He wanted the feel of solid earth under
his feet. He wanted, with all his soul, to reach that narrow strip of
coast where Mary Standish was drifting in.
But even Stampede saw no sign of the fire that was consuming him. And
not until Alan's feet touched land, and Cordova lay before him like a
great hole in the mountains, did the strain give way within him. After
he had left the wharf, he stood alone in the darkness, breathing deeply
of the mountain smell and getting his bearings. It was more than
darkness about him. An occasional light burning dimly here and there
gave to it the appearance of a sea of ink threatening to inundate him.
The storm had not broken, but it was close, and the air was filled with
a creeping warning. The moaning of thunder was low, and yet very near,
as if smothered by the hand of a mighty force preparing to take the
earth unaware.
Through the pit of gloom Alan made his way. He was not lost. Three years
ago he had walked a score of times to the cabin of old Olaf Ericksen,
half a mile up the shore, and he knew Ericksen would still be there,
where he had squatted for twenty years, and where he had sworn to stay
until the sea itself was ready to claim him. So he felt his way
instinctively, while a crash of thunder broke over his head. The forces
of the night were unleashing.
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