But it was not the sort of suspicion to cool the
thrill in his blood or frighten him, for he was quite ready to concede
that Mary Standish was a fugitive, and that her flight from Seattle had
been in the face of a desperate necessity. What had happened aboard ship
was further proof, and her presence at his range a final one. Forces had
driven her which it had been impossible for her to combat, and in
desperation she had come to him for refuge. She had chosen him out of
all the world to help her; she believed in him; she had faith that with
him no harm could come, and his muscles tightened with sudden desire to
fight for her.
In these moments he became conscious of the evening song of the tundras
and the soft splendor of the miles reaching out ahead of them. He
strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of the mounted figures when
they came up out of hollows to the clough-tops, but the lacy veils of
evening were drawing closer, and he looked in vain. Bird-song grew
softer; sleepy cries rose from the grasses and pools; the fire of the
sun itself died out, leaving its radiance in a mingling of vivid rose
and mellow gold over the edge of the world. It was night and yet day,
and Alan wondered what thoughts were in the heart of Mary Standish. What
had driven her to the Range was of small importance compared with the
thrilling fact that she was just ahead of him.
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