by Zane Grey
CHAPTER II
Milt Dale quietly sat up to gaze, with thoughtful eyes, into the gloom.
He was thirty years old. As a boy of fourteen he had run off from hisschool and home in Iowa and, joining a wagon-train of pioneers, he wasone of the first to see log cabins built on the slopes of the WhiteMountains. But he had not taken kindly to farming or sheep-raising ormonotonous home toil, and for twelve years he had lived in the forest,with only infrequent visits to Pine and Show Down and Snowdrop. Thiswandering forest life of his did not indicate that he did not care forthe villagers, for he did care, and he was welcome everywhere, butthat he loved wild life and solitude and beauty with the primitiveinstinctive force of a savage.
And on this night he had stumbled upon a dark plot against the only oneof all the honest white people in that region whom he could not call afriend.
"That man Beasley!" he soliloquized. "Beasley--in cahoots with SnakeAnson!... Well, he was right. Al Auchincloss is on his last legs. Poorold man! When I tell him he'll never believe ME, that's sure!"
Discovery of the plot meant to Dale that he must hurry down to Pine.
"A girl--Helen Rayner--twenty years old," he mused. "Beasley wants hermade off with.... That means--worse than killed!"
Dale accepted facts of life with that equanimity and fatality acquiredby one long versed in the cruel annals of forest lore. Bad men workedtheir evil just as savage wolves relayed a deer. He had shot wolves forthat trick. With men, good or bad, he had not clashed. Old women andchildren appealed to him, but he had never had any interest in girls.The image, then, of this Helen Rayner came strangely to Dale; and hesuddenly realized that he had meant somehow to circumvent Beasley, notto befriend old Al Auchincloss, but for the sake of the girl. Probablyshe was already on her way West, alone, eager, hopeful of a future home.How little people guessed what awaited them at a journey's end! Manytrails ended abruptly in the forest--and only trained woodsmen couldread the tragedy.
"Strange how I cut across country to-day from Spruce Swamp," reflectedDale. Circumstances, movements, usually were not strange to him. Hismethods and habits were seldom changed by chance. The matter, then, ofhis turning off a course out of his way for no apparent reason, andof his having overheard a plot singularly involving a young girl, wasindeed an adventure to provoke thought. It provoked more, for Dale grewconscious of an unfamiliar smoldering heat along his veins. He who hadlittle to do with the strife of men, and nothing to do with anger, felthis blood grow hot at the cowardly trap laid for an innocent girl.
"Old Al won't listen to me," pondered Dale. "An' even if he did, hewouldn't believe me. Maybe nobody will.... All the same, Snake Ansonwon't get that girl."
With these last words Dale satisfied himself of his own position, andhis pondering ceased. Taking his rifle, he descended from the loft andpeered out of the door. The night had grown darker, windier, cooler;broken clouds were scudding across the sky; only a few stars showed;fine rain was blowing from the northwest; and the forest seemed full ofa low, dull roar.
"Reckon I'd better hang up here," he said, and turned to the fire. Thecoals were red now. From the depths of his hunting-coat he procured alittle bag of salt and some strips of dried meat. These strips he laidfor a moment on the hot embers, until they began to sizzle and curl;then with a sharpened stick he removed them and ate like a hungry huntergrateful for little.
He sat on a block of wood with his palms spread to the dying warmth ofthe fire and his eyes fixed upon the changing, glowing, golden embers.Outside, the wind continued to rise and the moan of the forest increasedto a roar. Dale felt the comfortable warmth stealing over him, drowsilylulling; and he heard the storm-wind in the trees, now like a waterfall,and anon like a retreating army, and again low and sad; and he sawpictures in the glowing embers, strange as dreams.
Presently he rose and, climbing to the loft, he stretched himself out,and soon fell asleep.
When the gray dawn broke he was on his way, 'cross-country, to thevillage of Pine.
During the night the wind had shifted and the rain had ceased. Asuspicion of frost shone on the grass in open places. All was gray--theparks, the glades--and deeper, darker gray marked the aisles of theforest. Shadows lurked under the trees and the silence seemed consistentwith spectral forms. Then the east kindled, the gray lightened, thedreaming woodland awoke to the far-reaching rays of a bursting red sun.
