II. A Secret Kept
Because of that singular reply Madeline found faith to go farther with the cowboy. But at the moment she really did not think about what he had said. Any answer to her would have served if it had been kind. His silence had augmented her nervousness, compelling her to voice her fear. Still, even if he had not replied at all she would have gone on with him. She shuddered at the idea of returning to the station, where she believed there had been murder; she could hardly have forced herself to go back to those dim lights in the street; she did not want to wander around alone in the dark.
And as she walked on into the windy darkness, much relieved that he had answered as he had, reflecting that he had yet to prove his words true, she began to grasp the deeper significance of them. There was a revival of pride that made her feel that she ought to scorn to think at all about such a man. But Madeline Hammond discovered that thought was involuntary, that there were feelings in her never dreamed of before this night.
Presently Madeline’s guide turned off the walk and rapped at a door of a low-roofed house.
“Hullo—who’s there?” a deep voice answered.
“Gene Stewart,” said the cowboy. “Call Florence—quick!”
Thump of footsteps followed, a tap on a door, and voices. Madeline heard a woman exclaim: “Gene! here when there’s a dance in town! Something wrong out on the range.” A light flared up and shone bright through a window. In another moment there came a patter of soft steps, and the door opened to disclose a woman holding a lamp.
“Gene! Al’s not—”
“Al is all right,” interrupted the cowboy.
Madeline had two sensations then—one of wonder at the note of alarm and love in the woman’s voice, and the other of unutterable relief to be safe with a friend of her brother’s.