CHAPTER VI.
TSOLO--TSOLO!
The retracing of steps, either figuratively or literally, is alwaysprovocative of thought to the individual who walks again over the oldpaths; the waning of a moon never finds the same state of feelings inthe heart that had throbbed through it under the gold sickle. Back overhow many a road do we walk with a sigh, remembering the laughter thathad once echoed along it! Something has been gained, something has beenlost, since; and a human sigh is as likely to be called forth by onecause as the other.
Miss Rachel Hardy, who usually laughed at sighs of sentiment, did notindulge in them as one by one the landmarks of the past three weeks rosein sight. But different natures find different vents for feeling, andshe may have got rid of hers by the long gallops she took alone over thenow known trail, priding herself on her ability to find her way milesahead of the slower-moving party; and resting herself and horse in someremembered retreat, would await their coming.
Through these solitary rides she began to understand the fascinationsuch a free, untrammeled existence would have for a man. One must feel avery Adam in the midst of this virginity of soil and life of the hills.She had not Tillie's domestic ideas of life, else the thought of an Evemight also have occurred to her. But though she wasted no breath insighs over the retraced cultus corrie, neither did she in the mockerythat had tantalized Clara in the beginning. That lady did not find herself-imposed duty of chaperon nearly so arduous as at first, since, fromthe time the other ladies awakened to the fact that their guide had agood baritone voice and could be interesting, the girl forgot her roleof champion, also her study of mongrel languages; for she dropped thatready use of Chinook of which she had been proud, especially in herconversation with him, and only used it if chance threw her in the wayof Indians hunting or gathering olallie (berries) in the hills.
Genesee never noticed by word or action the changed manner that droppedhim out of her knowledge. Once or twice, in crossing a bit of countrythat was in any way dangerous to a stranger, he had said no one mustleave the party or go out of hearing distance; and though the order wasa general one, they all knew he meant Rachel, and the ladies wondered alittle if that generally headstrong damsel would heed it, or if shewould want willfully to take the bit in her teeth and go as shepleased--a habit of hers; but she did not; she rode demurely with therest, showing the respect of a soldier to the orders of a commander.Along the last bit of bad country he spoke to her of the enforced carethrough the jungle of underbrush, where the chetwoot (black bear) waslikely to be met and prove a dangerous enemy, at places where the trailled along the edge of ravines, and where a fright to a horse was a riskything.
"It's hard on you, Miss, to be kept back here with the rest of us," hesaid, half apologetically; "you're too used to riding free for this tobe any pleasure, but--"
"Don't distress yourself about me," she answered easily, but withoutlooking at him. "I have felt a little lazy to-day, so has Betty, andhave been satisfied to loaf; but now we are at the edge of this badstrip, and just down over this bend ahead is a long stretch of level,and I think--yes, I am quite sure--I am ready now for a run."
And without waiting to hear either assent or dissent to her intention,she touched Betty with the whip, and Mowitza and her master were leftbehind, much to Mowitza's dissatisfaction. She gave one plunge ahead asif to follow, but Genesee's hand on the bridle had a quick, cruel gripfor a moment, and in slow silence they made their way down the timberedslope to the lower levels. The girl, free from companionship save herown thoughts, galloped through the odorous, shadowy table-lands,catching here and there a glimpse of glistening water in a river ahead,as it trailed its length far below the plateaus, and shone like linkeddiamonds away toward the east.
She remembered the river; it was a branch of the Kootenai. To be near itmeant but a short journey home; two days more, perhaps, and then--well,their outing would be over. She would go back East, and say good-bye toBetty; and then she began to think of that man who belonged to thesehills and who never need leave them--never need go a mile without hishorse, if he did not choose; and she envied him as she could not havethought it possible to do six months before--to envy a man such aprimitive existence, such simple possessions! But most human wants areso much a matter of association, and Rachel Hardy, though allunconscious of it, was most impressionable to surroundings. Back of hercoolness and carelessness was a sensitive temperament in which thepulses were never stilled. It thrilled her with quick sympathies forwhich she was vexed with herself, and which she hid as well as shecould. She had more than likely never tried to analyze her emotions;they were seldom satisfactory enough for her to grant them so muchpatience; but had she done so, she would have found her desires moldedas much by association and sentiment as most other human nature of herage.