This was always the happiest moment of Dale's lonely days, as sunsetwas his saddest. He responded, and there was something in his blood thatanswered the whistle of a stag from a near-by ridge. His strides werelong, noiseless, and they left dark trace where his feet brushed thedew-laden grass.
Dale pursued a zigzag course over the ridges to escape the hardestclimbing, but the "senacas"--those parklike meadows so named by Mexicansheep-herders--were as round and level as if they had been made by manin beautiful contrast to the dark-green, rough, and rugged ridges. Bothopen senaca and dense wooded ridge showed to his quick eye an abundanceof game. The cracking of twigs and disappearing flash of gray among thespruces, a round black lumbering object, a twittering in the brush,and stealthy steps, were all easy signs for Dale to read. Once, as henoiselessly emerged into a little glade, he espied a red fox stalkingsome quarry, which, as he advanced, proved to be a flock of partridges.They whirred up, brushing the branches, and the fox trotted away. Inevery senaca Dale encountered wild turkeys feeding on the seeds of thehigh grass.
It had always been his custom, on his visits to Pine, to kill andpack fresh meat down to several old friends, who were glad to give himlodging. And, hurried though he was now, he did not intend to make anexception of this trip.
At length he got down into the pine belt, where the great, gnarled,yellow trees soared aloft, stately, and aloof from one another, and theground was a brown, odorous, springy mat of pine-needles, level as afloor. Squirrels watched him from all around, scurrying away at hisnear approach--tiny, brown, light-striped squirrels, and larger ones,russet-colored, and the splendid dark-grays with their white bushy tailsand plumed ears.
This belt of pine ended abruptly upon wide, gray, rolling, open land,almost like a prairie, with foot-hills lifting near and far, and thered-gold blaze of aspen thickets catching the morning sun. Here Daleflushed a flock of wild turkeys, upward of forty in number, and theirsubdued color of gray flecked with white, and graceful, sleek build,showed them to be hens. There was not a gobbler in the flock. They beganto run pell-mell out into the grass, until only their heads appearedbobbing along, and finally disappeared. Dale caught a glimpse ofskulking coyotes that evidently had been stalking the turkeys, and asthey saw him and darted into the timber he took a quick shot at thehindmost. His bullet struck low, as he had meant it to, but too low, andthe coyote got only a dusting of earth and pine-needles thrown up intohis face. This frightened him so that he leaped aside blindly to buttinto a tree, rolled over, gained his feet, and then the cover of theforest. Dale was amused at this. His hand was against all the predatorybeasts of the forest, though he had learned that lion and bear and wolfand fox were all as necessary to the great scheme of nature as were thegentle, beautiful wild creatures upon which they preyed. But some heloved better than others, and so he deplored the inexplicable cruelty.
He crossed the wide, grassy plain and struck another gradual descentwhere aspens and pines crowded a shallow ravine and warm, sun-lightedglades bordered along a sparkling brook. Here he heard a turkey gobble,and that was a signal for him to change his course and make a crouching,silent detour around a clump of aspens. In a sunny patch of grassa dozen or more big gobblers stood, all suspiciously facing in hisdirection, heads erect, with that wild aspect peculiar to their species.Old wild turkey gobblers were the most difficult game to stalk. Daleshot two of them. The others began to run like ostriches, thudding overthe ground, spreading their wings, and with that running start launchedtheir heavy bodies into whirring flight. They flew low, at about theheight of a man from the grass, and vanished in the woods.
Dale th
rew the two turkeys over his shoulder and went on his way. Soonhe came to a break in the forest level, from which he gazed down aleague-long slope of pine and cedar, out upon the bare, glisteningdesert, stretching away, endlessly rolling out to the dim, dark horizonline.
The little hamlet of Pine lay on the last level of sparsely timberedforest. A road, running parallel with a dark-watered, swift-flowingstream, divided the cluster of log cabins from which columns of bluesmoke drifted lazily aloft. Fields of corn and fields of oats, yellowin the sunlight, surrounded the village; and green pastures, dottedwith horses and cattle, reached away to the denser woodland. This siteappeared to be a natural clearing, for there was no evidence of cuttimber. The scene was rather too wild to be pastoral, but it was serene,tranquil, giving the impression of a remote community, prosperous andhappy, drifting along the peaceful tenor of sequestered lives.
