They of the High Trails Page 15

  After the tents were in order and the supper eaten, Alice, having tuned up her little metal banjo, began to twitter tender melodies (to the moon, of course), and the long face of the man of science broadened and he seemed less concerned about rocks and fauna and flora.

  The camp was maintained at Heart Lake for a day while Ward and his men explored the various gorges in order to discover a way into Blizzard Basin, which was their goal. They returned to camp each time more and more troubled about the question of taking the women over the divide into the "rough country" which lay to the north.

  "It is a totally different world," Adams explained to his wife. "It is colder and stormier over there. The forest on the north slopes is full of down-timber and the cliffs are stupendous. I wish you girls were back in the settlement," and in this wish Ward heartily joined.

  However, the more they talked the more determined the women were to go.

  It was like a May day the following noon as they left timber-line and, following the row of tiny monuments set up by the foresters, entered upon the wide and undulating stretch of low edges which led to the summit. The air was clear and the verdureless shapes of the monstrous peaks stood sharp as steel against the sky. The tender grass was filled with minute glistening flowers. The wind was gentle, sweet, moist, and cool.

  "Pooh!" said Alice, "this is absurdly easy. Freeman has been telling us dreadful tales all along just to be rid of us."

  But she began to admit that her escort of four strong men was a comfort, as the guide explained that this "rough country" had long been known as the retreat of cattle-thieves and outlaws.

  "Do you think there are any such men in here now?" asked Mrs. Adams.

  "Undoubtedly," Ward said; "but I don't think, from the condition of this trail, that they come in on this side of the range. I suspect it's too lonely even for a cattle-thief."

  They unsaddled that night on the bank of a stream near a small meadow, and around the camp-fire discussed the trail which they were to take next day. The guides agreed that it was "a holy terror," which made Alice the more eager to traverse it.

  "I like trails that make men quake. I welcome adventure—that's what I came for," she said.

  Early the next forenoon, as they were descending the steep north-slope trail, Alice gave out a cry of pain, and Adams called to Ward:

  "Hold on! Allie's horse is down."

  Ward was not surprised. He rode in continual expectation of trouble. She was forever trying short cuts and getting snared in the fallen logs. Once she had been scraped from her saddle by an overhanging bough, and now, in attempting to find an easier path down a slippery ridge, her horse had fallen with her. Ward was ungracious enough to say:

  "Precisely what I've warned her against," but he hurried to her relief, nevertheless.

  "Are you badly hurt?" he asked, as she stood before him, striving to keep back her tears of pain.

  "Oh no, not at all badly. My foot was jammed a little. Please help me on to my horse; I'll be all right in a minute."

  She put so good a face on her accident that he helped her into her saddle and ordered the train to move on; but Peggy perceived that the girl was suffering keenly.

  "Sha'n't we stop, Allie?" she called, a few minutes later.

  "No. I'll be all right in a few minutes."

  She rode on for nearly half an hour, bravely enduring her pain, but at last she turned to Mrs. Adams and cried out: "I can't stand it, Peggy! My foot pains me frightfully!"

  Adams again called to Ward and the procession halted, while Ward came back, all his anger gone.

  "We'll go into camp," he said, as he examined her bruised foot. "You're badly hurt."

  "It's a poor place to camp, Professor," protested Gage. "If she can go on for about fifteen minutes—"

  "I'll try," she said; "but I can't bear the stirrup, and my shoe is full of blood."

  Ward, who was now keenly sympathetic, put her on his own horse and walked beside her while they slowly crawled down into the small valley, which held a deep and grassy tarn. Here they went into camp and the day was lost.

  Alice was profoundly mortified to find herself the cause of the untimely halt, and as she watched the men making camp with anxious, irritated faces she wept with shame of her folly. She had seized the worst possible moment, in the most inaccessible spot of their journey, to commit her crowning indiscretion.

