Ward pondered. “The problem is not so easy of solution. A train robbery is a pretty serious matter. I’m very grateful to him, but to connive at his escape is itself a punishable act. Why did you tell me? I could have passed it over—”
“Because I’m afraid the sheriff may come back at any moment.”
Ward’s brow was troubled. “I could ignore his deed and pretend not to know who he is, but definitely to assist a bandit to escape is a very serious matter.”
“I know it is; but remember he gave up his chance to cross the divide in order to keep us from suffering.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me,” he repeated, almost in irritation. “If the sheriff only keeps on over the range Smith can take care of himself.”
As the outlaw re-entered the cabin Alice acknowledged in him something worth a woman to love. In the older man was power, security, moral, mental, and physical health, the qualities her reason demanded in a husband; but in the other was grace and charm, something wildly admirable. He allured as the warrior, intrepid and graceful, allured the maiden, as the forest calls the householder. Something primordial and splendid and very sweet was in her feeling toward him. There could be no peaceful wedlock there, no security of home, no comfort, only the exquisite thrill of perilous union, the madness of a few short weeks—perhaps only a few swift days of self-surrender, and then, surely, disaster and despair. To yield to him was impossible, and yet the thought of it was tantalizingly sweet.
When she looked toward Ward she perceived herself sitting serenely in matronly grace behind a shining coffee-urn in a well-ordered, highly civilized breakfast-room, facing a most considerate husband who nevertheless was able to read the morning paper in her presence. When she thought of life with the outlaw all was dark, stormy, confused, and yet the way was lit by his adoring eyes. A magical splendor lay in the impulse. His love, sudden as it seemed, was real—she was certain of that. She felt the burning power, the conjury of its flame, and it made her future with Ward, at the moment, seem dull and drab.
“Why, why could not such a man and such a passion come with the orderly and the ethical?” she asked herself.
At the best he was fitted only for the mine or the ranch, and the thought of life in a lonely valley, even with his love to lighten it, made her shudder. On one side she was a very practical and far-seeing woman. The instant she brought her reason to bear on the problem she perceived that any further acquaintance with this man was dangerous. They must part here at this moment, and yet she could not let him go without in some way making him feel her wish to help him.
VIII