Макс Брэнд
Trailin'!
CHAPTER XXXIX
LEGAL MURDER
As Drew entered his bedroom he found the doctor in the act of restoring the thermometer to its case. His coat was off and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow; he looked more like a man preparing to chop wood than a physician engaging in a struggle with death; but Dr. Young had the fighting strain. Otherwise he would never have persisted in Eldara.
Already the subtle atmosphere of sickness had come upon the room. The shades of the windows were drawn evenly, and low down, so that the increasing brightness of the morning could only temper, not wholly dismiss the shadows. Night is the only reality of the sick-bed; the day is only a long evening, a waiting for the utter dark. The doctor's little square satchel of instruments, vials, and bandages lay open on the table; he had changed the apartment as utterly as he had changed his face by putting on great, horn-rimmed spectacles. They gave an owl-like look to him, an air of omniscience. It seemed as if no mortal ailment could persist in the face of such wisdom.
"Well?" whispered Drew.
"You can speak out, but not loudly," said the doctor calmly. "He's delirious; the fever is getting its hold."
"What do you think?"
"Nothing. The time hasn't come for thinking."
He bent his emotionless eye closer on the big rancher.
"You," he said, "ought to be in bed this moment."
Drew waved the suggestion aside.
"Let me give you a sedative," added Young.
"Nonsense. I'm going to stay here."
The doctor gave up the effort; dismissed Drew from his mind, and focused his glance on the patient once more. Calamity Ben was moving his head restlessly from side to side, keeping up a gibbering mutter. It rose now to words.
"Joe, a mule is to a hoss what a woman is to a man. Ever notice? The difference ain't so much in what they do as what they don't do. Me speakin' personal, I'll take a lot from any hoss and lay it to jest plain spirit; but a mule can make me mad by standin' still and doin' nothing but wablin' them long ears as if it understood things it wasn't goin' to speak about. Y' always feel around a mule as if it knew somethin' about you—had somethin' on you—and was laughin' soft and deep inside. Damn a mule! I remember—"
But here he sank into the steady, voiceless whisper again, the shadow of a sound rather than the reality. It was ghostly to hear, even by daylight.
"Will it keep up long?" asked Drew.
"Maybe until he dies."
"I've told you before; it's impossible for him to die."
The doctor made a gesture of resignation.
He explained: "As long as this fever grows our man will steadily weaken; it shows that he's on the downward path. If it breaks—why, that means that he will have a chance—more than a chance—to get well. It will mean that he has enough reserve strength to fight off the shock of the wound and survive the loss of the blood."
"It will mean," said Drew, apparently thinking aloud, "that the guilt of murder does not fall on Anthony."
"Who is Anthony?"
The wounded man broke in; his voice rose high and sharp: "Halt!"
He went on, in a sighing mumble: "Shorty—help—I'm done for!"
"The shooting," said the doctor, who had kept his fingers on the wrist of his patient; "I could feel his pulse leap and stop when he said that."
"He said 'halt!' first; a very clear sign that he tried to stop Bard before Bard shot. Doctor, you're witness to that?"
He had grown deeply excited.
"I'm witness to nothing. I never dreamed that you could be so interested in any human being."
He nodded to himself.
"Do you know how I explained your greyness to myself? As that of a man ennuied with life—tired of living because he had nothing in the world to occupy his affections. And here I find you so far from being ennuied that you are using your whole strength to keep the guilt of murder away from another man. It's amazing. The boys will never believe it."
He continued: "A man who raised a riot in your own house, almost burned down your place, shot your man, stole a horse—gad, Drew, you are sublime!"
But if he expected an explanatory answer from the rancher he was disappointed. The latter pulled up a chair beside the bed and bent his stern eyes on the patient as if he were concentrating all of a great will on bringing Calamity Ben back to health.
He worked with the doctor. Every half hour a temperature was taken, and it was going up steadily. Drew heard the report each time with a tightening of the muscles about his jaws. He helped pack the wounded man with wet cloths. He ran out and stopped a wrangling noise of the cowpunchers several times. But mostly he sat without motion beside the bed, trying to will the sufferer back to life.
And in the middle of the morning, after taking a temperature, the doctor looked to the rancher with a sort of dull wonder.
"It's dropping?" whispered Drew.
"It's lower. I don't think it's dropping. It can't be going down so soon. Wait till the next time I register it. If it's still lower then, he'll get well."
