Jim’s whole thought was for the girl beside him. The meaning of their journey in his mind had little enough to do with Lightning, and the life or death of Andy McFardell. He knew well enough that they would find the farm to-day as he had found it yesterday. He had no hope that it would be otherwise. The trip in that respect was useless. It was worse than useless in so far as Molly’s peace of mind was concerned. Then it might undo so much that had already been accomplished. No. He felt it was all wrong. Yet the appeal of it was irresistible.
Molly wished to visit her home. Then Molly should do so. Molly desired to retake her place in those affairs of life which concerned her. So it must be. She was troubled. Well, his greatest desire was that he might be beside her to help her, to comfort her, to make clear to her that she was no longer alone, to face the life that had already treated her so hard; that, whatever chanced, whatever might befall the old man to whom she was so devoted, his own whole future was hers. He was hers—body and soul.
So he watched the girl as they rode through the shadowed forest beyond the Gateway. So he spoke ready words of comfort when her fears threatened to overwhelm her. He laughed her nightmare to scorn, and by sheer effort of will forced the return of her smile to her eyes. And through it all he knew he was fighting for himself as much as for her. Through it all he knew he was acting a lie. For, whatever Blanche believed, he had little enough hope that any of them would ever again set eyes on the grizzled creature, who, he felt certain, had set out on one final act of devotion.
They had long since breasted the hill overlooking the Gateway. At the summit Molly turned to gaze back on the blessed haven that had come to mean so much to her. And as she gazed a doubt flashed through her mind. Would she return to it? Would it be possible? Would not she be held at the farm to succour the man who was ready even to kill for her?
In that tense moment she cried out:
“Oh, I wish I could get it into my fool head I’d find him there cutting the harvest when I get home.”
“Don’t think about it, Molly,” Jim said gently. “There’s things no wish or act of ours can alter.” He smiled. “I guess Lightning’s one of ’em.”
Molly lifted her reins, and her impatient mare moved hastily on.
The last of the hill mists had been swept away. The great August sun was scorching the grass and woodlands with its brazen rays. It was a wide, rugged world, encircled by hills whose snow-capped summits reached up to the very clouds. It was a glorious arena, miles in extent, with lesser hills and stretches of forest littered throughout its length and breadth.
They kept to the bank of the creek which flowed eastward. They hugged its course over a trail that had become almost marked by the traffic of their horses. And an hour’s riding brought them to the point where they must leave the soft, springy soil of the creek bank and take to the bed of the stream itself. It was here that the whole nature of the country abruptly changed. It was the beginning of the gorge, which only terminated at the dark passage of the tunnel.