Lightning leant and spat beyond his horse’s shoulder. Then he raised a hand and scratched the unbrushed hair under the wide brim of his hat. He stared incredulously into the woman’s eyes.
“Say, ma’am,” he suddenly exploded, “you ain’t crazy?”
They had halted at the highest point of the saddle. Blanche had permitted the cattleman to reach the summit first. It was he who had made the halt. And he sat there in his saddle, gazing down on the thing that had seemed to him so unbelievable.
There was the Gateway—two sheer, barren cliffs rising out of the forest which grew about their feet. They were wide, so wide, and towered to a height that was amazing. They formed a clean-cut gateway, as though set up by some giant hand, for the silver streak of a placid river that flowed in between them. Behind them and about them lay a wilderness of wooded hills. They had none of the darkness of the greater forests they had hitherto encountered. They were softly green and gracious in their many hues.
But Lightning ignored these things. His concern was for that which lay beyond the Gateway. It was the splendour of the valley which had captured Jim Pryse during his long imprisonment in it, and the handiwork that had since been achieved.
It was a wonderful picture in the light of the setting sun. And it stirred the old man’s pulses with something of the hope of which Blanche had spoken. The woman was not crazy. No. Molly was down there, somewhere there in the shelter of that ranch-house, with its wonderful pastures, and corrals, and barns, and——
Lightning turned from it all. He sought the woman’s face and realised her smile. Then he turned an ear to windward.
“Are you satisfied I wasn’t fooling you, Lightning?” Blanche spoke almost joyously. “Molly’s down there in my house by now, and maybe the doctor’s already fixed her.”
“It’s your house, ma’am?” Lightning said, with an ear still turned.