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where the path lifted and rose in steep loops to the surface
of the plateau, the climb was more difficult. The earth
above had broken away and washed down over the trail,
bringing rocks and bushes and even young trees with it.
The last ghost of daylight was dying and there was no time
to lose. The canyon behind them was already black.
"We've got to go right through the top of this pine tree,
Thea. No time to hunt a way around. Give me your hand."
After they had crashed through the mass of branches, Fred
stopped abruptly. "Gosh, what a hole! Can you jump it?
Wait a minute."
He cleared the washout, slipped on the wet rock at the
farther side, and caught himself just in time to escape a
tumble. "If I could only find something to hold to, I could
give you a hand. It's so cursed dark, and there are no
trees here where they're needed. Here's something; it's a
root. It will hold all right." He braced himself on the rock,
gripped the crooked root with one hand and swung himself
across toward Thea, holding out his arm. "Good jump! I
must say you don't lose your nerve in a tight place. Can
you keep at it a little longer? We're almost out. Have to
make that next ledge. Put your foot on my knee and catch
something to pull by."
Thea went up over his shoulder. "It's hard ground up
here," she panted. "Did I wrench your arm when I slipped
then? It was a cactus I grabbed, and it startled me."
"Now, one more pull and we're on the level."
They emerged gasping upon the black plateau. In the
last five minutes the darkness had solidified and it seemed
as if the skies were pouring black water. They could not
see where the sky ended or the plain began. The light at
the ranch house burned a steady spark through the rain.
Fred drew Thea's arm through his and they struck off
toward the light. They could not see each other, and the
rain at their backs seemed to drive them along. They kept
laughing as they stumbled over tufts of grass or stepped
into slippery pools. They were delighted with each other
and with the adventure which lay behind them.
"I can't even see the whites of your eyes, Thea. But I'd
know who was here stepping out with me, anywhere. Part
coyote you are, by the feel of you. When you make up your
mind to jump, you jump! My gracious, what's the matter
with your hand?"
"Cactus spines. Didn't I tell you when I grabbed the
cactus? I thought it was a root. Are we going straight?"
"I don't know. Somewhere near it, I think. I'm very
comfortable, aren't you? You're warm, except your
cheeks. How funny they are when they're wet. Still, you
always feel like you. I like this. I could walk to Flagstaff.
It's fun, not being able to see anything. I feel surer of you
when I can't see you. Will you run away with me?"
Thea laughed. "I won't run far to-night. I'll think
about it. Look, Fred, there's somebody coming."
"Henry, with his lantern. Good enough! Halloo! Hallo
--o--o!" Fred shouted.
The moving light bobbed toward them. In half an hour
Thea was in her big feather bed, drinking hot lentil soup,
and almost before the soup was swallowed she was asleep.
VIII
ON the first day of September Fred Ottenburg and Thea
Kronborg left Flagstaff by the east-bound express.
As the bright morning advanced, they sat alone on the
rear platform of the observation car, watching the yellow
miles unfold and disappear. With complete content they
saw the brilliant, empty country flash by. They were
tired of the desert and the dead races, of a world without
change or ideas. Fred said he was glad to sit back and let
the Santa Fe do the work for a while.
"And where are we going, anyhow?" he added.
"To Chicago, I suppose. Where else would we be
going?" Thea hunted for a handkerchief in her hand-
bag.
"I wasn't sure, so I had the trunks checked to Albu-
querque. We can recheck there to Chicago, if you like.
Why Chicago? You'll never go back to Bowers. Why
wouldn't this be a good time to make a run for it? We
could take the southern branch at Albuquerque, down to
El Paso, and then over into Mexico. We are exceptionally
free. Nobody waiting for us anywhere."
Thea sighted along the steel rails that quivered in the
light behind them. "I don't see why I couldn't marry you
in Chicago, as well as any place," she brought out with
some embarrassment.
Fred took the handbag out of her nervous clasp and
swung it about on his finger. "You've no particular love
for that spot, have you? Besides, as I've told you, my
family would make a row. They are an excitable lot. They
discuss and argue everlastingly. The only way I can ever
put anything through is to go ahead, and convince them
afterward."
"Yes; I understand. I don't mind that. I don't want to
marry your family. I'm sure you wouldn't want to marry
mine. But I don't see why we have to go so far."
"When we get to Winslow, you look about the freight
yards and you'll probably see several yellow cars with
my name on them. That's why, my dear. When your
visiting-card is on every beer bottle, you can't do things
quietly. Things get into the papers." As he watched her
troubled expression, he grew anxious. He leaned forward
on his camp-chair, and kept twirling the handbag between
his knees. "Here's a suggestion, Thea," he said presently.