The grey man sagged forward from his chair to his knees and took the hands of Calamity, long-fingered, bony, cold hands they were. There he remained, moveless, his keen eyes close to the wandering stare of the delirious man. Out of the exhaustless reservoir of his will he seemed to be injecting an electric strength into the other, a steadying and even flow of power that passed from his hands and into the body of Calamity.
When the time came, and Young stood looking down at the thermometer, Drew lifted haggard eyes, waiting.
"It's lower!"
The great arms of the rancher were thrown above his head; he rose, changed, triumphant, as if he had torn his happiness from the heart of the heavens, and went hastily from the room, silent.
At the stable he took his great bay, saddled him, and swung out on the trail for Eldara, a short, rough trail which led across the Saverack—the same course which Nash and Bard had taken the day before.
But the river had greatly fallen—the water hardly washed above the knees of the horse except in the centre of the stream; by noon he reached the town and went straight for the office of Glendin. The deputy was not there, and the rancher was referred to Murphy's saloon.
There he found Glendin, seated at a corner table with a glass of beer in front of him, and considering the sun-whitened landscape lazily through the window. At the sound of the heavy footfall of Drew he turned, rose, his shoulders flattened against the wall behind him like a cornered man prepared for a desperate stand.
"It's all right," cried Drew. "It's all over, Glendin. Duffy won't press any charges against Bard; he says that he's given the horse away. And Calamity Ben is going to live."
"Who says he will?"
"I've just ridden in from his bedside. Dr. Young says the crisis is past. And so—thank God—there's no danger to Bard; he's free from the law!"
"Too late," said the deputy.
It did not seem that Drew heard him. He stepped closer and turned his head.
"What's that?"
"Too late. I've sent out men to—to apprehend Bard."
"Apprehend him?" repeated Drew. "Is it possible? To murder him, you mean!"
He had not made a threatening move, but the deputy had his grip on the butt of his gun.
"It was that devil Nash. He persuaded me to send out a posse with him in charge."
"And you sent him?"
"What could I do? Ain't it legal?"
"Murder is legal—sometimes. It has been in the past. I've an idea that it's going to be again."
"What d'you mean by that?"
"You'll learn later. Where did they go for Bard?"
He did not seem disappointed. He was rather like a man who had already heard bad news and now only finds it confirmed. He knew before. Now the fact was simply clinched.
"They went out to your old place on the other side of the range. Drew, listen to me—"
"How many went after him?"
"Nash, Butch Conklin, and five more. Butch's gang."
"Conklin!"
"I was in a hole; I needed men."
"How long have they been gone?"
"Since last night."
"Then," said Drew, "he's already dead. He doesn't know the mountains."
"I give Nash strict orders not to do nothin' but apprehend Bard."
"Don't talk, Glendin. It disgusts me—makes my flesh crawl. He's alone, with seven cutthroats against him."
"Not alone. Sally Fortune's better'n two common men."
"The girl? God bless her! She's with him; she knows the country. There may be a hope; Glendin, if you're wise, start praying now that I find Bard alive. If I don't—"
The swinging doors closed behind him as he rushed through toward his horse. Glendin stood dazed, his face mottled with a sick pallor. Then he moved automatically toward the bar. Murphy hobbled down the length of the room on his wooden leg and placed bottle and glass before the deputy.
"Well?" he queried.
Glendin poured his drink with a shaking hand, spilling much liquor across the varnished wood. He drained his glass at a gulp.
"I dunno; what d'you think, Murphy?"
"You heard him talk, Glendin. You ought to know what's best."
"Let's hear you say it."
"I'd climb the best hoss I owned and start west, and when I come to the sea I'd take a ship and keep right on goin' till I got halfway around the world. And then I'd climb a mountain and hire a couple of dead-shots for guards and have my first night's sleep. After that I'd begin thinkin' of what I could do to get away from Drew."
"Murphy," said the other, "maybe that line of talk would sound sort of exaggerated to some, but I ain't one of them. You've got a wooden leg, but your brain's sound. But tell me, what in God's name makes him so thick with the tenderfoot?"
He waited for no answer, but started for the door.
CHAPTER XL
PARTNERS
If Drew had done hard things in his life, few were more remorseless than the ride on the great bay horse that day. Starting out, he reckoned coldly the total strength of the gallant animal, the distance to his old house, and figured that it was just within possibilities that he might reach the place before evening. From that moment it was certain that the horse would not survive the ride.
