Emergency demands held the agent at his station all that day and evening. Trainmen brought news of heavy rains beyond the mountains. In the morning he awoke to find his little world hushed in a murky light and with a tingling apprehension of suspense in the atmosphere. High, gray cloud shapes hurried across the zenith to a conference of the storm powers, gathering at the horizon. Weather-wise from long observation, Banneker guessed that the outbreak would come before evening, and that, unless the sullen threat of the sky was deceptive, Manzanita would be shut off from rail communication within twelve hours thereafter. Having two hours’ release at noon, he rode over to the lodge in the forest to return Io’s blanket. He found the girl pensive, and Miss Van Arsdale apparently recovered to the status of her own normal and vigorous self.
“I’ve been telling Io,” said the older woman, “that, since the rumor is out of her being here, she will almost certainly be found by the reporter. Too many people in the village know that I have a guest.”
“How?” asked Banneker.
“From my marketing. Probably from Pedro.”
“Very likely from the patron of the Sick Coyote that you and I met on our walk,” added the girl.
“So the wise thing is for her to go,” concluded Miss Van Arsdale. “Unless she is willing to risk the publicity.”
“Yes,” assented Io. “The wise thing is for me to go.” She spoke in a curious tone, not looking at Banneker, not looking at anything outward and visible; her vision seemed somberly introverted.
“Not now, though,” said Banneker.
“Why not?” asked both women. He answered Io.
“You called for a storm. You’re going to get it. A big one. I could send you out on Number Eight, but that’s a way-train and there’s no telling where it would land you or when you’d get through. Besides, I don’t believe Gardner is coming. I’d have heard from him by now. Listen!”