Molly was alone with her truant cows. She was herding them before her along the creek bank. She had driven them across the stream that came out of the westerly gap with the aid of the white-haired man on his black horse. Then, at her bidding, the stranger had taken himself off.
In the moment of the discovery of her lost cows the girl had forgotten everything else. There had been the perverse work of rounding them up, which mainly devolved upon her. Beelzebub had missed all that sort of thing in his education. Then had come the passage of the creek. And then a hurried farewell. It was not until she had lost sight of the stranger that she remembered her unfulfilled purpose. She had let him go. And she knew no more whence he came, or his name, or whither he was going, than she had at the moment of their meeting at the water-hole.
It was absurd. It was something outrageous. She was angry with herself, and not without resentment against him. For a moment she had thought to recall him. But she restrained the impulse. No. Why should she? She had been a fool. And he—he might at least have enlightened her in exchange for the enlightenment she had so foolishly afforded him. Evidently he could not have wanted to do so. Evidently he had no desire to discover himself. Well, let him go, with his coal-black horse and his queer white hair.
Her cows preoccupied her, and quickly enough her ill-humour passed in the business of driving the foolish, hornless creatures, whose antics so often made her want to laugh. Anyway, her long day had been more than successful, and as the valley opened out, and the woods gave way to the broad open as she drew near her home, the cows seemed to realise whither they were being herded, and to welcome a return to the shelter of their familiar corral. They hurried along almost frantically.
As she neared the end of her journey Molly’s thoughts were no longer dominated by the all-absorbing emotions which had been inspired by the man McFardell. It was not that they had undergone any change. On the contrary. It was simply the natural claim of the life that was hers. The solitude of the hills had been broken for her. A fresh interest had suddenly tumbled headlong into it. And she found herself thinking of the white-haired creature on his coal-black horse.
How came it that the stranger’s hair was so white? He was young—quite young. She was certain of that. She had heard that trouble sometimes whitened the hair. Yet there was no trouble in his smiling eyes. It was all very strange. It was—— What wonderful hair! It was like silver—polished silver. And as thick as a thatch.
She laughed aloud as she came in sight of the smoke rising from the chimney of her homestead. A sudden thought had flashed through her mind. It was a childish thought, that pleased her immensely. He had refused to reveal his identity. Well, it was of no consequence. She would very likely never see him again, and, anyway, she had coined a name for him. It was a good name, too—better than he deserved—Silver-Thatch.
CHAPTER XIV
The Heart of the Hills
JIM PRYSE was leaning against one of the verandah posts of his home in the Valley of Hope. And, just behind him, lounging in a low-seated chair, was a red-headed creature, freckled, clean-shaven. He was a man of perhaps thirty years. Certainly not more. And he was dressed in somewhat similar fashion to Pryse himself. The difference lay in the fact that he wore no coat or waistcoat over the yellowish silk shirt, whose sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and revealed forearms which suggested tremendous physical strength.