Dale halted before a neat little log cabin and a little patch of gardenbordered with sunflowers. His call was answered by an old woman, grayand bent, but remarkably spry, who appeared at the door.
"Why, land's sakes, if it ain't Milt Dale!" she exclaimed, in welcome.
"Reckon it's me, Mrs. Cass," he replied. "An' I've brought you aturkey."
"Milt, you're that good boy who never forgits old Widow Cass.... Whata gobbler! First one I've seen this fall. My man Tom used to fetch homegobblers like that.... An' mebbe he'll come home again sometime."
Her husband, Tom Cass, had gone into the forest years before and hadnever returned. But the old woman always looked for him and never gaveup hope.
"Men have been lost in the forest an' yet come back," replied Dale, ashe had said to her many a time.
"Come right in. You air hungry, I know. Now, son, when last did you eata fresh egg or a flapjack?"
"You should remember," he answered, laughing, as he followed her into asmall, clean kitchen.
"Laws-a'-me! An' thet's months ago," she replied, shaking her gray head."Milt, you should give up that wild life--an' marry--an' have a home."
"You always tell me that."
"Yes, an' I'll see you do it yet.... Now you set there, an' pretty soonI'll give you thet to eat which 'll make your mouth water."
"What's the news, Auntie?" he asked.
"Nary news in this dead place. Why, nobody's been to Snowdrop in twoweeks!... Sary Jones died, poor old soul--she's better off--an' one ofmy cows run away. Milt, she's wild when she gits loose in the woods.An' you'll have to track her, 'cause nobody else can. An' John Dakker'sheifer was killed by a lion, an' Lem Harden's fast hoss--you know hisfavorite--was stole by hoss-thieves. Lem is jest crazy. An' that remindsme, Milt, where's your big ranger, thet you'd never sell or lend?"
"My horses are up in the woods, Auntie; safe, I reckon, fromhorse-thieves."
"Well, that's a blessin'. We've had some stock stole this summer, Milt,an' no mistake."
Thus, while preparing a meal for Dale, the old woman went on recountingall that had happened in the little village since his last visit. Daleenjoyed her gossip and quaint philosophy, and it was exceedingly goodto sit at her table. In his opinion, nowhere else could there have beensuch butter and cream, such ham and eggs. Besides, she always had applepie, it seemed, at any time he happened in; and apple pie was one ofDale's few regrets while up in the lonely forest.
"How's old Al Auchincloss?" presently inquired Dale.
"Poorly--poorly," sighed Mrs. Cass. "But he tramps an' rides aroundsame as ever. Al's not long for this world.... An', Milt, that remindsme--there's the biggest news you ever heard."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dale, to encourage the excited old woman.
"Al has sent back to Saint Joe for his niece, Helen Rayner. She's toinherit all his property. We've heard much of her--a purty lass, theysay.... Now, Milt Dale, here's your chance. Stay out of the woods an' goto work.... You can marry that girl!"
"No chance for me, Auntie," replied Dale, smiling.
The old woman snorted. "Much you know! Any girl would have you, MiltDale, if you'd only throw a kerchief."
"Me!... An' why, Auntie?" he queried, half amused, half thoughtful. Whenhe got back to civilization he always had to adjust his thoughts to theideas of people.
"Why? I declare, Milt, you live so in the woods you're like a boy often--an' then sometimes as old as the hills.... There's no young man tocompare with you, hereabouts. An' this girl--she'll have all the spunkof the Auchinclosses."
"Then maybe she'd not be such a catch, after all," replied Dale.
"Wal, you've no cause to love them, that's sure. But, Milt, theAuchincloss women are always good wives."
"Dear Auntie, you're dreamin'," said Dale, soberly. "I want no wife. I'mhappy in the woods."
"Air you goin' to live like an Injun all your days, Milt Dale?" shequeried, sharply.
"I hope so."
"You ought to be ashamed. But some lass will change you, boy, an' mebbeit'll be this Helen Rayner. I hope an' pray so to thet."
"Auntie, supposin' she did change me. She'd never change old Al. Hehates me, you know."
