“Maybe.”
Jim drew a deep breath. They were nearing the edge of a wide break in the forest. Beyond lay a stretch of grass. Away beyond that the forest continued, but there was a definite change in its nature. It was low and sparse. Then away to the right of them lay the creek down which they had been riding. Silver stretches of water showed up. The valley was changing its course eastwards. Just behind an abutment of hill ahead was the opening that would take him westwards. Jim knew that the moment of parting was drawing near.
As they rode into the open Beelzebub strove fiercely to break into a race. But the man held him down.
In this fashion they rode on in silence. Jim was absorbed in the memory of a time when his fortunes had been at their lowest ebb, and he had been running a neck-and-neck race with disaster, and even death. His more spectacular association with Dan Quinlan had claimed his interest to the exclusion of that other. And yet he knew he owed just as deep a debt of gratitude to George Marton. This girl was his daughter—this child, with her innocent eyes, her pretty, dark face. It was she who had packed up that food that had kept him from sheer starvation for days.
Again they were in full sunlight, which transformed the valley, and the blue grass they were riding over, into something very wonderful. To the man it was like an omen—an omen of delight. He abruptly checked his horse, so that Molly came abreast of him.
“You know, Molly,” he said, using her first name without realising it, “it’s queer the tricks life plays about us. You’ve told me something I’m more glad about than I can say.”
“You mean—about father? Why?”
“Why?” Jim echoed. Then he shook his head. “No. It’s too long a yarn now.” He pointed out ahead at the break in the hillside, where Three-Way Creek debouched. “There lies my way now. Yours is ahead down the valley. The sun’s dropping fast, and we’ll both need to hustle or get benighted. Some time I’ll—— Say, look right down there amongst those spruce bluffs at the river. What’s that moving? It’s—say, there’s one—two—three—four—five—six. And they’re Pole-Angus cows. Were yours Pole-Angus?”
Molly turned in the direction he was pointing. And instantly her face became radiant.
“Why, say!” she cried. “Look at them! The foolish old dears! They’ve handed me a nightmare. And there they are gawking around like a bunch of foolishness eating stray grass in a spruce bluff when there’s all this swell feed right here. No, they’ve no sense. They just haven’t. Lightning’ll be crazy mad to think there’s no rustler around.”