CHAPTER XXVIII—THE FUGITIVE

One thought dominated Marion Harlan’s brain as she packed her belongings into the little handbag in her room at the Arrow—an overpowering, monstrous, hideous conviction that she had accepted charity from the man who was accused of murdering her father! There was no room in her brain for other thoughts or emotions; she was conscious of nothing but the horror of it; of the terrible uncertainty that confronted her—of the dread that Taylor _might_ be guilty! She wanted to believe in him—she _did_ believe in him, she told herself as she packed the bag; she could not accept the word of Keats as final. And yet she could not stay at the Arrow another minute—she could not endure the uncertainty. She must go away somewhere—anywhere, until the charge were proved, or until she could see Taylor, to look into his eyes, there to see his guilt or innocence.

She felt that the charge could not be true; for Taylor had treated her so fairly; he had been so sympathetically friendly; he had seemed to share her grief over her father’s death, and he had seemed so sincere in his declaration of his friendliness toward the man. He had even seemed to share her grief; and in the hallowed moments during which he had stood beside her while she had looked into her father’s room, he might have been secretly laughing at her!

And into her heart as she stood in the room, now, there crept a mighty shame—and the shadow of her mother’s misconduct never came so close as it did now. For she, too, had violated the laws of propriety; and what she was receiving was not more than her just due. And yet, though she could blame herself for coming to the Arrow, she could not excuse Taylor’s heinous conduct if he were guilty.

And then, the first fierce passion burning itself out, there followed the inevitable reaction—the numbing, staggering, sorrowing realization of loss. This in turn was succeeded by a frenzied desire to go away from the Arrow—from everybody and everything—to some place where none of them would ever see her again.

She started toward the door, and met Parsons—who was looking for her. He darted forward when he saw her, and grasped her by the shoulders.

“What has happened?” he demanded.

She told him, and the man’s face whitened.

“I was asleep, and heard nothing of it,” he said. “So that man Keats said they had plenty of evidence! You are going away? I wouldn’t, girl; there may have been a mistake. If I were you——”

Her glance of horror brought Parsons’ protests to an end quickly. He, too, she thought, was under the spell of Taylor’s magnetism. That, or every person she knew was a prey to those vicious and fawning instincts to which she had yielded—the subordination of principle to greed—of ease, or of wealth, or of place.

She shuddered with sudden repugnance.

For the first time she had a doubt of Parsons—a revelation of that character which he had always succeeded in keeping hidden from her. She drew away from him and walked to the door, telling him that _he_ might stay, but that she did not intend to remain in the house another minute.

She found a horse in the stable—two, in fact—the ones Taylor had insisted belonged to her and Martha. She threw saddle and bridle on hers, and was mounting, when she saw Martha standing at the stable door, watching her.

“Yo’ uncle says you goin’ away, honey—how’s that? An’ he done say somethin’ about Mr. Squint killin’ your father. Doan’ you b’lieve no fool nonsense like that! Mr. Squint wouldn’t kill nobody’s father! That deputy man ain’t nothin’ but a damn, no-good liar!”

Martha’s vehemence was genuine, but not convincing; and the girl mounted the horse, hanging the handbag from the pommel of the saddle.

“You’s sure goin’!” screamed the negro woman, frantic with a dread that she was in danger of losing the girl for whom she had formed a deep affection.

“You wait—you hear!” she demanded; “if you leave this house I’s a goin’, too!”

Marion waited until Martha led the other horse out, and then, with the negro woman following, she rode eastward on the Dawes trail, not once looking back.

And not a word did she say to Martha as they rode into the space that stretched to Dawes, for the girl’s heart was heavy with self-accusation.

They stopped for an instant at Mullarky’s cabin, and Mrs. Mullarky drew from the girl the story of the morning’s happenings. And like Martha, Mrs. Mullarky had an abiding faith in Taylor’s innocence. More—she scorned the charge of murder against him.

“Squint Taylor murder your father, child! Why, Squint Taylor thought more of Larry Harlan than he does of his right hand. An’ you ain’t goin’ to run away from him—for the very good reason that I ain’t goin’ to let you! You’re upset—that’s what—an’ you can’t think as straight as you ought to. You come right in here an’ sip a cup of tea, an’ take a rest. I’ll put your horses away. If you don’t want to stay at the Arrow while Taylor, the judge, an’ all the rest of them are pullin’ the packin’ out of that case, why, you can stay right here!”

Yielding to the insistent demands of the good woman, Marion meekly consented and went inside. And Mrs. Mullarky tried to make her comfortable, and attempted to soothe her and assure her of Taylor’s innocence.

But the girl was not convinced; and late in the afternoon, despite Mrs. Mullarky’s protests, she again mounted her horse and, followed by Martha, set out toward Dawes, intending to take the first east-bound train out of the town, to ride as far as the meager amount of money in her purse would take her. And as she rode, the sun went down behind the big hill on whose crest sat the big house, looming down upon the level from its lofty eminence; and the twilight came, bathing the world with its somber promise of greater darkness to follow. But the darkness that was coming over the world could not be greater than that which reigned in the girl’s heart.