It was Blanche who finally broke the silence. It was as if her words were literally wrung from her.
“Oh, Jim, it’s just terrible,” she cried, in a storm of distress she could no longer hide. “I’ve been thinking, thinking. I can’t help it. Maybe it’s awful of me. But—but I believe—I know.”
The man glanced round sharply. There was a fierce, hot light in his usually smiling eyes. For an instant Blanche felt herself compelled as her horrified gaze met his. She felt he was reading through and through her, seeking the hideous thought that prompted her distress. Then he turned away, and his only response was a deliberate inclination of his head.
They had ridden miles up the gorge of Three-Way Creek. And then—and then, as they came in sight of the smiling waters of the lagoon-like pool which formed the headwaters of the creek, the whole of the tragedy was revealed.
Molly’s pinto mare, Rachel, was grazing peacefully on such rank grass as grew amidst the confusion of rocks. The little creature was saddled and bridled. But the saddle was empty, and the mare was free to stray as her mood inclined her.
It was Blanche who first beheld her and cried out. She flung out a pointing hand.
“Jim!” she cried. “Look! Molly’s mare! There! Ahead by the water. What is she——”
But her words were lost as her horse leapt forward. And Jim followed hard on her heels.
As she came to the edge of the lagoon Blanche flung herself out of the saddle. She had moved on searching amongst the boulders. There was no doubt in her mind, none whatever. Molly’s mare saddled and bridled as she was, had not strayed into the gorge. She had been ridden there. Molly must be there, too.