“Good-by.”
“But I shall soon be back—for that horse. I promised a horse of that strain—to a girl. That’s the only thing I’ve ever offered her that she has accepted—so I can’t fall down on that. But I’ll take precautions.”
“Please go, and stay away. They won’t sell you a horse. They will kill you. Good-by.”
“I’ll chance it—in the hope that you will save my life again.”
“But I won’t, if you do anything so crazy. Don’t be a fool!”
She snatched her hands out of his and turned and vanished in the blackness of crowded firs.
Vane looked straight up between the black spires of the forest and saw that the stars were misty. He saw this, but he gave no heed to it. He wasn’t worrying about the stars. He turned and stepped along on the track which Joe’s webs had already beaten twice and his once. It was deep enough to follow easily, heedlessly, despite the gloom. He felt exalted and exultant. Even his anxiety, which was entirely for the girl, thrilled him deliciously—such was his faith in himself, and his scorn of the Danglers. The thought of going away on the morrow did not depress him. He would soon be back.
In this high and somewhat muddled mood he might easily have passed an elephant in the blackness of the wood without sensing it. As it was, he passed nothing more alarming or unusual than poor Pete Sledge. Pete did nothing to attract the other’s notice, and took to the shadows behind him with no more sound than the padded paws of a hunting lynx.
This was a little game that had grown dear to Pete’s heart of late years. Natural talent and much practice had made him amazingly proficient at it. What he did not know of the bodily activities of Robert Vane and Joe Hinch during the past few hours was not much; and it may be that he suspected something of what was going on in their heads and hearts. He had wanted to chuckle, had been on the very verge of it, at the sight of the stranger carrying the artful young woman on his back—for he had known that there was nothing wrong with her ankle.
Vane had covered more than half of the homeward journey at a moderate rate of speed when he became conscious of the light touch of a snowflake on his face. He was not particularly interested, but for lack of something better to do he halted and looked straight up again. The high stars were veiled. Large, moist flakes fell slowly. He produced a cigarette and lit it, considering the effect of a heavy snowfall on his plans for the immediate future. The effect was nil, so far as he could see. Which shows how little he knew about his immediate future.