It was merely a question as to whether or not the master had so gaged his strength that the bay would not collapse before even the summit of the range had been reached. As the miles went by the horse loosened and extended finely to his work; sweat darkened and polished his flanks; flecks of foam whirled back and spattered his chest and the legs of his rider; he kept on; almost to the last the rein had to be drawn taut; to the very last his heart was even greater than his body.
Up the steep slopes Drew let the horse walk; every other inch of the way it was either the fast trot or a swinging gallop, not the mechanical, easy pace of the cattle-pony, but a driving, lunging speed. The big hoofs literally smashed at the rocks, and the ringing of it echoed hollowly along the rock face of the ravine.
At the summit, for a single moment, like a bird of prey pausing in mid circle to note the position of the field mouse before it closes wings and bolts down out of the blue, Drew sat his horse motionless and stared down into the valleys below until he noted the exact location of his house—the lake glittered back and up to him in the slant light of the late afternoon. The bay, such was the violence of its panting, literally rocked beneath him.
Then he started the last downward course, sweeping along the treacherous trail with reckless speed, the rocks scattering before him. When they straightened out on the level going beneath, the bay was staggering; there was no longer any of the lilt and ease of the strong horse running; it was a succession of jerks and jars, and the panting was a sharper sound than the thunder of the hoofs. His shoulders, his flanks, his neck—all was foam now; and little by little the proud head fell, reached out; still he drove against the bit; still the rider had to keep up the restraining pressure.
Until at last he knew that the horse was dying on his feet; dying with each heavy stride it made. Then he let the reins hang limp. It was sad to see the answer of the bay—a snort, as if of happiness; a pricking of the ears; a sudden lengthening of stride and quickening; a nobler lift to the head.
Past the margin of the lake they swept, crashed through the woods to the right; and now, very distinctly, Drew heard the heavy drum of firing. He groaned and drove home the spurs. And still, by some miracle, there was something left in the horse which responded; not strength, certainly that was gone long ago, but there was an indomitable spirit bred into it with its fine blood by gentle care for generations. The going was heavier among the trees, and yet the bay increased its pace. The crackle of the rifles grew more and more distinct. A fallen trunk blocked the way.
With a snort the bay gathered speed, rose, cleared the trunk with a last glorious effort, and fell dead on the other side.
Drew disentangled his feet from the stirrup, raised the head of the horse, stared an instant into the glazing eyes, and then turned and ran on among the trees. Panting, dripping with sweat, his face contorted terribly by his effort, he came at last behind that rocky shoulder which commanded the approach to the old house.
He found seven men sheltered there, keeping up a steady, dropping fire on the house. McNamara sat propped against a rock, a clumsy, dirty bandage around his thigh; Isaacs lay prone, a stained rag twisted tightly around his shoulder; Lovel sat with his legs crossed, staring stupidly down to the steady drip of blood from his left forearm.
But Ufert, Kilrain, Conklin, and Nash maintained the fight; and Drew wondered what casualties lay on the other side.
At his rush, at the sound of his heavy footfall over the rocks, the four turned with a single movement; Ufert covered him with a rifle, but Nash knocked down the boy's arm.
"We've done talkin'; it's our time to listen; understand?"
Ufert, gone sullen, obeyed. He was at that age between youth and manhood when the blood, despite the songs of the poets, runs slow, cold; before the heart has been called out in love, or even in friendship; before fear or hate or anything saving a deep egoism has possessed the brain.
He looked about to the others for his cue. What he saw disturbed him. Shorty Kilrain, like a boy caught playing truant, edged little by little back against the rock; Butch Conklin, his eyes staring, had grown waxy pale; Steve Nash himself was sullen and gloomy rather than defiant.
And all this because of a grey man far past the prime of life who ran stumbling, panting, toward them. At his nearer approach a flash of understanding touched Ufert. Perhaps it was the sheer bulk of the newcomer; perhaps, more than this, it was something of stern dignity that oppressed the boy with awe. He fought against the feeling, but he was uneasy; he wanted to be far away from that place.
Straight upon them the big grey man strode and halted in front of Nash.
He said, his voice harsh and broken by his running: "I ordered you to bring him to me unharmed. What does this mean, Nash?"
The cowpuncher answered sulkily: "Glendin sent us out."
"Don't lie. You sent yourself and took these men. I've seen Glendin."
