CHAPTER VIII.
THE STORM--AND AFTER.
Olapitski yahka ships.
Two weeks later storm-clouds were flying low over the Kootenai hills andchasing shadows over the faces of two equestrians who looked at eachother in comic dismay.
"Jim, we are lost!" stated the one briefly.
"I allow we are, Miss Hardy," answered the other, a boy of aboutfifteen, who gazed rather dubiously back over the way they had come andahead where a half-blind trail led up along the mountain.
"Suppose we pitch pennies to see what direction to take," suggested thegirl; but the boy only laughed.
"Haven't much time for that, Miss," he answered. "Look how them cloudsis crowdin' us; we've got to hunt cover or get soaked. This trail goessomewhere; may be to an Injun village. I allow we'd better freeze toit."
"All right. We'll allow that we had," agreed Miss Hardy. "Betty, getaround here, and get up this hill! I know every step is taking usfarther from the ranch, but this seems the only direction in which atrail leads. Jim, how far do you suppose we are from home?"
"'Bout fifteen miles, I guess," said the boy, looking blue.
"And we haven't found the lost sheep?"
"No, we haven't."
"And we have got lost?"
"Yes."
"Jim, I don't believe we are a howling success as sheep farmers."
"I don't care a darn about the sheep just now," declared Jim. "What Iwant to know is where we are to sleep to-night."
"Oh, you want too much," she answered briskly; "I am content to sit upall night, if I only can find a dry place to stay in--do you hear that?"as the thunder that had grumbled in the distance now sounded its threatsclose above them.
"Yes, I hear it, and it means business, too. I wish we were at the endof this trail," he said, urging his horse up through the scrubby growthof laurel.
The darkness was falling so quickly that it was not an easy matter tokeep the trail; and the wind hissing through the trees made an openspace a thing to wish for. Jim, who was ahead, gave a shout as hereached the summit of the hill where the trail crossed it.
"We're right!" he yelled that she might hear his voice above the thunderand the wind; "there's some sort of a shanty across there by a big pond;it's half a mile away, an' the rain's a-comin'--come on!"
And on they went in a wild run to keep ahead of the rain-cloud that waspelting its load at them with the force of hail. The girl had caught aglimpse of the white sheen of a lake or pond ahead of them; the shantyshe did not wait to pick out from the gloom, but followed blindly afterJim, at a breakneck gait, until they both brought up short, in theshadow of a cabin in the edge of the timber above the lake.
"Jump off quick and in with you" called Jim; and without the ceremony ofknocking, she pushed open the door and dived into the interior.
It was almost as dark as night. She stumbled around until she found asort of bed in one corner, and sat down on it, breathless and wet. Therain was coming down in torrents, and directly Jim, with the saddles inhis arms, came plunging in, shaking himself like a water-spaniel.
"Great guns! But it's comin' down solid," he gasped; "where are you?"
"Here--I've found a bed, so somebody lives here. Have you any matches?"
"I allow I have," answered Jim, "if they only ain't wet--no, by George,they're all right."
The brief blaze of the match showed him the fire-place and a pile ofwood beside it, and a great osier basket of broken bark. "Say, MissHardy, we've struck great luck," he announced while on his knees,quickly starting a fire and fanning it into a blaze with his hat; "Iwonder who lives here and where they are. Stickin' to that old trail wasa pay streak--hey?"
In the blaze of the fire the room assumed quite a respectableappearance. It was not a shanty, as Jim had at first supposed, but asubstantial log-cabin, furnished in a way to show constant and recentoccupation.
A table made like a wide shelf jutted from the wall under the one squarewindow; a bed and two chairs that bespoke home manufacture were coveredby bear-skins; on the floor beside the bed was a buffalo-robe; and alarge locked chest stood against the wall. Beside the fire-place was acupboard with cooking and table utensils, and around the walls hungtrophies of the hunt. A bow and quiver of arrows and a knotted silkensash hung on one wooden peg, and added to a pair of moccasins in thecorner, gave an Indian suggestion to the occupancy of the cabin, but thefurnishing in general was decidedly that of a white person; to therafters were fastened some beaver-paws and bear-claws, and the skins ofthree rattlesnakes were pendent against the wall.
"Well, this is a queer go! ain't it?" remarked Jim as he walked aroundtaking a survey of the room. "I'd like to know who it all belongs to.Did you ever hear folks about here speak of old Davy MacDougall?"
"Yes, I have," answered the girl, sitting down on the buffalo-robebefore the fire, to dry her shoulders at the blaze.
"Well, I believe this is his cabin, and we are about ten mile fromhome," decided the boy. "I didn't think we'd strayed as far north asScot's Mountain, but I allow this is it."
"Well, I wish he would come home and get supper," said the girl, easilyadapting herself to any groove into which she happened to fall; "butperhaps we should have sent him word of our visit. What did you do withthe horses, Jim?"
"Put 'em in a shed at the end o' the house--a bang-up place, right onthe other side o' this fire-place. Whoever lives here keeps either ahorse or a cow."
"I hope it's a cow, and that there's some milk to be had. Jimmy, Iwonder if there is anything to eat in that cupboard."
