Ellen felt Sprague’s rough but kindly hand shaking her. “An’ now what do you think of Jean Isbel?” he queried.
A great, unsurmountable wall seemed to obstruct Ellen’s thought. It seemed gray in color. It moved toward her. It was inside her brain.
“I tell you, Ellen Jorth,” declared the old man, “thet Jean Isbel loves you—loves you turribly—an’ he believes you’re good.”
“Oh no—he doesn’t!” faltered Ellen.
“Wal, he jest does.”
“Oh, Uncle John, he cain’t believe that!” she cried.
“Of course he can. He does. You are good—good as gold, Ellen, an’ he knows it.... What a queer deal it all is! Poor devil! To love you thet turribly an’ hev to fight your people! Ellen, your dad had it correct. Isbel or not, he’s a man.... An’ I say what a shame you two are divided by hate. Hate thet you hed nothin’ to do with.” Sprague patted her head and rose to go. “Mebbe thet fight will end the trouble. I reckon it will. Don’t cross bridges till you come to them, Ellen.... I must hurry back now. I didn’t take time to unpack my burros. Come up soon.... An’, say, Ellen, don’t think hard any more of thet Jean Isbel.”
Sprague strode away, and Ellen neither heard nor saw him go. She sat perfectly motionless, yet had a strange sensation of being lifted by invisible and mighty power. It was like movement felt in a dream. She was being impelled upward when her body seemed immovable as stone. When her blood beat down this deadlock of an her physical being and rushed on and on through her veins it gave her an irresistible impulse to fly, to sail through space, to ran and run and ran.
And on the moment the black horse, Spades, coming from the meadow, whinnied at sight of her. Ellen leaped up and ran swiftly, but her feet seemed to be stumbling. She hugged the horse and buried her hot face in his mane and clung to him. Then just as violently she rushed for her saddle and bridle and carried the heavy weight as easily as if it had been an empty sack. Throwing them upon him, she buckled and strapped with strong, eager hands. It never occurred to her that she was not dressed to ride. Up she flung herself. And the horse, sensing her spirit, plunged into strong, free gait down the canyon trail.
The ride, the action, the thrill, the sensations of violence were not all she needed. Solitude, the empty aisles of the forest, the far miles of lonely wilderness—were these the added all? Spades took a swinging, rhythmic lope up the winding trail. The wind fanned her hot face. The sting of whipping aspen branches was pleasant. A deep rumble of thunder shook the sultry air. Up beyond the green slope of the canyon massed the creamy clouds, shading darker and darker. Spades loped on the levels, leaped the washes, trotted over the rocky ground, and took to a walk up the long slope. Ellen dropped the reins over the pommel. Her hands could not stay set on anything. They pressed her breast and flew out to caress the white aspens and to tear at the maple leaves, and gather the lavender juniper berries, and came back again to her heart. Her heart that was going to burst or break! As it had swelled, so now it labored. It could not keep pace with her needs. All that was physical, all that was living in her had to be unleashed.