of the chest was propped open, and her busy hands were at work folding and packing, bestowing inside it the delicate garments which only a short day ago had afforded her such delight. Somehow her mood was completely reversed. And there was not a moment in which she paused to contemplate the wonderful texture, the softness and delicacy, of the things she was packing. It was almost as if her work could not be accomplished with sufficient speed.