“We must turn and ride fast,” she said hastily. “My father will be worried if we are late. I think I remember this path which cuts into the trail again farther on and is a shorter way. Let us take it!”
Without waiting for Loring’s assent, she dashed off to the left. Stephen followed her with some misgiving. He had known too much of the devious windings of these half-beaten paths and would have chosen the longer way around in confidence of its proving the shorter way home.
On and on they rode in the gathering darkness till at length they could scarcely see a yard ahead of them, and were forced to drop the reins on the necks of the ponies, realizing that in such a situation instinct is a far safer guide than reason. Loring took the lead, and rode slowly and cautiously, peering about him in the vain hope of discovering the right way. At length his pony balked suddenly and threw back its ears. “Stop!” Stephen called back, as he slipped hastily from the saddle and took a step forward to investigate the cause of “Muy Bueno’s” fright. One step was enough, for it showed him that the ground dropped off into space at his very feet. “Whew!” he whistled softly to himself. Then aloud he said: “I am afraid, Miss Cameron, that you must dismount. Wait and let me help you!” But before he could reach her the girl was out of her saddle and at his side. She saw their danger and paled at its nearness. Then she said quietly: “Of course it is my fault; but we need not talk about that now. The question is, what are we going to do?”
“The only thing we can do is to grope our way back by the way we have come, and hope by good luck to reach the main trail again. If the moon would only come up, we might at least get our bearings,” said Loring.
“We ought to be somewhere near the Bingham mine,” Jean reflected aloud. “Mr. Bingham is a friend of my father’s and we have ridden over to supper in his camp once or twice. But I don’t know—I have lost all faith in my skill as a pilot.”
Loring took hold of the bridles and turned the ponies. Then mounting, they rode into the darkness, where a slight thread of openness seemed to show their path. Time and time again the horses, sure-footed as they were, stumbled and went down on their knees, only to pick themselves up with a shake and a plunge. Wandering cattle had beaten so many blind paths through the chaparral or between the rocks that the riders were often forced to stop and retrace their way, searching for new openings. Stephen was afraid. It was a new sensation for him to have any dread of the uncertain; but every time that Miss Cameron’s horse slipped or hesitated he turned nervously in the saddle on the lookout for some accident to her. His was a nature which danger elated, but responsibility depressed. Had he been alone he would have rejoiced in the stubbornness of the way, in the rasp of the cactus as his boots scratched against it, in the uncertain sliding and the quick checking of his horse; but now they worried him, so intent was he on the safety of the girl with him. He knew that only good fortune could find their way for them before sunrise and he prayed for good fortune in a way that made up for his past unbelief in such a thing.
Jean’s cheerfulness and acceptance of conditions only made it harder for him, as, with every sense alert, he led the way towards what he hoped was their goal.
And fear was not the only emotion that struck at his heart. Mingled with his anxiety was a rushing glow of happiness, of fierce exultation such as he had never experienced in his life. The fact that under his care, alone in the Arizona night, was the girl whom he loved, thrilled and shook him. The soft note of confidence in her voice, her unconscious appeal to him for protection, made the stinging blood rush to his face, made him crush the bridle in a grip as of a vise. “Alone!” he murmured. “Is there in God’s world any such aloneness as two together when the world is a countless distance away, when each second is precious as a lifetime!” His voice, when he spoke to her, sounded to him dry and forced. It was only by superhuman control that when he guided her horse to the right or left he did not cry out his need of her. Yet through all the electric silence he knew that he had no right to speak of love, no right even to love her. His mood was of that intensity which cares not for its reaction on others. Through it all he did not think or imagine that she could care; and yet he was happy, happy with that joy of a great emotion so sweeping as not to know pain from pleasure and not to care. For the first time in his life he realized what it was to live, not to think or to care, but to live.
And she? She could not have been a woman and not have known, even though the imprisoned words had not escaped; but from knowing to caring is a very long road, and not only has it many turnings, but often it doubles upon itself.
After an hour of this blind riding, they suddenly found themselves following a well-beaten track. A tip of bright gold appeared from behind the black mountains, then a crescent, then a semicircle, and almost before they realized it the trail was flooded with the splendor of the full-rounded moon. As they watched, they were startled by the soft thud of a horse’s hoofs behind them. Stephen, a bit uneasy as to the newcomer, wheeled his horse sharply to meet him, and slipped his riding gauntlet from his right hand, prepared to shoot or to shake as the occasion might necessitate. He was greatly surprised, when the stranger drew abreast of them, to hear him exclaim in a cheerful bass voice: “Miss Cameron! How did you come here?”