His wrath was tempered with a sneer.
"But here you are four against one. Go down and bring him out to me alive!"
There was no answer.
"You said you wanted no odds against any one man."
"When a man and a woman stand together," answered Nash, "they're worse than a hundred. That devil, Sally Fortune, is down there with him."
A gun cracked from the house; the bullet chipped the rock with an evil clang, and the flake of stone whirled through the air and landed at the feet of Drew.
"There's your answer," said Nash. "But we've got the rat cornered."
"Wrong again. Calamity Ben is going to live—"
A cry of joy came from Shorty Kilrain.
"Duffy says that he gave his horse away to Bard. Glendin has called back your posse. Ride, Nash! Or else go down there unarmed and bring Bard up to me."
The shadow of a smile crossed the lips of Nash.
"If the law's done with him, I'm not. I won't ride, and I won't go down to him. I've got the upper hand and I'm going to hold it."
"If you're afraid to go down, I will."
Drew unbuckled his cartridge belt and tossed it with his gun against the rocks. He drew out a white handkerchief, and holding it above him, at a full arm's length, he stepped out from the shelter. The others, gathering at their places of vantage, watched his progress toward the house. Steve Nash described it to the wounded men, who had dragged themselves half erect.
"He's walkin' right toward the house, wavin' the white rag. They ain't goin' to shoot. He's goin' around the side of the house. He's stopped there under the trees."
"Where?"
"At that grave of his wife under the two trees. He waits there like he expected Bard to come out to him. And, by God, there goes Bard to meet him—right out into the open."
"Steady, Steve! Drop that gun! If you shoot now you'll have Drew on your head afterward."
"Don't I know it? But God, wouldn't it be easy? I got him square inside the sights. Jest press the trigger and Anthony Bard is done for. He walks up to Drew. He's got no gun on. He's empty-handed jest like Drew. He's said something short and quick and starts to step across the grave.
"Drew points down to it and makes an answer. Bard steps back like he'd been hit across the face and stands there lookin' at the mound. What did Drew say? I'd give ten years of life to hear that talk!
"Bard looks sort of stunned; he stands there with a hand shadin' his eyes, but the sun ain't that bright. Well, I knew nobody could ever stand up to Drew.
"The chief is talkin' fast and hard. The young feller shakes his head. Drew begins talkin' again. You'd think he was pleadin' for his life in front of a jury that meant him wrong. His hands go out like he was makin' an election speech. He holds one hand down like he was measurin' the height of a kid. He throws up his arms again like he'd lost everything in the world.
"And now Bard has dropped the hand from his face. He looks sort of interested. He steps closer to the grave again. Drew holds out both his arms. By God, boys, he's pleadin' with Bard.
"And the head of Bard is dropped. How's it goin' to turn out? Drew wins, of course. There goes Bard's hand out as if it was pulled ag'in' his will. Drew catches it in both his own. Boys, here's where we grab our hosses and beat it."
He turned from the rocks in haste.
"What d'you mean?" cried Conklin. "Steve, are you goin' to leave us here to finish the job you started?"
"Finish it? You fools! Don't you see that Drew and Bard is pals now? If we couldn't finish Bard alone, how'd we make out ag'in' the two of them? The game's up, boys; the thing that's left is for us to save our hides—if we can—before them two start after us. If they do start, then God help us all!"
He was already in the saddle.
"Wait!" called Conklin. "One of 'em's a tenderfoot. The other has left his gun here. What we got to fear from 'em?"
And Nash snarled in return: "If there was a chance, don't you think I'd take it? Don't you see I'm givin' up everythin' that amounts to a damn with me? Tenderfoot? He may act Eastern and he may talk Eastern, but he's got Western blood. There ain't no other way of explainin' it. And Drew? He didn't have no gun when he busted the back of old Piotto. I say, there's two men, armed or not, and between 'em they can do more'n all of us could dream of. Boys, are you comin'?"
They went. The wounded were dragged to their feet and hoisted to their horses, groaning. At a slow walk they started down through the trees. Evening fell; the shadows slanted about them. They moved faster—at a trot—at a gallop. They were like men flying from a certain ruin. Beyond the margin of the bright lake they fled and lost themselves in the vast, secret heart of the mountain-desert.