"I've been thinkin' o' that myself," said Jim in answer to thatinsinuating speech.
"Suppose you do something besides think--suppose you look," suggestedthe more unscrupulous of the foragers; "I'm hungry."
"So am I," acknowledged her confederate; "you an' me is most alike aboutour eatin', ain't we? Mrs. Houghton said yesterday I had a terribleappetite."
The boy at once began making an examination of the larder, wondering, ashe did so, what the girl was laughing at.
The rain was coming down in torrents through the blackness of the night;now and then the lightning would vie with the fire in lighting up theroom, while the thunder seemed at home in that valley of the mountain,for its volleys of sound and their echoes never ceased.
Small wonder that anyone's house would seem a home to the two, or thatthey would have no compunction in taking possession of it.
"There's coffee here somewhere, I can smell it," announced Jim; "an'here's rice an' crackers, an' corn-meal, an' dried raspberries, an'potatoes, an'--yes, here's the coffee! Say, Miss Hardy, we'll have aregular feast!"
"I should say so!" remarked that lady, eyeing Jim's "find" approvingly;"I think there is a bed of coals here at this side of the fire-placethat will just fit about six of those potatoes--can you eat three, Jim?"
"Three will do if they're big enough," said Jim, looking dubiously atthe potatoes; "but these ain't as good-sized as some I've seen."
"Then give me two more; that makes five for you and three for me."
"Hadn't you better shove in a couple more?" asked Jim with a dash ofliberality. "You know MacDougall may come back hungry, an' then we canspare him two--that makes ten to roast."
"Ten it is!" said the girl, burying two more in the ashes as the shareof their host. "Jim, see if there is any water in here to make coffeewith."
"Yes, a big jar full," reported the steward; "an' here is a little crockhalf full of eggs--prairie-chicken, I guess--say, can you make a pone?"
"I think I can;" and the cook at once rolled up the sleeves of herriding-dress, and Jimmy brought out the eggs and some bits of saltmeat--evidently bear-meat--that was hung from the ceiling of thecupboard; at once there began a great beating of eggs and stirring up ofa corn pone; some berries were set on the coals to stew in a tin-cup,the water put to boil for the coffee, and an iron skillet with a lidutilized as an oven; and the fragrance of the preparing eatables filledthe little room and prompted the hungry
lifting of lids many times erethe fire had time to do its work.
"That pone's a 'dandy!'" said Jim, taking a peep at it; "it's gettin' asbrown as--as your hair; an' them berries is done, an' ain't it time toput in the coffee?"
Acting on this hint, the coffee, beaten into a froth with an egg, hadthe boiling water poured over it, and set bubbling and aromatic on thered coals.
"You mayn't be much use to find strayed-off stock," said Jimdeliberately, with his head on one side, as he watched the apparent easewith which the girl managed her primitive cooking apparatus; "but I tellyou--you ain't no slouch when it comes to gettin' grub ready, andgettin' it quick."
"Better keep your compliments until you have tried to eat some of thecooking," suggested Miss Hardy, on her knees before the fire. "I believethe pone is done."
"Then we'll dish-up in double-quick," said Jim, handing her two tin pansfor the pone and potatoes. "We'll have to set the berries on in thetin--by George! what's that?"
"That" was the neigh of Betty in the shed by the chimney, and ananswering one from somewhere out in the darkness. Through the thunderand the rain they had heard no steps, but Jim's eyes were big withsuspense as he listened.
"My horse has broke loose from the shed," he said angrily, reaching forhis hat; "and how the dickens I'm to find him in this storm I don'tknow."
"Don't be so quick to give yourself a shower-bath," suggested the girlon the floor; "he won't stray far off, and may be glad to come back tothe shed; and then again," she added, laughing, "it may be MacDougall."
Jim looked rather blankly at the supper on the hearth and the girl whoseemed so much at home on the buffalo-robe.
"By George! it might be," he said slowly; and for the first time theresponsibility of their confiscations loomed up before him. "Say," headded uneasily, "have you any money?"
"Money?" she repeated inquiringly; and then seeing the drift of histhoughts, "Oh, no, I haven't a cent."
"They say MacDougall is an old crank," he insinuated, looking at her outof the corner of his eye, to see what effect the statement would have onher. But she only smiled in an indifferent way. "An'--an' ef he wantsthe money cash down for this lay-out"--and he glanced comprehensivelyover the hearth--"well, I don't know what to say."
"That's easily managed," said the girl coolly; "you can leave your horsein pawn."
"An' foot it home ten miles?--not if I know it!" burst out Jim; "an'besides it's Hardy's horse."
"Well, then, leave the saddle, and ride home bareback."
"I guess not!" protested Jim, with the same aggressive tone; "that's myown saddle."
After this unanswerable reason, there was an expectant silence in theroom for a little while, that was finally broken by Jim saying ruefully:
"If that is MacDougall, he'll have to have them two potatoes."
Rachel's risible tendencies were not proof against this final fear ofJim's, and her laughter drowned his grumblings, and also footstepswithout, of which neither heard a sound until the door was flung openand a man walked into the room.