  She was ill in every nerve, shivering and weak, and remained for that day the center of all the activities of the camp. Ward, very tender even in his chagrin, was constantly at her side, his brow knotted with care. He knew what it meant to be disabled two hundred miles from a hospital, with fifty miles of mountain trail between one's need and a roof, but Alice buoyed herself up with the belief that no bones were broken, and that in the clear air of the germless world her wound would quickly heal.

  She lay awake a good part of that night, hearing, above the roar of the water, the far-off noises of the wild-animal world. A wolf howled, a cat screamed, and their voices were fear-inspiring.

  She began also to worry about the effect of her mishap on the expedition, for she heard Ward say to Adams: "This delay is very unfortunate. Our stay is so limited. I fear we will not be able to proceed for some days, and snow is likely to fall at any time."

  What they said after that Alice could not hear, but she was in full possession of their trouble. It was not a question of the loss of a few days; it meant the possible failure of the entire attempt to reach the summit.

  "Peggy," she declared, next morning, "the men must push on and leave you with me here in the camp. I will not permit the expedition to fail on my account."

  This seemed a heroic resolution at the moment, with the menacing sounds of the night still fresh in her ears, but it was the most natural and reasonable thing in the world at the moment, for the sun was rising warm and clear and the valley was as peaceful and as beautiful as a park.

  Mrs. Adams readily agreed to stay, for she was wholly free from the ordinary timidities of women, but Ward, though sorely tempted, replied:

  "No. We'll wait a day or two longer and see how you come on."

  At this point one of the guides spoke up, saying: "If the women would be more comfortable in a cabin, there's one down here in the brush by the lake. I found it this morning when I was wranglin' the horses."

  "A cabin! In this wild place?" said Alice.

  "Yes, ma'am—must be a ranger's cabin."

  Ward mused. "If it's habitable it would be warmer and safer than a tent. Let's go see about it."

  He came back jubilant. "It doesn't seem to have been occupied very recently, but is in fair shape. We'll move you right down there."

  The wounded girl welcomed the shelter of a roof, and it was good to feel solid logs about her helpless self. The interior of the hut was untidy and very rude, but it stood in a delightful nook on the bank of a pond just where a small stream fell into the valley, and it required but a few minutes of Mrs. Adams's efforts to clear the place out and make it cozy, and soon Alice, groaning faintly, was deposited in the rough pole bunk at the dark end of the room. What an inglorious end to her exalted ride!

  Ward seemed to understand her tears as he stood looking down upon her, but he only said: "I dislike leaving you, even for the day. I shall give up my trip."

  "No, no! you must go on!" she cried out. "I shall hate myself if you don't go on."

  He reluctantly yielded to her demand, but said: "If I find that we can't get back to-morrow I will send Gage back. He's a trusty fellow. I can't spare Adams, and Smith and Todd—as you know—are paying for their trip."

  Mrs. Adams spoke up firmly. "You need not worry about us. We can get along very well without anybody. If you climb the peak you'll need Gage. I'm not afraid. We're the only people in this valley, and with this staunch little cabin I feel perfectly at home."

  "That's quite true," replied Ward in a relieved tone. "We are above the hunters—no one ever crosses here now. But it will be lonely."

&nb
sp; "Not at all!" Alice assured him. "We shall enjoy being alone in the forest."

  With slow and hesitating feet Ward left the two women and swung into his saddle. "I guess I'll send Gage back, anyhow," he said.

  "Don't think of it!" called Peggy.

  As a matter of fact, Alice was glad to have the men pull out. Their pity, their reproach, irritated her. It was as if they repeated aloud a scornful phrase—"You're a lovely and tempting creature, but you're a fool-hen just the same."

  The two women spent the day peacefully, save now and then when Alice's wounded foot ached and needed care; but as night began to rise in the cañon like the smoke of some hidden, silent, subterranean fire, and the high crags glowed in the last rays of the sun, each of them acknowledged a touch of that immemorial awe of the darkness with which the race began.

  Peggy, seating herself in the doorway, described the scene to her patient, who could see but little of it. "Oh, but it's gloriously uncanny to be here. Only think! We are now alone with God and His animals, and the night."