CHAPTER XLI
SALLY WEEPS
All that day, in a silence broken only by murmurs and side glances, Anthony and Sally Fortune moved about the old house from window to window, and from crack to crack, keeping a steady eye on the commanding rocks above. In one of those murmurs they made their resolution. When night came they would rush the rocks, storm them from the front, and take their chance with what might follow. But the night promised to give but little shelter to their stalking.
For in the late afternoon a broad moon was already climbing up from the east; the sky was cloudless; there was a threat of keen, revealing moonshine for the night. Only desperation could make them attempt to storm the rock, but by the next morning, at the latest, reinforcements were sure to come, and then their fight would be utterly hopeless.
So when the light of the sun mellowed, grew yellow and slant, and the shadows sloped from tree to tree, the two became more silent still, drawn and pale of face, waiting. Anthony at a window, Sally at a crack which made an excellent loophole, they remained moveless.
It was she who noted a niche which might serve as a loophole for one of the posse, and she fired at it, aiming low. The clang of the bullet against rock echoes clearly back to her, like the soft chime of a sheep bell from the peaceful distance. Then, as if in answer to her shot, around the edge of the rocks appeared a moving rag of white which grew into William Drew, bearing above his head the white sign of the truce.
In her astonishment she looked to Bard. He was quivering all over like a hound held on a tight leash, with the game in sight, hungry to be slipped upon it. The edge of his tongue passed across his colourless lips. He was like a man who long has ridden the white-hot desert and is now about to drink. There was the same wild gleam in his eyes; his hand shook with nervous eagerness as he shifted and balanced his revolver. Listening, in her awe, she heard the sound of his increasing panting; a sound like the breath of a running man approaching her swiftly.
She slipped to his side.
"Anthony!"
He did not answer; his gun steadied; the barrel began to incline down; his left eye was squinting. She dropped to her knees and seized his wrist.
"Anthony, what are you going to do?"
"It's Drew!" he whispered, and she did not recognize his voice. "It's the grey man I've waited for. It's he!"
In such a tone a dying man might speak of his hope of heaven—seeing it unroll before him in his delirium.
"But he's carrying the flag of truce, Anthony. You see that?"
"I see nothing except his face. It blots out the rest of the world. I'll plant my shot there—there in the middle of those lips."
"Anthony, that's William Drew, the squarest man on the range."
"Sally Fortune, that's William Drew, who murdered my father!"
"Ah!" she said, with sharply indrawn breath. "It isn't possible!"
"I saw the shot fired."
"But not this way, Anthony; not from behind a wall!"
His emotion changed him, made him almost a stranger to her. He was shaking and palsied with eagerness.
"I could do nothing as bad as the crime he has done. For twenty years the dread of his coming haunted my father, broke him, aged him prematurely. Every day he went to a secret room and cared for his revolver—this gun here in my hand, you see? He and I—we were more than father and son—we were pals, Sally. And then this devil called my father out into the night and shot him. Damn him!"
"You've got to listen to me, Anthony—"
"I'll listen to nothing, for there he is and—"
She said with a sharp, rising ring in her voice: "If you shoot at him while he carries that white flag I'll—I'll send a bullet through your head—that's straight! We got only one law in the mountains, and that's the law of honour. If you bust that, I'm done with you, Anthony."
"Take my gun—take it quickly, Sally, I can't trust myself; looking at him, I can see the place where the bullet should strike home."
He forced the butt of his revolver into her hands, rose, and stepped to the door, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Tell me what he does."
"He's comin' straight toward us as if he didn't fear nothin'—grey William Drew! He's not packin' a gun; he trusts us."
"The better way," answered Bard. "Bare hands—the better way!"
"He has killed men with those bare hands of his. I can see 'em clear—great, blunt-fingered hands, Anthony. He's coming around the side of the house. I'll go into the front room."
She ran past Anthony and paused in the habitable room, spying through a crack in the wall. And Anthony stood with his eyes tightly closed, his head bowed. The image of the leashed hound came more vividly to her when she glanced back at him.
"He's walkin' right up the path. There he stops."
"Where?"
"Right beside the old grave."
"Anthony!" called a deep voice. "Anthony, come out to me!"
He started, and then groaned and stopped himself.
"Is the sign of the truce still over his head, Sally?"
"Yes."
"I daren't go out to him—I'd jump at his throat."
She came beside him.
"It means something besides war. I can see it in his face. Pain—sorrow, Anthony, but not a wish for fightin'."