Jim looked at him with surprised eyes, and managed to stammer, "How areyou?" for the man was so far from his idea of old Davy MacDougall thathe was staggered.
But Miss Hardy only looked up, laughing, from her position by the fire,and drew the coffee-pot from the coals with one hand, while she reachedthe other to the new-comer.
"Klahowya! Mr. Jack," she said easily; "got wet, didn't you? You arejust in time for supper."
"You!" was all he said; and Jim thought they were both crazy, from theway the man crossed the room to her and took her one hand in both his asif he never intended letting it go or saying another word, content onlyto hold her hand and look at her. And Miss Rachel Hardy's eyes were notidle either.
"Yes, of course it's I," she said, slipping her hand away after alittle, and dropping her face that had flushed pink in the fire-light;"I don't look like a ghost, do I? You would not find a ghost at suchprosaic work as getting supper."
"Getting supper?" he said, stepping back a bit and glancing around. Forthe first time he seemed to notice Jim, or have any remembrance ofanything but the girl herself. "You mean that you two have been gettingsupper alone?"
"Yes, Jim and I. Mr. Jack, this is my friend Jim, from the ranch. Wetried to guide each other after sheep, and both got lost; and as you didnot get here in time to cook supper, of course we had to do it alone."
"But I mean was there no one else here?"--he still looked a little dazedand perplexed, his eyes roving uneasily about the room--"I--a--a youngIndian--"
"No!" interrupted the girl eagerly. "Do you mean the Indian boy whobrought me that black bear's skin? I knew you had sent it, though hewould not say a word--looked at me as if he did not understand Chinookwhen I spoke."
"May be he didn't understand yours," remarked Jimmy, edging past her torake the potatoes out of the ashes.
"But he wasn't here when we came," continued Miss Hardy. "The house wasdeserted and in darkness when we found it, just as the storm came on inearnest."
"And the fire?" said Genesee.
"There was none," answered the boy. "The ashes were stone-cold. Inoticed it; so your Injun hadn't had any fire all day."
"All day!" repeated the man, going to the door and looking out. "Thatmeans a long tramp, and to-night--"
"And to-night is a bad one for a tramp back," added Jim.
"Yes," agreed Genesee, "that's what I was thinking."
If there was a breath of relief in the words, both were too occupiedwith the potatoes in the ashes to notice it. He shut the door directlyas the wind sent a gust of rain inside, and then turned again to thepirates at the fire-place.
"What did you find to cook?" he asked, glancing at the "lay-out," as Jimcalled it. "I haven't been here since yesterday, and am afraid youdidn't find much--any fresh meat?"
Miss Hardy shook her head.
"Salt meat and eggs, that's all," she said.
"Not by a long shot it ain't, Mr.--Mr Jack," said Jim, contradicting herflatly. "She's got a first-class supper; an' by George! she can makemore out o' nothin' than any woman I ever seen." In his enthusiasm overRachel he was unconscious of the slur on their host's larder. "I neverknowed she was such a rattlin' cook!"
"I know I have never been given credit for my everyday, wearingqualities," said the girl, without looking up from the eggs she wasscrambling in the bake-oven of a few minutes before. The words may havebeen to Jim, but by the man's eyes he evidently thought they were atGenesee--such a curious, pained look as that with which he watched herevery movement, every curve of form and feature, that shone in the lightof the fire. Once she saw the look, and her own eyes dropped under itfor a moment, but that independence of hers would not let it be forlong.
"Do you want a share of our supper?" she asked, looking up at himquizzically.
"Yes," he answered, but his steady, curious gaze at her showed that histhoughts were not of the question or answer.
Not so Jim. That young gentleman eyed dubiously first the lay-out andthen Genesee's physique, trying to arrive at a mental estimate of hiscapacity and the probable division of the pone and potatoes.
"How about that saddle, now, Jim?" asked the girl. Whereupon Jim began apantomime enjoining silence, back of the chair of the man, who appearedmore like a guest than host--perhaps because it was so hard to realizethat it was really his hearth where that girl sat as if at home. Shenoticed his preoccupation, and remarked dryly:
"You really don't deserve a share of our cooking after the way youdeserted us before!--not even a klahowya when you took the trail."
"You're right, I reckon; but don't you be the one to blame me for that,"he answered, in a tone that made the command a sort of plea; and MissHardy industriously gave her attention to the supper.
"It's all ready," announced Jim, as he juggled a pan of hot pone fromone hand to another on the way to the table. "Ouch! but it's hot! Say,wouldn't some fresh butter go great with this!"
"Didn't you find any?" asked Genese
e, waking to the practical things oflife at Jim's remark.
"Find any? No! Is there any?" asked that little gourmand, with hope anddoubt chasing each other over his rather thin face.
"I don't know--there ought to be;" and lifting a loose board in thefloor by the cupboard, he drew forth a closely-woven reed basket, and ona smooth stone in the bottom lay a large piece of yellow butter, aroundwhich Jim performed a sort of dance of adoration.
