He went back to the living room and placed the lamp on the little table. It was evident that Molly had left the place. He went out to the stable and found that her horse and saddle were not there.
He remembered dazedly that she had said she might not be there when he returned. Back to the house he went, searching around for a possible note, which might tell him where she had gone. But there was no note. She had left without a word.
He sat down on the edge of a chair and tried to figure out what to do. Right now he cared more for his wife than he ever had, and the other events of the night paled into insignificance before this new shock.
Suddenly he got to his feet, blew out the light and ran down to the corral. Swiftly he saddled and rode out into the yard, heading straight back toward the slopes of Slow Elk Creek.
“Get ready, you sheepherders!” he gritted aloud. “I’m comin’ after my wife, and I’d like to see any of yuh stop me.”
Jack knew every inch of the country, and was able to pick his way through the starlit hills at a fairly swift pace. He knew that the dead-line was within three miles of his place, but he did not slacken pace until up near Slow Elk Springs.
As he rode up through the upper end of a little cañon, a man arose up in front of him, the starlight glinting on the barrel of his rifle. It was Gene Hill. The recognition was mutual.
“Where yuh goin’?” asked Hill in a whisper.
He was standing at the left shoulder of Jack’s horse, as if to bar his way.
For a moment Jack hesitated, and then drove the spurs into his horse, causing the animal to knock Hill sprawling. Then he ducked low and went racing away toward the dead-line. Hill got to his feet, cursing painfully, searching for his rifle, while Bert Allen, of the Circle V, another of the watchers, came running through the sage, calling to Hill and questioning him as to what the commotion had been about.