Once or twice she looked back as she left the timber, but could seenothing of the others, and Betty seemed to scent the trail home, andlong for the ranch and the white-coated flocks of the pastures, for shestruck out over the table-lands, where her hoofs fell so softly in thegrass that the wild things of the ground-homes and the birds that reston the warm earth scampered and flew from under the enemy's feet thatwere shod with iron. A small herd of elk with uncouth heads andmonstrous antlers were startled from the shelter of a knoll around whichshe cantered; for a moment the natives and the stranger gazed at eachother with equal interest, and then a great buck plunged away over therolling land to the south, and the others followed as if they had beengiven a word of command.
The girl watched them out of sight, finding them, like the most ofMontana natives, strange and interesting--not only the natives, but thevery atmosphere of existence, with its tinges of wildness and coloringof the earth; even the rising and setting of the sun had a distinctcharacter of its own, in the rarefied air of this land that seemed sofar off from all else in the world. For in the valley of the Kootenai,where the light breaks over the mountains of the east and vanishes againover the mountains of the west, it is hard at times to realize that itsglory is for any land but the mellow, sun-kissed "park" whose only gatesopen to the south.
The late afternoon was coming on; only an hour or so of sun, and thenthe long flush twilight.
Remembering the camping-spot they were making for, she gave Betty rein,thinking to reach it and have a fire built on their arrival, and herhard ride gave her a longing for the sight of the pack-mules with theeatables.
Another of those ugly, jolting bits of scrub-timber had to be crossedbefore the haven of rest was reached. Betty had almost picked her waythrough it, when a huge black something came scrambling down through thebrush almost in front of them. The little mare shied in terror, and thegirl tried to make a circuit of the animal, which she could see was anenormous black bear. It did not seem to notice her, but was rolling andpitching downward as if on a trail--no doubt that of honey in a tree.Managing Betty was not an easy matter, and it took all of the girl'sstrength to do so until the black stranger passed, and then, onloosening the bridle, the terrified beast gave a leap forward. There wasa crash, a growl from under her feet, and an answering one from the hugebeast that had just gone by them; she had been followed by two cubs thathad escaped Rachel's notice in the thick brush, as all her attention hadbeen given to the mother; but Betty's feet coming down on one of thecubs had brought forth a call that the girl knew might mean a war ofextermination. With a sharp cut of the whip, Betty, wild from theclawing thing at her feet, sprang forward over it with a snort ofterror, just as the mother with fierce growls broke through the brush.
At a sharp cut of the whip, Betty sprang forward]
Once clear of them, the little mare ran like mad through the rough trailover which she had picked her way so carefully but a little before.Stones and loose earth clattered down the gully, loosened by her flyingfeet, and dashed ominously in the mountain stream far below. The girlwas almost torn from the saddle by the low branches of the trees underwhich she was borne. In vain she tried to check or moderate the mare'sgait. She could do lit
tle but drop low on the saddle and hang there,wondering if she should be able to keep her seat until they got clear ofthe timber. The swish of some twigs across her eyes half blinded her,and it seemed like an hour went by with Betty crashing through thebrush, guiding herself, and seeming to lose none of her fright. Her earswere deaf to the girl's voice, and at last, stumbling in her headlongrun, her rider was thrown against a tree, knowing nothing after thesickening jar, and seeing nothing of Betty, who, freed from her burden,recovered her footing, and, triumphant, dashed away on a cultus"coolie" (run) of her own.
When Rachel recovered her powers of reasoning, she felt too lazy, tootired to use them. She ached all over from the force of the fall, andthough realizing that the sun was almost down, and that she was alonethere in the timber, all she felt like doing was to drag herself into amore comfortable position and go to sleep; but real sleep did not comeeasily--only a drowsy stupor, through which she realized she was hungry,and wondered if the rest were eating supper by that time, and if theyhad found Betty, and if--no, rather, when would they find her?
She had no doubt just yet that they would find her; she could halfimagine how carefully and quickly Mowitza would cover the ground afterthey missed her. Of course there were other horses in the party, butMowitza was the only one she happened to think of. She did not knowwhere she was; the mare had struck into a new trail for herself, and haddropped her rider on a timbered slope of one of the foot-hills, wherethere were no remembered landmarks, and the closeness of night wouldprevent her from seeking them.
Twice she roused herself and tried to walk, but she was dizzily sickfrom the wild ride and the fall that had stunned her, and both times shewas compelled to drop back on her couch of grass. The stars began tocreep out in the clear, warm sky, and up through the timber the shadowsgrew black, and it all seemed very peaceful and very lovely. She thoughtshe would not mind sleeping there if she only had a blanket, and--yes,some hot coffee--for through the shadows of the lower hills the dewfalls quickly, and already the coolness made itself felt with a littleshiver. She searched her pocket for some matches--not a match, thereforeno fire.