What a supper that was, in the light of the pitch-pine and the fierceaccompaniment of the outside tempest! Jim vowed that never were therepotatoes so near perfection, in their brown jackets and their steaming,powdery flakes; and the yellow pone, and the amber coffee, and the coolslices of butter that Genesee told them was from an Indian villagethirty miles north. And to the table were brought such tremendousappetites! at least by the cook and steward of the party. And above all,what a delicious atmosphere of unreality pervaded the whole thing! Againand again Genesee's eyes seemed to say, "Can it be you?" and grew warmas her quizzical glances told him it could be no one else.
As the night wore on, and the storm continued, he brought in armfuls ofwood from the shed without, and in the talk round the fire his mannergrew more assured--more at home with the surroundings that were yet hisown. Long they talked, until Jim, unable to think of any more questionsto ask of silver-mining and bear-hunting, slipped down in the corner,with his head on a saddle, and went fast asleep.
"I'll sit up and keep the fire going," said Genesee, at this sign of thelate hour; "but you had better get what rest you can on that bunkthere--you'll need it for your ride in the morning."
"In the morning!" repeated the girl coolly; "that sounds as if you aredetermined our visit shall end as soon as possible, Mr. Genesee Jack."
"Don't talk like that!" he said, looking across at her; "you don't knowanything about it." And getting up hastily, he walked back and forwardacross the room; once stopping suddenly, as if with some determinationto speak, and then, as she looked up at him, his courage seemed tovanish, and he turned his face away from her and walked to the door.
The storm had stilled its shrieks, and was dying away in misty moansdown the dip in the hills, taking the rain with it. The darkness wasintense as he held the door open and looked into the black vault, wherenot a glimmer of a star or even a gray cloud could be seen.
"It's much nicer in-doors," decided Miss Hardy, moving her chair againstthe chimney-piece, and propping herself there to rest.
"Jim had better lie on the bed, he is so sleepy, and I am not at all so;this chair is good enough for me, if you don't mind."
He picked the sleeping boy up without a word, and laid him on the couchof bear-skins without waking him.
"There isn't much I do mind," he said, as he came back to thefire-place; "that is, if you are only comfortable."
"I am--very much so," she answered, "and would be entirely so if youonly seemed a little more at home. As it is, I have felt all evening asif we are upsetting your peace of mind in some way--not as if we areunwelcome, mind you, but just as if you are worried about us."
"That so?" he queried, not looking at her; "that's curious. I didn'tknow I was looking so, and I'm sure you and the boy are mighty welcometo my cabin or anything in the world I can do for you."
There was no mistaking the heartiness of the man's words, and she smiledher gratitude from the niche in the corner, where, with her back towardthe blaze, only one side of her face was outlined by the light.
"Very well," she said amicably; "you can do something for me justnow--open the door for a little while; the room seems close with beingshut up so tight from the rain--and then make yourself comfortable thereon that buffalo-robe before the fire. I remember your lounging habits inthe camp, and a chair doesn't seem to quite suit you. Yes, that looksmuch better, as if you were at home again."
Stretched on the robe, with her saddle on which to prop up hisshoulders, he lay, looking in the red coals, as if forgetful of herspeech or herself. But at last he repeated her words:
"At home again! Do you know there's a big lot of meaning in those words,Miss, especially to a man who hasn't known what home meant for years?and to-night, with white people in my cabin and a white woman to makethings look natural, I tell you it makes me remember what home used tobe, in a way I have not experienced for many a day."
"Then I'm glad I strayed off into the storm and your cabin," said thegirl promptly; "because a man shouldn't forget his home and home-folks,especially if the memories would be good ones. People need all the goodmemories they can keep with them in this world; they're a sort ofsteering apparatus in a life-boat, and help a man make a straightjourney toward his future."
"That's so," he said, and put his hand up over his eyes as if to shieldthem from the heat of the fire. He was lying full in the light, whileshe was in the shadow. He could scarcely see her features, with her headdrawn back against the wall like that. And the very fact of knowingherself almost unseen--a voice, only, speaking to him--gave her courageto say things as she could not have said them at another time.
"Do you know," she said, as she sat there watching him with his eyescovered by his hand--"do you know that once or twice when we have beentogether I have wished I was a man, that I could say some things to youthat a woman or a girl--that is, most girls--can't say very well? One ofthe things is that I should be glad to hear of you getting out of thislife here; there is something wrong about it to you--something thatdoesn't suit you; I don't know what it is, but I can see you are not theman you might be--and ought to be. I've thought of it often since I sawyou last, and sometimes--yes--I've been sorry for my ugly manner towardyou. White people, when they meet in these out-of-the-way places in theworld, ought to be as so many brothers and sisters to each other; andthere were times, often, when I might have helped you to feel at homeamong us--when I might have been more kind."
"More kind? Good God!" whispered the man.
