before sunrise the next morning two men were seen by a circling hawk moving steadily southeast. the man leading stopped now and then to glance carefully about him; in these pauses he studied the ground—often a weed trodden down in dew turned their course abruptly. after six miles of this careful back-tracing dinsmore halted—this time to listen. both could now faintly distinguish voices ahead.
"keep straight on over that thar hemlock ridge," whispered the hide-out; "they're in the holler on t'other side." he held out his hand to thayor, pointed again in the direction he had indicated, and disappeared as easily as a partridge.
sam thayor went on alone.
* * * * *
it was a day of dreary anxiety to those who awaited his return. the trapper blamed himself for having allowed him to go. "it ain't right for ye, friend, to risk yer life like this," he had declared. "them fellers won't stop at nothin' now—i've done my best to git ye clear of 'em and i'll git ye clear and 'board the cars by to-morrow—all of ye, if ye'll let me." to which thayor, laying his hand on the old man's shoulder, had replied:
"i refuse to expose any of you. it is a matter that concerns myself alone. i hardly think they will attempt to molest a single, defenceless man. as for your son, i'll take care that no one sees him."
as the day wore on and no tidings came from either thayor or the hide-out, holcomb's and the clown's uneasiness became more and more apparent. the midday meal passed in comparative silence. by noon the sky became overcast and it drizzled intermittently. this told sadly upon alice, who went back to her blanket. there she closed her eyes, but sleep was impossible.
again she reviewed the events not only of this summer but of the winter preceding it. she thought of sperry, slowly going over in her mind their days together—all that had happened; all that he had dared to ask her to do. with astonishing clearness she now weighed his worth. bit by bit she recalled their last hours together that night on the veranda. then the sturdy honesty of men like holcomb, the trapper and the clown in contrast with sperry, and many of her guests at home, rose in her mind. their kindness to her; their unselfishness, despite the fact that she had once treated them like a pack of uncouth boors. but for billy holcomb she would have burned to death. she knew his worth now. sam had been right.
then her mind dwelt on the close friendship that had grown up between margaret and the young woodsman. was it friendship, really? again she thought of sperry and again her cheeks burned. he had not asked her to seek a divorce and marry him—he had demanded briefly that she leave all and follow him. with this thought her face paled with anger. instantly her husband rose clear in her mind; he who, never once in all his life, had asked her, or anyone else, to do a dishonourable thing. she wondered at his patience and his pluck, even when she remembered their many quarrels in which he had lost control of himself.
with a low moan she buried her face in her hands as little by little her mind reverted to her own cruelty; to the days of her domination over him; to her outbursts of temper: he, a man of strength, with the courage of his convictions. this he had proved during their forced march in a hundred different ways—was proving it to-day, magnificently. one ray of comfort shone through it all—that, foolish and vain as she had been, she could still look her husband in the face.
at length she rose shakily, and moving slowly crossed the small space about the fire to where the trapper was chopping firewood for the night.
"and he is not back yet?" she said to the trapper in a hopeless tone.
"no, marm, not yet," he answered gloomily. "it'll be night 'fore long; thar ain't much daylight left him to travel in."
alice caught her breath. "but you think he'll come, don't you, mr. holt?" "yes, marm, i do," he answered, laying down his axe. "'t ain't hardly possible he won't; i cal'late they'll both git in 'fore dark. it won't do to borry trouble 'fore it comes. it was my fault, marm—i shouldn't hev let him go—it warn't right—but he would hev his way."
"and you don't think they're lost?" she ventured timidly.
"not so long as he stays by my son, marm—no, 't ain't likely they're lost; it warn't that i was thinkin' of." he saw the sudden terror in her eyes.
"but you think he will be back, don't you? oh! you do, mr. holt—don't you?"
"yes, marm, i tell ye i do. he had grit 'nough to go, and i cal'late he'll hev grit 'nough to git back. he seemed to know what he was doin'."
she turned away that he might not see her tears. she could hear the dull whack of the old man's axe as she retraced her steps to her place by the crackling fire.
for another anxious hour she sat shivering before it, then the clown announced apologetically that supper was ready. blakeman handed her a cup of tea, but she did not taste it. annette put to rights the few comforts within the lean-to and re-folded the blankets. margaret and holcomb whispered together. all moved as if in the shadow of a great calamity.
it was now pitch dark and raining. the camp sat in strained silence. finally margaret came over to her mother and whispered something in her ear. a weary smile crossed alice's lips; then she beckoned to holcomb, laid her hand on his arm, and looking up into his face said in a broken voice:
"you will look after margaret, mr. holcomb, won't you, if—if anything has happened?"
