Through her mind all the time that she stayed in the cabin there had
passed a curious surmise that this very place might be the covert of
Pierre le Rouge. There was a fatality about it, for the invisible
Power which had led her up the valley of the Old Crow surely would not
make mistakes.
In her search for Pierre, Providence brought her to this place, and
Providence could not be wrong. This, a vague emotion stirring in her
somewhere between reason and the heart, grew to an almost certain
knowledge as she heard the whisper, the faint, heartbroken
whisper: "Pierre!"
And when she turned to the boy again, noting the shirts and the chaps
hanging at the wall, she knew they belonged to Pierre as surely as if
she had seen him hang them there.
The fingers of Jack were twisted around the butt of his revolver,
white with the intensity of the pressure.
Now he cried: "Get out! You've done your work; get out!"
But Mary stepped straight toward the murderous, pale face. "I'll
stay," she said, "and wait for Pierre.
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