"And I made up my mind," continued the girl courageously, "that if Iever saw you again, I was going to speak plainly to you about yourselfand the dissatisfaction with yourself that you spoke of that day in thelaurel thicket. I don't know what the cause of it is, and I don't wantto, but if it is any wrong that you've done in--in the past, a bad wayto atone is by burying oneself alive, along with all energy andambition. Now, you may think me presuming to say these things to youlike this; but I've been wishing somebody would say them to you, andthere seems no one here to do it but me, and so--"
She stopped, not so much because she had finished as because she feltherself failing utterly in saying the things she had really intended tosay. It all sounded very flat and commonplace in her own ears--not atall the words to carry any influence to anyone, and so she stoppedhelplessly and looked at him.
"I'm glad it is you that says them," he answered, still without lookingat her, "because you've got the stuff in you for such a good, squarefriend to a man--the sort of woman a person could go to in trouble, evenif they hadn't the passport of a saint to take with them; and I wish--Iwish I could tell you to-night something of the things that you'vestarted on. If I could--" he stopped a moment.
"I suppose any other girl--" she began in a deprecating tone; but hedropped his hand from his eyes and looked at her.
"You're not like other girls," he said with a great fondness in hiseyes, "and that's just the reason I feel like telling you all. You'renot like any girl I've ever known. I've often felt like speaking to youas if you were a boy--an almighty aggravatin' slip of a boy sometimes;and yet--"
He lay silent for a little while, so long that the girl wondered if hehad forgotten what he was to try to tell her. The warmth after the rainhad made them neglect the fire, and its blaze had dropped low and lower,until she was entirely in the shadow--only across the hearth and hisform did the light fall.
"And yet," he continued, as if there had been no break in his speech,"there's been many a night I've dreamed of seeing you sit here by thisfire-place just as I've seen you to-night; just as bright like andcont
ented, as if all the roughness and poorness of it was nothing toyou, or else a big joke for you to make fun of; and then--well, at suchtimes you didn't seem like a boy, but--"
Again he stopped.
"Never mind what I'm like," suggested the girl; "that doesn't matter. Iguess everyone seems a different person with different people; but youwanted to tell me something of yourself, didn't you?"
"That's what I'm trying to get at," he answered, "but it isn't easy.I've got to go back so far to start at the beginning--back ten years, toreckon up mistakes. That's a big job, my girl--my girl."
The lingering repetition of those words opened the girl's eyes wide witha sudden memory of that moonlit night in the gulch. Then she had notfancied those whispered words! they had been uttered, and by his voice;and those fancied tears of Tillie's, and--the kisses!
So thick came those thronging memories, that she did not notice hislong, dreamy silence. She was thinking of that night, and all the sweet,vague suggestion in it that had vanished with the new day. She wascomparing its brief charm with this meeting of to-night that wasignoring it so effectually; that was as the beginning of a new knowledgeof each other, with the commonplace and practical as a basis.
Her reverie was broken sharply by the sight of a form that suddenly,silently, appeared in the door-way. Her first impulse of movement orspeech was checked as the faint, flickering light shifted across thevisage of the new-comer, and she recognized the Indian girl who hadhidden behind the ponies. A smile was on the dark face as she sawGenesee lying there, asleep he must have looked from the door, andutterly oblivious of her entrance. Her soft moccasins left no sound asshe crossed the floor and dropped down beside him, laying one arm abouthis throat. He clasped the hand quickly and opened his half-shut eyes.Did he, for an instant, mistake it for another hand that had slippedinto his that one night? Whatever he thought, his face was like that ofdeath as he met the eyes of the Indian girl.
"Talapa!" he muttered, and his fingers closing on her wrist must havetwisted it painfully, by the quick change in her half-Indian,half-French face. He seemed hardly conscious of it. Just then he lookedat her as if she was in reality that Indian deity of the inferno fromwhom her name was derived.
"Hyak nika kelapie!" (I returned quickly), she whined, as if puzzledat her reception, and darting furious sidelong glances from the blackeyes that had the width between them that is given to serpents. "Nah!"she ejaculated angrily, as no answer was made to her; and freeing herhand, she rose to her feet. She had not once seen the white girl in theshadow. Coming from the darkness into the light, her eyes were blindedto all but the one plainly seen figure. But as she rose to her feet, andGenesee with her, Rachel stooped to the pile of wood beside her, andthrowing some bits of pine on the fire, sent the sparks flying upward,and a second later a blaze of light flooded the room.
The action was a natural, self-possessed one--it took a great deal toupset Miss Hardy's equanimity--and she coolly sat down again facing theastonished Indian girl and Genesee; but her face was very white, thoughshe said not a word.
"There is no need for me to try to remember the beginning, is there,"said Genesee bitterly, looking at her with sombre, moody eyes, "sincethe end has told its own story? This is--my--my--"
Did he say wife? She never could be quite sure of the word, but she knewhe tried to say it.
His voice sounded smothered, unnatural, as it had that day in the laurelthicket when he had spoken of locking himself out from a heaven. Sheunderstood what he meant now.
"No, there is no need," she said, as quietly as she could, though herheart seemed choking her and her hands trembled. "I hope all will comeright for you sometime, and--I understand, now."
Did she really understand, even then, or know the moral lie the man hadtold, the lie that, in his abasement, he felt was easier to have herbelieve than the truth?
