He did not even ask himself if
Sibyl were living or dead. He thought of nothing; knew nothing; was
conscious of nothing; but the trail that led away into the depths of the
mountain wilderness. Insensible to his own physical condition; without
food; unacquainted with the wild country into which he was going; reckless
of danger to himself but with all possible care and caution for the sake
of the girl he loved, he went on.
Coming to the brink of the gorge in which the cabin was hidden, the trail,
following the rim, soon led him to the ledge that lay across the face of
the cliff at the head of the narrow canyon. A moment, he paused, to search
the vicinity with careful eyes, then started to cross. As he set foot upon
the ledge, a voice at the other end called sharply, "Stop."
At the word, Aaron King halted.
A moment passed. James Rutlidge stepped from behind the rocks at the other
end of the ledge. He was covering the artist with a rifle.
In a flash, the man on the trail understood. The automobile, the mirror
signals from Fairlands--it was all explained by the presence and by the
menacing attitude of the man who barred his way. The artist's hand moved
toward the weapon that hung at his hip.
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