"all my life, mrs. thayor."
before she could speak the girl leaned over and hid her face on her mother's shoulder. a light broke over the mother's face; then she found her voice.
"and it is true, margaret?" she said, smoothing the girl's cheek.
"what will your father say?"
"he knows i love billy," she whispered, as she threw her arms around her mother's neck and burst into tears.
a grave and ominous anxiety now took possession of the camp. that something must be done, and at once, to find thayor, had become evident as the night began to settle. but no man in the camp lagged. billy and the trapper were busy tearing long strips of yellow bark from a birch tree for torches, while the clown, who had been hurriedly cutting two forked sticks, stood fitting them with the twisted bark. for some moments the three woodsmen held a low and earnest conversation together, alice watching them with startled eyes. she caught also the figure of the trapper and the old dog standing at the limit of the firelight waiting for holcomb, and the flare of the two bark torches that the old man held in his hands.
at that instant the old dog sprang into the darkness beyond the trapper, barking sharply. holcomb, followed by margaret, who had never left his side since he had determined to go in search of her father, rushed forward, following the waning light from the torches now glimmering far ahead as the trapper leaped on after the old dog.
alice, now left alone with blakeman and annette, sat peering into the void, her ears open to every sound. every now and then she would rise, walk to the edge of the firelight, stand listening for a few moments and sink back again on her seat by the embers.
suddenly blakeman rose to his feet, his hand cupped to his ear, his whole body tense. his knowledge of the woods had taught him their unusual sounds. stepping quickly over the surrounding logs, he moved to the edge of the darkness and listened, then walked quickly into the blackness.
the dim flicker of approaching torches, like will-o'-the-wisps, now flashed among the giant trees. alice sprang up, caught the end of the long overcoat in her fingers and, guided by the sound of blakeman's footsteps, calling to him at every step, dashed on into the darkness. then she tripped, and with a piercing shriek fell headlong.
a posse of men were approaching. the torches drew nearer and nearer—voices could be heard. she strained her ears—but it was not that of her husband. again she staggered to her feet, reeled, and would have fallen had not blakeman caught her. he had seen the party and turned back before he reached them.
"he's all right, madam—there he comes—they are all coming."
thayor pushed his way ahead. he had heard the scream and recognized the voice.
"my god, blakeman. what's the matter?" he was on his knees beside her now, her head resting in the hollow of his elbow.
"madam's only fainted, sir. we got worried at your being gone so long."
margaret tried to throw herself down beside her mother, but holcomb held her back.
"no—let your father alone," he whispered—"and let us come away."
the trapper and the others, followed by holcomb and margaret, moved toward the camp, the torches illumining their faces. no one saw the hide-out. he was there—within touching distance, but he moved only in the shadows.
alice opened her eyes and clasped both her arms around her husband's neck.
"oh, sam! tell me it is you—and you are safe, and nothing has happened? oh! sam—i have been so wretched!"
"there, dear—compose yourself. it's all right—everything is all right, and we have nothing to fear anywhere. come, now—let me help you to your feet and—"
"no, sam—not yet—not yet! please listen—i've been so wicked—so foolish—please forgive me—please tell me you love me. don't let it make any difference. i can stand everything but that. sam, we once loved each other—can't we again? i love you—i do—i do!"
for an instant he held her from him gazing into her eyes. the revulsion was so great—the surprise so intense, he could hardly believe his senses. then a great uplift swept through him.
"hush," he breathed. "tell me again that you love me. say it again, alice. say it!" the vibrant trembling of her body, close held in his arms, thrilled him; he could see dimly in the shadow the same old look in her eyes—the eyes of the girl he loved. the hour of their betrothal seemed to be his once more.
"i don't want to go home, sam; i never want to see it again," she swept on. "i want to live here. will you rebuild big shanty for you and me, dearest, and for margaret and billy? they love each other and—"
he folded her in his arms.
"kiss me again!" she pleaded.