A sound in the distance diverted her thoughts from disappointment, andshe strained her ears for a repetition of it. Surely it was a shot, buttoo far off for any call of hers to answer it. She could do nothing butlisten and wait, and the waiting grew long, so long that she concludedit could be no one on her trail--perhaps some of the Indians in thehills. She would be glad to see even them, she thought, for all she methad seemed kindly disposed.
Then she fell to wondering about that half-breed girl who had hid backof the ponies; was it Genesee she was afraid of, and if so, why?
Suddenly a light gleamed through the woods above her; a bent figure wascoming down the hill carrying a torch, and back of it a horse wasfollowing slowly.
"Genesee!" called a glad voice through the dusk. "Genesee!"
There was no word in answer; only the form straightened, and with thetorch held high above his head he plunged down through the trees,straight as an arrow, in answer to her voice.
She had risen to her feet, but swayed unsteadily as she went to meethim.
"I am so glad--it--is--you," she said, her hands outstretched as he cameclose. And then that returning dizziness sent her staggering forward,half on her knees and half in his arms, as he threw the torch from himand caught her.
She did not faint, though the only thing she was still conscious of wasthat she was held in strong arms, and held very closely, and the beat ofa heart that was not her own throbbed against her rather nerveless form.He had not yet spoken a word, but his breath coming quickly, brokenly,told of great exhaustion, or it may be excitement.
Opening her eyes, she looked up into the face that had a strangeexpression in the red light from the torch--his eyes seemed searchingher own so curiously.
"I--I'm all right," she half smiled in answer to what she thought anunspoken query, "only"--and a wave of forgetfulness crept over theestrangement of the late days--and she added--"only--Hyas till nika"(I am very tired).
Her eyes were half closed in the content of being found, and the safetyof his presence. She had not changed her position or noticed that he hadnot spoken. His hat had fallen to the ground, and something almostboyish was in the bend of his bared head and the softness of hisfeatures as his face drooped low over her own. Death brings back thecurves of youth to aged faces sometimes--is it the only change that doesso?
She felt the hand on her shoulder trembling; was it with her weight--andhe so strong? A muttered sentence came to her ears, through which shecould only distinguish a word that in its suppressed force might belongto either a curse or a prayer--an intense "Christ!"
That aroused her to a realization of what she had been too contented toremember. She opened her eyes and raised her head from his arm, brushinghis lips with her hair as she did so.
"Were you so much alarmed?" she asked in a clearer, more matter-of-factway, as she propped herself up on his outstretched arm; "and did youcome alone to find me?"
He drew back from her with a long, indrawn breath, and reached for hishat.
"Yes," he said.
It was the first time he had spoken to her, and he did so with his eyesstill on her face and that curious expression in them. He was halfkneeling, his body drawn back and away from her, but his eyes unchangingin their steadiness. As the girl lay there full length on the mountaingrass, only her head raised and turned toward him, she might have been aLamia from their attitudes and his expression.
"It seemed long to wait," she continued, turning her eyes towardMowitza, who had quietly come near them; "but I was not afraid. I knewyou would find me. I would have walked back to meet you if the fall hadnot made me so dizzy. I am decidedly wake kloshe" (no good); and shesmiled as she reached out her hand to him, and he helped her rise to herfeet. "I feel all jolted to pieces," she said, taking a few steps towarda tree against which she leaned. "And even now that you have come, Idon't know how I am to get to camp."
"I will get you there," he answered briefly. "Did the mare throw you?"
"I am not sure what she did," answered the girl. "She fell, I think, andI fell with her, and when I could see trees instead of stars she hadrecovered and disappeared. Oh! Did you see the bear?"
"Yes, and shot her. She might have killed you when her temper was upover that cub. How did it happen?"
Each of them was a little easier in speech than at first, and she toldhim as well as she could of the episode, and her own inability to checkBetty. And he told her of the fright of the others, and their anxiety,and that he had sent them straight ahead to camp, while he struck intothe timber where Betty had left the old trail.
"I promised them to have word of you soon," he added; "and I reckonthey'll be mighty glad you can take the word yourself--it's more thanthey expected. She might have killed you."
His tone and repetition of the words showed the fear that had beenuppermost in his thoughts.
"Yes--she might," agreed the girl. "That is a lesson to me for mywillfulness;" and then she smiled mockingly with a gleam of her oldhumor, adding: "And so in the future, for the sake of my neck and thesafety of my bones, I will be most obedient to orders, Mr. GeneseeJack."