  "I hope none of God's bears is roaming about," replied Alice, flippantly.

  "There aren't any bears above the berries. We're perfectly safe. My soul! but it's a mighty country! I wish you could see the glow on the peaks."

  "I'm taking my punishment," replied Alice. "Freeman was very angry, wasn't he?"

  "If it breaks off the match I won't be surprised," replied Peggy, with resigned intonation.

  "There wasn't any match to break off."

  "Well!" replied the other, and as she slowly rose she added: "I won't say that he is perfectly distracted about you, but I do know that he thinks more of you than of any other woman in the world, and I've no doubt he is worrying about you this minute."

  II

  It was deep moonless night when Alice woke with a start. For a few moments she lay wondering what had roused her—then a bright light flashed and her companion screamed.

  "Who's there!" demanded the girl.

  In that instant flare she saw a man's face, young, smooth, with dark eyes gleaming beneath a broad hat. He stood like a figure of bronze while his match was burning, then exclaimed in breathless wonder:

  "Great Peter's ghost! a woman!" Finally he stepped forward and looked down upon the white, scared faces as if uncertain of his senses. "Two of them!" he whispered. As he struck his second match he gently asked: "Would you mind saying how you got here?"

  Alice spoke first. "We came up with a geological survey. I got hurt and they had to leave us behind."

  "Where's your party gone?"

  "Up to the glaciers."

  "When did they leave?"

  "Yesterday morning."

  "When do you expect them back?"

  "Not for two or three days."

  He seemed to ponder a moment. "You say you're hurt? Where?"

  "My horse slipped and fell on my foot."

  "Wait a minute," he commanded. "I'll rustle a candle. I left one here."

  When his form came out of the dark blur behind his candle Alice perceived that he was no ordinary hunter. He was young, alert, and very good-looking, although his face was stern and his mouth bitter. He laid aside his hat as he approached the bunk in which the two women were cowering as mice tremble before a cat. For a full minute he looked down at them, but at last he smiled and said, in a jocular tone:

  "You're sure-enough women, I can see that. You'll excuse me—but when a man comes back to a shack in the middle of the night in a place like this and finds a couple of women in a bunk he's likely to think he's seeing pictures in his sleep."

  "I can understand that," Alice returned, recovering her self-command. "You're the ranger, I suppose? I told my friend here that you might return."

  "I'm mighty glad I did," he said, heartily.

  "Thank you; you're very kind."

  He bent a keen glare upon her. "What's your name?"

  "Alice Mansfield."

  "What's your friend's name?"

  "Mrs. Adams."

  "Are you a missis, too?"

  She hesitated. This was impertinent, but then she herself was an intrusive guest. "No," she answered, "I am not married."

  "Where are you from?"

  "New York City."

  "You're a long way from home."

  "Yes, I'm feeling that this minute." She drew the coverlet a little closer to her chin.

  He quickly read this sign. "You needn't be afraid of me."

  "I'm not."

  "Yes, you are. You're both all of a tremble and white as two sheep—"

  "It isn't that," wailed the girl; "but I've twisted my foot again." Her moan of pain broke the spell that bound Peggy.

  "Would you leave, please, for a moment?" she called to the owner of the cabin. "I've got to get up and doctor my patient."

  "Sure!" he exclaimed, moving toward the door. "If I can do anything let me know."

  As soon as her patient's aching foot was eased Peggy opened the door and peeped out. A faint flare of yellow had come into the east, and beside the fire, rolled in his blanket, the ranger was sleeping. Frost covered everything and the air was keen.

  "He's out there on the cold ground—with only one blanket."

  "What a shame! Tell him to come inside—I'm not afraid of him."

  "Neither am I—but I don't believe he'll come. It's 'most morning, anyway—perhaps I'd better not disturb him."

  "Take one of these quilts to him—that will help some."

  Mrs. Adams lifted one of the coverlets and, stealing softly up, was spreading it over the sleeper when he woke with a start, a wild glare of alarm in his eyes.

