She had become a part of him. She had made him forget everything but her,
and in a few hours had sent into the dust of ruin his cynicism and
aloneness of a lifetime. If Joanne had come to him like this, making him
forget his work, filling him more and more with the thrilling desire to
fight for her, was it so very strange that a beast like Quade would
fight--in another way?
He went on down the trail, his hands clenched tightly. After all, it was
not fear of Quade or of what he might attempt that filled him with
uneasiness. It was Joanne herself, her strange quest, its final outcome.
With the thought that she was seeking for the man who was her husband, a
leaden hand seemed gripping at his heart. He tried to shake it off, but it
was like a sickness. To believe that she had been the wife of another man
or that she could ever belong to any other man than himself seemed like
shutting his eyes forever to the sun. And yet she had told him. She had
belonged to another man; she might belong to him even now. She had come to
find if he was alive--or dead.
And if alive? Aldous stopped again, and looked down into the dark pit
through which the river was rushing a hundred feet below him.
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