He only looked at her across the flickering circle of light from thetorch. It must have dazzled his eyes, for in putting on his hat hepulled it rather low over his forehead, and turning his back abruptly onher he walked over for Mowitza.
But he did not bring her at once. He stood with his elbows on hershoulders and his head bent over his clasped hands, like a man who isthinking--or else very tired.
Rachel had again slipped down beside the tree; her head still seemed tospin around a little if she stood long; and from that point of vantageshe could easily distinguish the immovable form in the shifting lightsand shadows.
"What is the matter with the man?" she asked herself as he stood there."He was glad to find me--I know it; and why he should deliberately turnhis back and walk away like that,
I can't see. But he shan't be cool orsulky with me ever again; I won't let him."
And with this determination she said:
"Genesee!"
"Yes," he answered, but did not move.
"Now that you have found me, are you going to leave me here all night?"she asked demurely.
"No, Miss," he answered, and laid his hand on the bridle. "Come,Mowitza, we must take her to camp;" and striding back with quick,decided movements that were rather foreign to his manner, he said:
"Here she is, Miss; can you ride on that saddle?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. I--I--suppose so; but how are you to getthere?"
"Walk," he answered concisely.
"Why, how far is it?"
"About five miles--straight across."
"Can we go straight across?"
"No."
She looked up at him and laughed, half vexed.
"Mr. Genesee Jack," she remarked, "you can be one of the mostaggravatingly non-committal men I ever met. It has grown as dark as astack of black cats, and I know we must have an ugly trip to make withonly one horse between us. Do you suppose I have no natural curiosity asto how we are to get there, and when? Don't be such a lock-and-keyindividual. I can't believe it is natural to you. It is an acquiredhabit, and hides your real self often."
"And a good thing it does, I reckon," he returned; "locks and keys aregood things to have, Miss; don't quarrel with mine or my ways to-night;wait till I leave you safe with your folks, then you can find fault orlaugh, whichever you please. It won't matter then."
His queer tone kept her from answering at once, and she sat still,watching him adjust the stirrup, and then make a new torch of pinesplits and knots.
"What do you call a torch in Chinook?" she asked after a little,venturing on the supposed safe ground of jargon.
"La gome towagh," he answered, splitting a withe to bind themtogether, and using a murderous looking hunting-knife on which the lightglimmered and fretted.
"And a knife?" she added.
"Opitsah."
She looked up at him quickly. "Opitsah means sweetheart," shereturned; "I know that much myself. Are you not getting a little mixed,Professor?"
"I think not," he said, glancing across at her; "the same word is usedfor both; and," he added, thrusting the knife in its sheath and risingto his feet, "I reckon the men who started the jargon knew what theywere talking about, too. Come, are you ready?"
Assuredly, though he had hunted for her, and been glad to find heralive, yet now that he had found her he had no fancy for conversation,and he showed a decided inclination to put a damper on her attempts atit. He lifted her to the saddle, and walking at Mowitza's head, theystarted on their home journey through the night.
"The moon will be up soon," he remarked, glancing up at the sky. "Weonly need a torch for the gulch down below there."
She did not answer; the movement of the saddle brought back thedizziness to her head--all the glare of the torch was a blur before her.She closed her eyes, thinking it would pass away, but it did not, andshe wondered why he stalked on like that, just as if he did not care,never once looking toward her or noticing how she was dropping forwardalmost on Mowitza's neck. Then, as they descended a steep bit of hill,she became too much lost to her surroundings for even that speculation,and could only say slowly:
"Tsolo, Genesee?"
"No," he answered grimly, "not now."
But she knew or heard nothing of the tone that implied more than itexpressed. She could only reach gropingly toward him with one hand, asif to save herself from falling from the saddle. Only her finger-tipstouched his shoulder--it might have been a drooping branch out of themany under which they went, for all the weight of it; but grim andunresponsive as he was in some ways, he turned, through some quicksympathy at the touch of her hand, and caught her arm as she was aboutto fall forward. In an instant she was lifted from the saddle to herfeet, and his face was as white as hers as he looked at her.
"Dead!" he said, in a quiet sort of way, as her hand dropped nervelessfrom his own, and he lifted her in his arms, watching for some show oflife in the closed lids and parted lips. And then with a great shiveringbreath, he drew the still face to his own, and in a half-motherly waysmoothed back the fair hair as if she had been a child, whispering overand over: "Not dead, my pretty! not you, my girl! Here, open your eyes;listen to me; don't leave me like this until I tell you--tell you--God!I wish I was dead beside you! Ah, my girl! my girl!"
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 7