The Padre stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the wide stretching valley below him.  His long day was drawing to a close, but he felt no weariness of body.  There was a weariness of mind, a weariness of outlook.  There was something gray and cold and hopeless upon his horizon, something which left him regretful of all that which lay within his view now.

There was a half smile in his eyes, as, for a moment, they rested on the narrow indistinct trail which looked so far below him.  He was thinking of that apparition he had met only a few days back, the apparition which had suddenly leapt out of his past.  It was all very strange, very wonderful, the working of those mysterious things which make it certain that no page in a human creature’s life can be turned once and for all.

Yes, it was all very wonderful.  The hand of Fate had begun to move against him when he had greeted that starving fragment of humanity at the trail-side, more than twenty years ago.  It had moved steadily since then in every detail of his life.  It had been progressing in the work he had done in the building of his farm.  Its moving finger had pointed every day of Buck’s young life.  In the necessities of those poor gold-seekers it had shown its unerring direction, even in the spirit which had prompted him to help them, which involved the selling of his farm.

Then he saw its bitter irony.  It had done its work by bringing Joan into contact with Buck, and, with cruel derision, had shown him how unnecessary his sacrifice had been.  Then had come all those other things, moving so swiftly that it was almost impossible to count each step in the iron progress of the moving finger.  It had come with an overwhelming rush which swept him upon its tide like a feather upon the bosom of the torrent.  And now, caught in the whirling rapids below the mighty falls, he could only await the completion of the sentence so long since pronounced.

The smile broadened, spreading gently across his face.  He realized he was admitting all he had denied to Joan.  But the thought brought him no weakening.  The wisdom of years had taught him much that must not be communicated to a younger generation.  Life would teach them in their turn; they must not learn the truths which lay before them before their time.  It was better to lie than to destroy the hope of youth.

His conscience was clear, his resolve perfect in its steadiness.  The happiness of two people was at stake.  For Buck he would give up all.  There was no sacrifice too great.  For Joan she was the fair daughter of his oldest friend.  His duty was clear by her.  There was one course, and one course only that he could see for himself.  To remove the last shadow from these young lives he must face the ordeal which lay before him.  What its outcome might be he could not quite see, but he was not without hope.  There were certain details surrounding the death of his friend which did not fit in with his guilt.  He had no weapon upon him in that house.  Nor was there the least reason for the crime.  He knew he would be confronted by the evidence of a woman who hated him, a woman capable of manufacturing evidence to suit her own ends.  But, whatever else she might do, she could not produce a weapon belonging to him, nor could she invent a reason for the crime that could not be disproved.  At least this was the hope he clung to.

However, he knew that he could not leave the shadow of his possible guilt to cloud the lives of these two, just setting out on their long journey together.  The possibilities of it for harm were far too great.  The ocean of hot, youthful love was far too possible of disaster for an unnecessary threat to overshadow it.

No, he had refused the request of these two from the first moment when he had realized his duty by them, and now, after careful thought, his resolve remained unshaken.

Still, he was not without regret as he gazed out over that vast world he had learned to love so well.  The thought of possibly never seeing it again hurt him.  The wide valleys, the fair, green pastures, the frowning, mysterious woods with their utter silence, the butting crags with their barren crests, or snow-clad shoulders.  They held him in a thrall of almost passionate devotion.  They would indeed be hard to part with.

He looked away down the gaping jaws of the valley at the black crest of Devil’s Hill.  It was a point that never failed to attract him, and now more so than ever.  Was it not round this hill that all his past efforts had been concentrated?

He studied it.  Its weirdness held him.  A heavy mist enveloped its crown, that steaming mist which ever hung above the suspended lake.  It was denser now than usual.  It had been growing denser for the last two days, and, in a vague way, he supposed that those internal fires which heated the water were glowing fiercer than usual.  He glanced up at the sky, and almost for the first time realized the arduous efforts of the westering sun to penetrate the densely humid atmosphere.  It was stiflingly hot, when usually the air possessed a distinct chill.

But these things possessed only a passing interest.  The vagaries of the mountain atmosphere rarely concerned him.  His vigorous body was quite impervious to its changes.  He picked up his “catch” of pelts and shouldered them.  They were few enough, and as he thought of the unusual scarcity of foxes the last few days he could not help feeling that the circumstance was only in keeping with the rest of the passing events of his life.

He made his way along the foot-path which wound its way through the pine bluff, in the midst of which the old fur fort lay hidden inside its mouldering stockade.  He flung the pelts into the storeroom, and passed on to the house, wondering if Buck had returned from the camp, whither he knew he had been that day.

He found him busy amidst a pile of stores spread out upon the floor and table, and a mild surprise greeted the youngster as he looked round from his occupation.

“You never said you were getting stores, Buck?”

The Padre eyed the pile curiously.  Finally his eyes paused at the obvious ammunition cases.

Buck followed the direction of his gaze.

