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"Well, this yer earthquake was ten years ago, just after I came. I
reckon I oughter remember it. It was a queer sort o' day in the
fall, dry and hot as if thar might hev bin a fire in the woods,
only thar wasn't no wind. Not a breath of air anywhar. The leaves
of them alders hung straight as a plumb-line. Except for that thar
stream and that thar wheel, nuthin' moved. Thar wasn't a bird on
the wing over that canyon; thar wasn't a squirrel skirmishin' in
the hull wood; even the lizards in the rocks stiffened like stone
Chinese idols. It kept gettin' quieter and quieter, ontil I walked
out on that ledge and felt as if I'd have to give a yell just to
hear my own voice. Thar was a thin veil over everything, and
betwixt and between everything, and the sun was rooted in the
middle of it as if it couldn't move neither. Everythin' seemed to
be waitin', waitin', waitin'. Then all of a suddin suthin' seemed
to give somewhar! Suthin' fetched away with a queer sort of
rumblin', as if the peg had slipped outer creation. I looked up
and kalkilated to see half a dozen of them boulders come, lickity
switch, down the grade. But, darn my skin, if one of 'em stirred!
and yet while I was looking, the whole face o' that bluff bowed
over softly, as if saying 'Good-by,' and got clean away somewhar
before I knowed it. Why, you see that pile agin the side o' the
canyon! Well, a thousand feet under that there's trees, three
hundred feet high, still upright and standin'. You know how them
pines over on that far mountain-side always seem to be climbin' up,
up, up, over each other's heads to the very top? Well, Mr. Key, I
SAW 'EM climbin'! And when I pulled myself together and got back
to the mill, everything was quiet; and, by G--d, so was the mill-wheel,
and there wasn't two inches of water in the river!"
"And what did you think of it?" said Key, interested in spite of
his impatience.
"I thought, Mr. Key-- No! I mustn't say I thought, for I knowed
it. I knowed that suthin' had happened to my wife!"
Key did not smile, but even felt a faint superstitious thrill as he
gazed at him. After a pause Collinson resumed: "I heard a month
after that she had died about that time o' yaller fever in Texas
with the party she was comin' with. Her folks wrote that they died
like flies, and wuz all buried together, unbeknownst and
promiscuous, and thar wasn't no remains. She slipped away from me
like that bluff over that canyon, and that was the end of it."
"But she might have escaped," said Key quickly, forgetting himself
in his eagerness.
But Collinson only shook his head. "Then she'd have been here," he
said gravely.
Key moved towards the door still abstractedly, held out his hand,
shook that of his companion warmly, and then, saddling his horse
himself, departed. A sense of disappointment--in which a vague
dissatisfaction with himself was mingled--was all that had come of
his interview. He took himself severely to task for following his
romantic quest so far. It was unworthy of the president of the
Sylvan Silver Hollow Company, and he was not quite sure but that
his confidences with Collinson might have imperiled even the
interests of the company. To atone for this momentary aberration,
and correct his dismal fancies, he resolved to attend to some
business at Skinner's before returning, and branched off on a long
detour that would intersect the traveled stage-road. But here a
singular incident overtook him. As he wheeled into the turnpike,
he heard the trampling hoof-beats and jingling harness of the
oncoming coach behind him. He had barely time to draw up against
the bank before the six galloping horses and swinging vehicle swept
heavily by. He had a quick impression of the heat and steam of
sweating horse-hide, the reek of varnish and leather, and the
momentary vision of a female face silhouetted against the glass
window of the coach! But even in that flash of perception he
recognized the profile that he had seen at the window of the
mysterious hut!
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