Talapa stood drying her moccasins at the fire, as if not understandingtheir words; but the slow, cunning smile crept back to her lips as sherecognized the white girl, and no doubt remembered that she and Geneseehad ridden together that day at the camp.
He picked up his hat and walked to the door, after her kindly words,putting his hand out ahead of him in a blind sort of way, and thenstopped, saying to her gently:
"Get what rest you can--try to, anyway; you will need it." And then,with some words in Indian to Talapa, he went out into the night.
His words to Talapa were in regard to their guests' comfort, for thatsilent individual at once began preparations for bed-making on herbehalf, until Rachel told her in Chinook that she would sleep in herchair where she was. And there she sat through the night, feeling thatthe eyes of the Indian girl were never taken from her as the motionlessform lay rolled in a blanket on the floor, much as it had rolled itselfup on the grass that other day.
Jim was throned in royal state, for he had the bed all to himself, andin the morning opened his eyes in amazement as he smelled the coffee andsaw the Indian girl moving about as if at home.
"Yes, we've got a new cook, Jim," said Miss Hardy, from the window; "sowe are out of work, you and I. Sleep well?"
"Great!" said Jim, yawning widely. "Where's Mr. Jack?"
"Out, somewhere," returned the girl comprehensively. She did not addthat he had been out all night, and Jim was too much interested with theprospect of breakfast to be very curious.
He had it, as he had the bed--all to himself. Miss Hardy was not hungry,for a wonder, and Talapa disappeared after it was placed on the table.The girl asked Jim if that was Indian etiquette, but Jim didn't knowwhat etiquette was, so he couldn't tell.
Through that long vigil of the night there had returned to the girl muchof her light, ironical manner; but the mockery was more of herself andher own emotions than aught else, for when Genesee brought the horses tothe door and she looked in his face, any thought of jesting with him wasimpossible; the signs of a storm were on him as they were on themountains in the morning light.
"I will guide you back to the home trail," he said as he held Betty atthe door for her to mount.
"Go in and get some breakfast," was all the answer she made him. But heshook his head, and reached his hand to help her.
"What's the matter with everyone this morning?" asked Jim. "There hasn'tbeen a bite of breakfast eaten only what I got away with myself."
Genesee glanced in at the table. "Would you eat nothing because it wasmine?" he asked in a low tone.
"I did not because I could not," she said in the same tone; and thenadded, good-humoredly: "Despite Jim's belief in my appetite, it does goback on me sometimes--and this is one of the times. It's too early inthe morning for breakfast. Are you going with us on foot?" as shenoticed Mowitza, unsaddled, grazing about the green turf at the edge ofthe timber.
"Yes," he answered, "I have not far to go."
She slipped past him, and gathering her dress up from the wet grasswalked over to where Mowitza browsed. The beautiful mare raised her headand came over the grass with long, light steps, as if recognizing thelow call of her visitor; and resting her head on the girl's shoulder,there seemed to be a conversation between them perfectly satisfactory toeach; while Mowitza's owner stood looking at them with a world ofconflicting emotions in his face.
"I have been saying good-bye to Mowitza," she remarked, as she joinedthem and mounted Betty, "and we are both disconsolate. She carried meout of danger once, and I am slow to forget a favor."
It was a very matter-of-fact statement; she was a matter-of-fact youngwoman that morning. Genesee felt that she was trying to let him know hermemory would keep only the best of her knowledge of him. It was an addeddebt to that which he already owed her, and he walked in silence at herhorse's head, finding no words to express his thoughts, and not daringto use them if he had.
The valleys were wrapped in the whitest of mists as they got a glimpseof them from the heights. The sun was struggling through one veil onlyto be plunged into another, and all the cedar wood was in the drip, dripof tears that follow tempests.
Where was all that glory of the east atsunrise which those two had once watched from a mountain not far fromthis? In the east, as they looked now, there were only faint streaks oflavender across the sky--of lavender the color of mourning.
He directed Jim the way of the trail, and then turned to her.
"I don't know what to say to you--or just how low you will think me," hesaid in a miserable sort of way. "When I think of--of some things, Iwonder that you even speak to me this morning--God! I'm ashamed to lookyou in the face!"
And he looked it. All the cool assurance that had been a prominent phaseof his personality that evening when Hardy met him first, was gone. Hishandsome, careless face and the independent head were drooped beforehers as his broad-brimmed hat was pulled a little lower over his eyes.
Some women are curious, and this one, whom he had thought unlike allothers, rather justified his belief, as she bent over in the saddle andlifted the cover from his dark hair.
"Don't be!" she said gently--and as he looked up at her she held out herhand--"nika tillikum" (my friend); and the sweetness possible in thewords had never been known by him until she uttered them so. "My friend,don't feel like that, and don't think me quite a fool. I've seen enoughof life to know that few men under the same circumstances would try ashard to be honest as you did, and if you failed in some ways, the faultwas as much mine as yours."
"Rachel!" It was the first time he had ever called her that.
