The Heart of Thunder Mountain. Edfrid A. Bingham
the sight of the girl, bent and cowering before him. But at the same time he was exasperated anew by the scene that was being enacted under the eyes of his two men.
“Come!” he said presently, not without reluctant gentleness. “It’s growing late. We must start at once.”
The words increased her terror. Through the hands that covered her eyes she could see Haig and Huntington–with revolvers drawn; and Claire’s white face–She rose impulsively, dropping her hands from her hot and tear-stained cheeks. She would confess all to him, though it should betray the inmost secret of her heart; and would beseech him not to go–
“Don’t say it–here!” he commanded sharply, lowering his voice as he bent toward her. “They think there’s something queer about all this. Come!”
She obeyed him silently, her resolution vanishing before his authority. Besides, there was yet time, somewhere on the road.
CHAPTER VIII
THE END OF HER STRATAGEM
For some minutes there was no speech, no sound except the swift beat of the horses’ hoofs on the hard roadway, and the crisp crunching of wheels in the sand. Marion sat rigid, staring straight in front of her, yet seeing nothing. Dazed and benumbed, her thoughts were in a hopeless tangle, without beginnings, without ends. How she had bungled the whole thing! And she might have been so happy, there at his side.
Twilight was coming on in the serene, clear beauty of the mountains: the distant peaks glowed like great opals in the sundown hues; there was an indescribable sweetness in the air, something magical in the soft but cold night breeze that began to pour down upon the valley from the eternal snows.
Timidly, out of the corner of her eye, Marion glanced at Haig, and saw that he was gazing steadily at the changing colors on the distant range. But there was no beauty for her in that perfect panorama. The fire had gone out of her, and she was shivering. He must have felt her movement, for suddenly he leaned forward, lifted the edge of the heavy lap-robe that had lain neglected at their feet, and tucked it around her. She drew back with a quick intake of breath as his face was for an instant close to her own. A moment later he began to speak in a tone that surprised and encouraged her, so little did it resemble the tones he had employed before. It was as if nothing had happened, as if they had long been talking of things casual, impersonal to them both.
“It’s different in the San Luis,” he said. “There’s red down there. Nature’s palette is a little short of red in this valley. Too much blue. Even nature sometimes gets a one-color obsession, like the painters. Here she’s gone off on blue. It’s the most dangerous color. Darwin says it was the last color produced in nature’s laboratory. Ordinarily it’s the least common in flowers and birds and insects. Hearn–Have you read Lafcadio Hearn? No? But you ought to, that is, if you care for such things. He goes after blue–the misuse of it. He says it’s the color most pleasureable to the eye in its purest intensity. But you mustn’t dab it on. A blue house is a crime. Blue’s overdone here too, blue sky, blue mists, blue shadows, blue lakes, blue flowers,–anemones, harebells, columbines and the rest. It’s a relief to get into the reds of the San Luis–”
“Where Sunnysides came from!” interrupted Marion, eager despite her misery.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about him, please!”
She wanted him to continue in that strain, and even Sunnysides was a less dangerous subject than–another.
“Well, about Sangre de Cristo first. That’s a great range that stands up high and white along the east. Sangre de Cristo is Spanish for Blood of Christ. I can see those pious old rascal adventurers uncovering their blessed heads when they first glimpsed it. At sunset it takes the color–not always, not often, in fact, perhaps a dozen times a year. There are days and days when the range is only white and cold, days when it’s black with storms, and days when it’s dismal gray. Then there comes an evening when the sun goes down red behind the San Juan, and the snows on Sangre de Cristo run like blood. The whole world, for a few minutes, seems to halt and stand still in awe at that weird and mysterious spectacle–trainmen setting the brakes on squealing ore trains on Marshall Pass, and miners coming out of their tunnels above Creed all stop and look; Mexican sheep-herders in Conejos pause to cross themselves; ranchmen by their lonely corrals up and down the San Luis, and cowboys in the saddle on the open range–all spellbound. It gives you a strange feeling–something that goes back to the primitive instincts of mankind–something of reverence, something of wonder, something of fear–the fear that the first men had when they gazed on the phenomena they could not understand, and began to make their myths and their religions. Primitive superstition, primitive terror will never quite down in us, no matter how wise and practical we become. There’s always, in beauty–in sheer beauty something terrifying, as well as something sad. But–do I bore you with my dithyrambs?”
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