On the day that old Creech repudiated his son, Slone with immeasurable relief left Brackton's without even a word to the rejoicing Holley, and plodded up the path to his cabin.
After the first flush of elation had passed he found a peculiar mood settling down upon him.It was as if all was not so well as he had impulsively conceived.He began to ponder over this strange depression, to think back.
What had happened to dash the cup from his lips? Did he regret being freed from guilt in the simple minds of the villagers --regret it because suspicion would fall upon Lucy's father? No; he was sorry for the girl, but not for Bostil.It was not this new aspect of the situation at the Ford that oppressed him.
He trailed his vague feelings back to a subtle shock he had sustained in a last look at Creech's dark, somber face.It had been the face of a Nemesis.
All about Creech breathed silent, revengeful force.Slone worked out in his plodding thought why that fact should oppress him; and it was because in striking Bostil old Creech must strike through Bostil's horses and his daughter.
Slone divined it--divined it by the subtle, intuitive power of his love for Lucy.He did not reconsider what had been his supposition before Creech's return--that Creech would kill Bostil.Death would be no revenge.Creech had it in him to steal the King and starve him or to do the same and worse with Lucy.So Slone imagined, remembering Creech's face.
Before twilight set in Slone saw the Creeches riding out of the lane into the sage, evidently leaving the Ford.This occasioned Slone great relief, but only for a moment.What the Creeches appeared to be doing might not be significant.
And he knew if they had stayed in the village that he would have watched them as closely as if he thought they were trying to steal Wildfire.
He got his evening meal, cared for his horses, and just as darkness came on he slipped down into the grove for his rendezvous with Lucy.Always this made his heart beat and his nerves thrill, but to-night he was excited.The grove seemed full of moving shadows, all of which he fancied were Lucy.Reaching the big cottonwood, he tried to compose himself on the bench to wait.But composure seemed unattainable.The night was still, only the crickets and the soft rustle of leaves breaking a dead silence.Slone had the ears of a wild horse in that he imagined sounds he did not really hear.Many a lonely night while he lay watching and waiting in the dark, ambushing a water-hole where wild horses drank, he had heard soft treads that were only the substance of dreams.That was why, on this night when he was overstrained, he fancied he saw Lucy coming, a silent, moving shadow, when in reality she did not come.
That was why he thought he heard very stealthy steps.
He waited.Lucy did not come.She had never failed before and he knew she would come.Waiting became hard.He wanted to go back toward the house--to intercept her on the way.Still he kept to his post, watchful, listening, his heart full.And he tried to reason away his strange dread, his sense of a need of hurry.For a time he succeeded by dreaming of Lucy's sweetness, of her courage, of what a wonderful girl she was.Hours and hours he had passed in such dreams.One dream in particular always fascinated him, and it was one in which he saw the girl riding Wildfire, winning a great race for her life.
Another, just as fascinating, but so haunting that he always dispelled it, was a dream where Lucy, alone and in peril, fought with Cordts or Joel Creech for more than her life.These vague dreams were Slone's acceptance of the blood and spirit in Lucy.She was Bostil's daughter.She had no sense of fear.She would fight.And though Slone always thrilled with pride, he also trembled with dread.
At length even wilder dreams of Lucy's rare moments, when she let herself go, like a desert whirlwind, to envelop him in all her sweetness, could not avail to keep Slone patient.He began to pace to and fro under the big tree.He waited and waited.What could have detained her? Slone inwardly laughed at the idea that either Holley or Aunt Jane could keep his girl indoors when she wanted to come out to meet him.Yet Lucy had always said something might prevent.There was no reason for Slone to be concerned.He was mistaking his thrills and excitement and love and disappointment for something in which there was no reality.Yet he could not help it.The longer he waited the more shadows glided beneath the cottonwoods, the more faint, nameless sounds he heard.
He waited long after he became convinced she would not come.Upon his return through the grove he reached a point where the unreal and imaginative perceptions were suddenly and stunningly broken.He did hear a step.He kept on, as before, and in the deep shadow he turned.He saw a man just faintly outlined.One of the riders had been watching him--had followed him! Slone had always expected this.So had Lucy.And now it had happened.But Lucy had been too clever.She had not come.She had found out or suspected the spy and she had outwitted him.Slone had reason to be prouder of Lucy, and he went back to his cabin free from further anxiety.
Before he went to sleep, however, he heard the clatter of a number of horses in the lane.He could tell they were tired horses.Riders returning, he thought, and instantly corrected that, for riders seldom came in at night.And then it occurred to him that it might be Bostil's return.But then it might be the Creeches.Slone had an uneasy return of puzzling thoughts.These, however, did not hinder drowsiness, and, deciding that the first thing in the morning he would trail the Creeches, just to see where they had gone, he fell asleep.