"Dismiss it if you don't like it: suppose we go down to
Mexico on the chance. You've never seen anything like
Mexico City; it will be a lark for you, anyhow. If you
change your mind, and don't want to marry me, you can
go back to Chicago, and I'll take a steamer from Vera
Cruz and go up to New York. When I get to Chicago,
you'll be at work, and nobody will ever be the wiser. No
reason why we shouldn't both travel in Mexico, is there?
You'll be traveling alone. I'll merely tell you the right
places to stop, and come to take you driving. I won't put
any pressure on you. Have I ever?" He swung the bag
toward her and looked up under her hat.
"No, you haven't," she murmured. She was thinking
that her own position might be less difficult if he had used
what he called pressure. He clearly wished her to take the
responsibility.
"You have your own future in the back of your mind all
the time," Fred began, "and I have it in mine. I'm not
going to try to carry you off, as I might another girl. If you
wanted to quit me, I couldn't hold you, no matter how
many times you had married me. I don't want to over-
persuade you. But I'd like mighty well to get you down to
that jolly old city, where everything would please you, and
give myself a chance. Then, if you thought you could have
a better time with me than without me, I'd try to grab you
before you changed your mind. You are not a sentimental
person."
Thea drew her veil down over her face. "I think I am, a
little; about you," she said quietly. Fred's irony somehow
hurt her.
"What's at the bottom of your mind, Thea?" he asked
hurriedly. "I can't tell. Why do you consider it at all, if
you're not sure? Why are you here with me now?"
Her face was half-averted. He was thinking that it
looked older and more firm--almost hard--under a veil.
"Isn't it possible to do things without having any very
clear reason?" she asked slowly. "I have no plan in the
back of my mind. Now that I'm with you, I want to be
with you; that's all. I can't settle down to being alone
again. I am here to-day because I want to be with you
to-day." She paused. "One thing, though; if I gave you
my word, I'd keep it. And you could hold me, though you
don't seem to think so. Maybe I'm not sentimental, but
I'm not very light, either. If I went off with you like
this, it wouldn't be to amuse myself."
Ottenburg's eyes fell. His lips worked nervously for a
moment. "Do you mean that you really care for me, Thea
Kronborg?" he asked unsteadily.
"I guess so. It's like anything else. It takes hold of you
and you've got to go through with it, even if you're afraid.
I was afraid to leave Moonstone, and afraid to leave
Harsanyi. But I had to go through with it."
"And are you afraid now?" Fred asked slowly.
"Yes; more than I've ever been. But I don't think I
could go back. The past closes up behind one, somehow.
One would rather have a new kind of misery. The old
kind seems like death or unconsciousness. You can't force
your life back into that mould again. No, one can't go
back." She rose and stood by the back grating of the
platform, her hand on the brass rail.
Fred went to her side. She pushed up her veil and turned
her most glowing face to him. Her eyes were wet and
there were tears on her lashes, but she was smiling the
rare, whole-hearted smile he had seen once or twice be-
fore. He looked at her shining eyes, her parted lips, her
chin a little lifted. It was as if they were colored by a sun-
rise he could not see. He put his hand over hers and clasped
it with a strength she felt. Her eyelashes trembled, her
mouth softened, but her eyes were still brilliant.
"Will you always be like you were down there, if I go
with you?" she asked under her breath.
His fingers tightened on hers. "By God, I will!" he
muttered.
"That's the only promise I'll ask you for. Now go away
for a while and let me think about it. Come back at lunch-
time and I'll tell you. Will that do?"
"Anything will do, Thea, if you'll only let me keep
an eye on you. The rest of the world doesn't interest me
much. You've got me in deep."
Fred dropped her hand and turned away. As he glanced
back from the front end of the observation car, he saw that
she was still standing there, and any one would have known
that she was brooding over something. The earnestness of
her head and shoulders had a certain nobility. He stood
looking at her for a moment.
When he reached the forward smoking-car, Fred took a
seat at the end, where he could shut the other passengers
from his sight. He put on his traveling-cap and sat down
wearily, keeping his head near the window. "In any case,
I shall help her more than I shall hurt her," he kept saying
to himself. He admitted that this was not the only motive
which impelled him, but it was one of them. "I'll make it
my business in life to get her on. There's nothing else I
care about so much as seeing her have her chance. She
hasn't touched her real force yet. She isn't even aware of
it. Lord, don't I know something about them? There isn't
one of them that has such a depth to draw from. She'll be
one of the great artists of our time. Playing accompani-
ments for that cheese-faced sneak! I'll get her off to Ger-
many this winter, or take her. She hasn't got any time to
waste now. I'll make it up to her, all right."
Ottenburg certainly meant to make it up to her, in so
far as he could. His feeling was as generous as strong human
feelings are likely to be. The only trouble was, that he was
married already, and had been since he was twenty.
His older friends in Chicago, people who had been friends
of his family, knew of the unfortunate state of his ...
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