"Yes, I had some time to think about it last night," she said, with alittle ironical smile about her lips; "and the conclusion I've come tois that we should afford to be honest this morning, and not--not so verymuch ashamed;" and then she hurried on in her speech, stumbling a littleas the clasp of his hand made her unsteady through all herdetermination. "I will not see you again, perhaps ever. But I want youto know that I have faith in your making a great deal of your life ifyou try; you have the right foundations--strong will and a goodprinciple. Mentally, you have been asleep here in the hills--don't findfault with your awakening. And don't feel so--so remorseful about--thatnight. There are some things people do and think that they can'thelp--we couldn't help that night; and so--good-bye--Jack."
"God bless you, girl!" were the heart-felt, earnest words that answeredher good-bye; and with a last firm clasp of hands, she turned Betty'shead toward the trail Jim had taken, and rode away under the cedarboughs.
Genesee stood bare-headed, with a new light in his eyes as he watchedher--the dawn of some growing determination.
Once she looked back, and seeing him still there, touched her cap inmilitary fashion, and with a smile disappeared in the wet woods. As heturned away there crept from the shrubbery at the junction of the trailsTalapa, who, with that slow, knowing smile about her full lips, stoleafter him--in her dusky silence a very shadow of a man's past that growsheavy and wide after the noon is dead, and bars out lives from sunnydoors where happiness might be found. His head was bent low,thinking--thinking as he walked back to the cabin that had once held atleast a sort of content--a content based on one side of his nature. Hadthe other died, or was it only asleep? And she had told him not to findfault with his awakening--she! He had never before realized the wealthor loss one woman could make to the world.
"Ashamed to look her in the face!" His own words echoed in his ears ashe walked under the wet leaves, with the shadow of the shame skulkingunseen after him; and then, little by little, the sense of her farewellcame back to him, and running through it, that strong thread of faith inhim yet, making his life more worth living.
"Damned little in my present outfit for her to build any foundation forhope on," he muttered grimly, as he saddled and bridled Mowitza, as ifin hot haste to be gone somewhere, and then sat down on the door-step asif forgetful of the intention.
Talapa slipped past him with an armful of bark for the fire. Not a wordhad passed between them since the night before, and the girl watched himcovertly from under drooped lids. Was she trying to fathom hismeditations, or determine how far they were to affect her own future?For as the birds foretell by the signs in the air the change of thesummer, so Talapa, through the atmosphere of the cabin that morning,felt approach the end of a season that had been to her luxurious withcomforts new to her; and though the Indian blood in her veins may havedisdained the adjuncts of civilization, yet the French tide that crossedit carried to her the Gallic yearning for the dainties and delicacies oflife. To be sure, one would not find many of those in a backwoodsman'scabin; but all content is comparative, and Talapa's basis of comparisonwas the earthen floor of a thronged "tepee," or wigwam, where blows hadbeen more frequent than square meals; and being a thing feminine, heraffections turned to this white man of the woods who could give her afloor of boards and a dinner-pot never empty, and moreover, being of thesex feminine, those bonds of affection were no doubt securelyfastened--bonds welded in a circle--endless.
At least those attributes, vaguely remembered, are usually conceded tothe more gentle half of humanity, and I give Talapa the benefit of thebelief, as her portrait has been of necessity set in the shadows, andhas need of all the high lights that can be found for it. Whatever shemay have lacked from a high-church point of view, she had at leastenviable self-possession. Whatever tumult of wounded feeling there mayhave been in this daughter of the forest, she moved around sedately,with an air that in a white woman would be called martyr-like, and saidnothing.
It was as well, perhaps, that she had the rare gift of silence, for theman at the door, with his chin resting grimly on his fists, did not seemat all sympathetic, or in the humor to fit himself to anyone's moods.The tones of that girl's voice were still vibrating over chords in hisnature that disturbed him. He did not even notice Talapa's movementsuntil she ceased them by squatting down with native grace by thefire-place, and then--
"Get up off that!" he roared, in a voice that hastened Talapa's risingconsiderably.
"That" was the buffalo-robe on which the other girl had throned herselfthe night before; and what a picture she had made in the fire-light!
Genesee in two strides crossed the floor, and grabbing the robe, flungit over his shoulder. No, it was not courteous to unseat a lady with solittle ceremony--it may not even have been natural to him, so manythings are not natural to us human things that are yet so true.
"And why so?" asked Talapa sullenly, her back against the wall as if ina position to show fight; that is, she said "Pe-kah-ta?" but, for thebenefit of the civilized reader, the ordinary English is given--"And whyso?"
Genesee looked at her a moment from head to foot, but the scrutinyresulted in silence--no remark. At length he walked back to the chestagainst the wall, and unlocking it, drew out an account-book, betweenthe leaves of which were some money orders; two of them he took out,putting the rest in his pocket. Then, writing a signature on thosetwo--not the name of Jack Genesee, by the way--he turned to MistressTalapa, who had slid from the wall down on the floor minus thebuffalo-robe.
"Here!" he said tersely. "I am going away. Klat-awah si-ah--do youunderstand?" And then, fishing some silver out of his pocket, he handedit to her with the notes. "Take these to the settlement--to thebank-store. They'll give you money--money to live all winter. Live inthe cabin if you want; only get out in the spring--do you hear? I willwant it myself then--and I want it alone."