“No,” he said; and turned again to his work of bestowing the goods in the places he had selected for them.

The Padre crossed the room and sat down.  Then he leisurely began to exchange his moccasins for a pair of comfortable house-shoes.

“Had we run short?” he asked presently.

“No.”

Buck’s manner was touched with something like brusqueness.

“Then why?”

Buck straightened up, bearing in his arms an ammunition box.

“Because we may need ’em,” he said, and bestowed the box under the settle with a kick.

“I don’t get you that’s revolver ammunition you just put away.”

“Yes.”

Buck continued his work until the room was cleared.  The other watched him interestedly.  Then as the younger man began to prepare their supper the Padre again reverted to it.

“Maybe you’ll tell me about ’em now?” he said, with his easy smile.

Buck had just set the kettle on the stove.  He stood up, and a frown of perplexity darkened his brow.

“Maybe I won’t be able to get to camp again,” he said.  “Maybe we’ll need ’em for another reason.”

“What other?”

“The sheriff’s comin’.  That woman’s sent for him.  I’ve figgered out he can’t get along till ‘bout to-morrow night, or the next mornin’.  Anyway it don’t do to reckon close on how quick a sheriff can git doin’.”

The Padre’s smile had died out of his eyes.  He sighed.

“The sheriff’s coming, eh?” Then he went on after a pause.  “But these stores I don’t see ”

A dark flame suddenly lit Buck’s eyes, but though he broke in quickly it was without the heat that was evidently stirring within him.

“They’re for Joan, an’ me an’ you.  When the time comes guess we’re going where no sheriff can follow us, if you don’t make trouble.  I don’t guess you need tellin’ of the valley below us.  You know it, an’ you know the steps.  You know the canyon away on toward Devil’s Hill.  That’s the way we’re goin’ when the time comes.  An’ I’d say there ain’t no sheriff or dep’ties’ll care to follow us through that canyon.  After that we cut away north.  Ther’s nobody can follow our trail that way.”

Something almost of defiance grew into his voice as he proceeded.  He was expecting denial, and was ready to resist it with all his force.

The Padre shook his head.

“Buck, Buck, this is madness rank madness,” he cried.  “To resist the law in the way your hot head dictates is to outlaw yourselves beyond all redemption.  You don’t understand what you are doing.  You don’t know to what you are condemning this little Joan.  You don’t know how surely your methods will condemn me.”

But Buck was on fire with rebellion against the injustice of a law which claimed the Padre as its victim.  He saw the hideous possibilities following upon his friend’s arrest, and was determined to give his life in the service of his defense.

“It’s not madness,” he declared vehemently.  “It’s justice, real justice that we should defend our freedom.  If you wer’ guilty, Padre, it would be dead right to save yourself.  It’s sure the right of everything to save its life.  If you’re innocent you sure got still more right.  Padre, I tell you they mean to fix you.  That woman’s got a cinch she ain’t lettin’ go.  She’s lived for this time, Joan’s told me.  She’ll raise plumb hell to send you to your death.  Padre, just listen to us.  It’s me an’ Joan talkin’ now.  What I say she says.  We can see these things different to you; we’re young.  You say it’s your duty to give up to this woman.  We say it’s our duty you shan’t.  If you give up to her you’re giving up to devil’s mischief, an’ that’s dead wrong.  An’ nothin’ you can say can show me you got a right to help devil’s work.  We’ll light out of here before they come.  Us three.  If you stop here, we stop too, an’ that’s why I got the ammunition.  More than that.  Ther’s others, too, won’t see you taken.  Ther’s fellers with us in the camp fellers who owe you a heap like I do.”

The Padre watched the steam rising from the kettle with moody eyes.  The youngster was tempting him sorely.  He knew Buck’s determination, his blind loyalty.  He felt that herein lay his own real danger.  Yes, to bolt again, as he had done that time before, would be an easy way out.  But its selfishness was too obvious.  He could not do it.  To do so would be to drag them in his train of disaster, to blight their lives and leave them under the grinding shadow of the law.

No, it could not be.

“Looked at from the way you look at it, there is right enough in what you say, boy,” he said kindly.  “But you can’t look at civilized life as these mountains teach you to look at things.  When the sheriff comes I yield to arrest, and I trust in God to help us all.  My mind is made up.”

For some moments Buck stared down at the sturdy friend who had taken the place of his dead father.  His eyes softened, and their fire died out.  But there was no rescinding of his desperate decision.  He was thinking of what it would mean, the thought of this white-haired man in the hands of the executioner.  He was thinking of the kindly heart beating within that stalwart bosom.  He was thinking of the wonderful, thoughtful kindness for others which was always the motive of his life.  And a deep-throated curse rose to his lips.  But it found no utterance.  It could not in that presence.

“An’ my mind’s made up,” he jerked out at last, with concentrated force.  Then he added with an abrupt softening, “Let’s eat, Padre.  I was forgettin’.  Mebbe you’re hungry some.”