From the left side of his cartridge belt a stout-handled, long-bladed hunting-knife was suspended. He disengaged the belt and tossed it to the floor. Still he paused.
"If I go, I'll break the truce, Sally."
"You won't; you're a man, Anthony; and remember that you're on the range, and the law of the range holds you."
"Anthony!" called the deep voice without.
He shuddered violently.
"What is it?"
"It sounds—like the voice of my father calling me! I must go!"
She clung to him.
"Not till you're calmer."
"My father died in my arms," he answered; "let me go."
He thrust her aside and strode out through the door.
On the farther side of the grave stood Drew, his grey head bare, and looking past him Anthony saw the snow-clad tops of the Little Brother, grey also in the light of the evening. And the trees whose branches interwove above the grave—grey also with moss. The trees, the mountain, the old headstone, the man—they blended into a whole.
"Anthony!" said the man, "I have waited half my life for this!"
"And I," said Bard, "have waited a few weeks that seem longer than all my life, for this!"
His own eager panting stopped him, but he stumbled on: "I have you here in reach at last, Drew, and I'm going to tear your heart out, as you tore the heart out of John Bard."
"Ah, Anthony," said the other, "my heart was torn out when you were born; it was torn out and buried here."
And to the wild eyes of Anthony it seemed as if the great body of Drew, so feared through the mountain-desert, was now enveloped with weakness, humbled by some incredible burden.
After that a mist obscured his eyes; he could not see more than an outline of the great shape before him; his throat contracted as if a hand gripped him there, and an odd tingling came at the tips of his fingers. He moved forward.
"It is more than I dreamed," he said hoarsely, as his foot planted firmly on the top of the grave, and he poised himself an instant before flinging himself on the grey giant. "It is more than I dreamed for—to face you—alone!"
And a solemn, even voice answered him, "We are not alone."
"Not alone, but the others are too far off to stop me."
"Not alone, Anthony, for your mother is here between us."
Like a fog under a wind, the mist swept from the eyes of Anthony; he looked out and saw that the face of the grey man was infinitely sad, and there was a hungry tenderness that reached out, enveloped, weakened him. He glanced down, saw that his heel was on the mount of the grave; saw again the headstone and the time-blurred inscription: "Here sleeps Joan, the wife of William Drew. She chose this place for rest."
A mortal weakness and trembling seized him. The wind puffed against his face, and he went staggering back, his hand caught up to his eyes.
He closed his mind against the words which he had heard.
But the deep organ voice spoke again: "Oh, boy, your mother!"
In the stupor which came over him he saw two faces: the stern eyes of John Bard, and the dark, mocking beauty of the face which had looked down to him in John Bard's secret room. He lowered his hand from his eyes; he stared at William Drew, and it seemed to him that it was John Bard he looked upon. Their names differed, but long pain had touched them with a common greyness. And it seemed to Anthony that it was only a moment ago that the key turned in the lock of John Bard's secret room, the hidden chamber which he kept like Bluebeard for himself, where he went like Bluebeard to see his past; only an instant before he had turned the key in that lock, the door opened, and this was the scene which met his eyes—the grave, the blurred tombstone, and the stern figure beyond.
"Joan," he repeated; "your wife—my mother?"
He heard a sob, not of pain, but of happiness, and knew that the blue eyes of Sally Fortune looked out to him from the doorway of the house.
The low voice, hurried now, broke in on him.
"When I married Joan, John Bard fled from the range; he could not bear to look on our happiness. You see, I had won her by chance, and he hated me for it. If you had ever seen her, Anthony, you would understand. I crossed the mountains and came here and built this house, for your mother was like a wild bird, Anthony, and I did not dare to let men near her; then a son was born, and she died giving him birth. Afterward I lived on here, close to the place which she had chosen herself for rest. And I was happy because the boy grew every day into a more perfect picture of his dead mother.
"One day when he was almost three I rode off through the hills, and when I came back the boy was gone. I rode with a posse everywhere, hunting him; aye, Anthony, the trail which I started then I have kept at ever since, year after year, and here it ends where it began—at the grave of Joan!
"Finally I came on news that a man much like John Bard in appearance had been seen near my house that day. Then I knew it was Bard in fact. He had seen the image of the woman we both loved in the boy. He was all that was left of her on earth. After these years I can read his heart clearly; I know why he took the boy.
"Then I left this place. I could not bear the sight of the grave; for she slept in peace, and I lived in hell waiting for the return of my son.