  "Oh, it's you!" he said in relief. Then he added, as he felt the extra cover: "That's mighty white of you. Sure you don't need it?"

  "We can spare it. But won't you come inside? I'm sorry we drove you out of your cabin."

  "That's all right. I'm used to this. Good night. I'm just about dead for sleep."

  Thus dismissed, Peggy went back and lay down beside Alice. "He says he's quite comfortable," she remarked, "and I hope he is, but he doesn't look it."

  When she woke again it was broad daylight and Alice was turning restlessly on her hard bed. In the blaze of the sun all the mystery of the night vanished. The incident of the return of the ranger to his cabin was as natural as the coming of dawn.

  "He probably makes regular trips through here," said Mrs. Adams.

  But the wounded girl silently differed, for she had read in the man's eyes and voice a great deal more than belonged to the commonplace character of a forest-ranger. That first vision of his face burned deep.

  She had seen on the wall of the station at "the road" the description of a train-robber which tallied closely with this man's general appearance, and the conviction that she was living in the hidden hut of an outlaw grew into a certainty. "I must not let him suspect my discovery," she thought.

  Mrs. Adams (who had not read the placard) treated the young fellow as if he were one of the forest wardens, manifesting complete confidence in him.

  He deftly helped her about breakfast, and when she invited him into the cabin he came readily, almost eagerly, but he approached Alice's bed with a touch of hesitation, and his glance was softer and his voice gentler as he said:

  "Well, how do you stack up this morning?"

  "Much better, thank you."

  "Must have been a jolt—my coming in last night the way I did?"

  "I guess the 'jolt' was mutual. You looked surprised."

  He smiled again, a faint, swift half-smile. "Surprised! That's no name for it. For a minute I thought I'd fallen clear through. I hope you didn't get a back-set on account of it."

  "Oh no, thank you."

  "How many men are in your party?"

  "Six, counting the guides."

  "Who are the men?"

  She named them, and he mused darkly, his eyes on her face. "I reckon I can't wait to make their acquaintance. I'm going on down the Green River to-day. I'm sorry to miss 'em. They must be a nice bun
ch—to leave two women alone this way."

  He ate heartily, but with a nicety which betrayed better training than is usual to men in his position. He remained silent and in deep thought, though his eyes were often on Alice's face.

  As he rose to go he said to Peggy: "Would you mind doing up a little grub for me? I don't know just when I'll strike another camp."

  "Why, of course! I'll be glad to. Do you have to go?"

  "Yes, I must pull out," he replied, and while she was preparing his lunch he rolled a blanket and tied it behind his saddle. At last he re-entered the cabin and, again advancing to Alice's bedside, musingly remarked: "I hate to leave you women here alone. It doesn't seem right. Are you sure your party will return to-night?"

  "Either to-night or to-morrow. Professor Ward intends to climb Frémont Peak."

  "Then you won't see him for three days." His tone was that of one who communes with himself. "I reckon I'd better stay till to-morrow. I don't like the feeling of the air."

  She explained that Gage, one of the guides, would return in case the professor wished to remain in the heights.

  "Well, I'll hang around till toward night, anyhow."

  He went away for half an hour, and upon his return presented a cleanly shaven face and a much less savage look and bearing. He hovered about the door, apparently listening to Peggy's chatter, but having eyes only for the wounded girl. He seized every slightest excuse to come in, and his voice softened and his manner changed quite as markedly, and at last, while Mrs. Adams was momentarily absent, he abruptly said:

  "You are afraid of me; I can see it in your eyes. I know why. You think you know who I am."

  "Yes; I'm sure of it."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "I saw your picture in the railway station."

  He regarded her darkly. "Well, I trust you. You won't give me away. I'm not so sure of her." He nodded his head toward the open door.

  "What would be the good of my betraying you?"

  "Two thousand dollars' reward is a big temptation."

  "Nonsense! If I told—it would be for other reasons. If I were to betray your hiding-place it would be because society demands the punishment of criminals."