Without comment, Talapa reached up and took the money, looking curiouslyat the notes, as if to decipher the meaning in the pictured paper, andthen:
"Nika wake tikegh Talapa?" she queried, but with nothing in her toneto tell if she cared whether he wanted her or not.
"Not by a--" he began energetically, and then, "you are your own bossnow," he added, more quietly. "Go where you please, only you'd betterkeep clear of the old gang, for I won't buy you from themagain--kumtuks?"
Talapa nodded that she understood, her eyes roving about the cabin,possibly taking note of the wealth that she had until spring to revel inor filch from.
Genesee noticed that mental reckoning.
"Leave
these things alone," he said shortly. "Use them, but leave themhere. If any of them are gone when I get back--well, I'll go afterthem."
And throwing the robe over his arm again, he strode out through thedoor, mounted Mowitza, and rode away.
It was not a sentimental finale to an idyl of the wood, but by the timethe finale is reached, the average human specimen has no sentiment towaste. Had they possessed any to begin with?
It was hard to tell whether Talapa was crushed by the cold cruelty ofthat leave-taking, or whether she was indifferent; that very uncertaintyis a charm exerted over us by those conservative natures that lockwithin themselves wrath or joy where we ordinary mortals give expressionto ours with all the language possessed by us, and occasionally borrowsome adjectives that would puzzle us to give a translation of.
Talapa sat where he left her, not moving except once to shy a pine knotat a rat by the cupboard--and hit it, too, though she did belong to thesex divine. So she sat, pensively dribbling the silver coin from hand tohand, until the morning crept away and the sun shone through the mists.
What was it that at last awakened her from an apparent dreamland--thenote of that bird whistling in the forest in very gladness that the sunshone again? Evidently so, and the Indian blood in her veins had taughther the secret of sympathy with the wild things, for she gave ananswering call, half voice, half whistle. Silence for a little, and thenagain from the timber came that quavering note, with the risinginflection at the finish that was so near an interrogation.
It brought Talapa to her feet, and going to the door, she sent a short,impatient call that a little later was answered by the appearance of acomely buck--one of the order of red men--who lounged down the littleincline with his head thrust forward as if to scent danger if any wasabout; but a few words from the girl assuring him that the coast wasclear--the fort unguarded--gave him more an air of assurance, as hestepped across the threshhold and squatted down on the side of the bed.
"Genesee gone?" he queried in the musical medley of consonants.
Talapa grunted an assent, with love in her eyes for the noble specimenon the bed.
"Gone far--gone all time--till spring," she communicated, as if sure ofbeing the giver of welcome news. "House all mine--everything mine--allwinter."
"Ugh!" was all the sound given in answer to the information; but thewide mouth curved upward ever so slightly at the corners, and coupledwith the interrogative grunt, expressed, no doubt, as much content asgenerally falls to the lot of individual humanity. One of his boots hurthim, or rather the moccasins which he wore with leggings, and above themold blue pantaloons and a red shirt; the moccasin was ripped, andwithout ceremony he loosened it and kicked it toward Talapa.
"Mamook tipshin," he remarked briefly; and by that laconic order tosew his moccasin, Skulking Brave virtually took possession of Genesee'scabin and Genesee's squaw.
Through the gray shadows of that morning Rachel and Jim rode almost insilence down the mountain trail. The memory of the girl was too busy forspeech, and the frequent yawns of Jim showed that a longer sleep wouldhave been appreciated by him.
"Say," he remarked at last, as the trail grew wide enough for them toride abreast, "everything was jolly back here at Mr. Jack's last night,but I'm blest if it was this morning. The breakfast wasn't anything tobrag of, an' the fire was no good, an' the fog made the cabin as damp asrain when the door was open, an' he was glum an' quiet, an' you wasn'tmuch better. Say, was it that Injun cook o' his you was afeared to eatafter?"
"Not exactly," she answered with a little laugh; "what an observer youare, Jim! I suppose the atmosphere of the cabin was the effect of thestorm last night."
"What? Well, the storm wasn't much worse to plow through last night thanthe wet timber this morning," he answered morosely; "but say, here's thesun coming out at last--by George! How the wind lifts the fog when itgets started. Look at it!" And then, as the sunlight really crept in agreat shimmer through the pines, he added: "It might just as well havecome earlier, or else kept away altogether, for we're as wet now as wecan get."
"Be thankful that it shines at all, Jim."
"Oh, the shine's all right, but it shines too late."
"Yes," agreed the girl, with a memory of shamed, despairing eyesflitting through her brain. "Yes, it always shines too late--forsomeone."
"It's for two of us this time," replied grumbling Jim, taking her speechliterally. "We've had a Nick of a time anyway this trip. Why that stormhad to wait until just the day we got lost, so as we'd get wet, an'straggle home dead beat--an' without the sheep--I can't see."
"No, we can't see," said Rachel, with a queer little smile."Perhaps--perhaps it's all because this is the end instead of thebeginning of a cultus corrie."
PART THIRD
"PRINCE CHARLIE"
Told in the Hills: A Novel Page 9