"Wal, I ain't so sure, Milt. I met Al the other day. He inquired foryou, an' said you was wild, but he reckoned men like you was good forpioneer settlements. Lord knows the good turns you've done this village!Milt, old Al doesn't approve of your wild life, but he never had no hardfeelin's till thet tame lion of yours killed so many of his sheep."
"Auntie, I don't believe Tom ever killed Al's sheep," declared Dale,positively.
"Wal, Al thinks so, an' many other people," replied Mrs. Cass, shakingher gray head doubtfully. "You never swore he didn't. An' there was themtwo sheep-herders who did swear they seen him."
"They only saw a cougar. An' they were so scared they ran."
"Who wouldn't? Thet big beast is enough to scare any one. For land'ssakes, don't ever fetch him down here again! I'll never forgit the timeyou did. All the folks an' children an' hosses in Pine broke an' runthet day."
"Yes; but Tom wasn't to blame. Auntie, he's the tamest of my pets.Didn't he try to put his head on your lap an' lick your hand?"
"Wal, Milt, I ain't gainsayin' your cougar pet didn't act better 'n alot of people I know. Fer he did. But the looks of him an' what's beensaid was enough for me."
"An' what's all that, Auntie?"
"They say he's wild when out of your sight. An' thet he'd trail an' killanythin' you put him after."
"I trained him to be just that way."
"Wal, leave Tom to home up in the woods--when you visit us."
Dale finished his hearty meal, and listened awhile longer to the oldwoman's talk; then, taking his rifle and the other turkey, he bade hergood-by. She followed him out.
"Now, Milt, you'll come soon again, won't you--jest to see Al'sniece--who'll be here in a week?"
"I reckon I'll drop in some day.... Auntie, have you seen my friends,the Mormon boys?"
"No, I 'ain't seen them an' don't want to," she retorted. "Milt Dale, ifany one ever corrals you it'll be Mormons."
"Don't worry, Auntie. I like those boys. They often see me up in thewoods an' ask me to help them track a hoss or help kill some freshmeat."
"They're workin' for Beasley now."
"Is that so?" rejoined Dale, with a sudden start. "An' what doin'?"
"Beasley is gettin' so rich he's buildin' a fence, an' didn't haveenough help, so I hear."
"Beasley gettin' rich!" repeated Dale, thoughtfully. "More sheep an'horses an' cattle than ever, I reckon?"
"Laws-a'-me! Why, Milt, Beasley 'ain't any idea what he owns. Yes, he'sthe biggest man in these parts, since poor old Al's took to failin'. Ireckon Al's health ain't none improved by Beasley's success. They've badsome bitter quarrels lately--so I hear. Al ain't what he was."
Dale bade good-by again to his old friend and strode away, thoughtfuland serious. Beasley would not only be difficult to circumvent, but hewould be dangerous to oppose. There did not appear much doubt of hisdriving his way rough-shod to the dominance of affairs there in Pine.Dale, passi
ng down the road, began to meet acquaintances who hadhearty welcome for his presence and interest in his doings, so that hispondering was interrupted for the time being. He carried the turkey toanother old friend, and when he left her house he went on to the villagestore. This was a large log cabin, roughly covered with clapboards, witha wide plank platform in front and a hitching-rail in the road. Severalhorses were standing there, and a group of lazy, shirt-sleeved loungers.
"I'll be doggoned if it ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed one.
"Howdy, Milt, old buckskin! Right down glad to see you," greetedanother.
"Hello, Dale! You air shore good for sore eyes," drawled still another.
After a long period of absence Dale always experienced a singular warmthof feeling when he met these acquaintances. It faded quickly when he gotback to the intimacy of his woodland, and that was because the people ofPine, with few exceptions--though they liked him and greatly admired hisoutdoor wisdom--regarded him as a sort of nonentity. Because he lovedthe wild and preferred it to village and range life, they had classedhim as not one of them. Some believed him lazy; others believed himshiftless; others thought him an Indian in mind and habits; and therewere many who called him slow-witted. Then there was another side totheir regard for him, which always afforded him good-natured amusement.Two of this group asked him to bring in some turkey or venison; anotherwanted to hunt with him. Lem Harden came out of the store and appealedto Dale to recover his stolen horse. Lem's brother wanted a wild-runningmare tracked and brought home. Jesse Lyons wanted a colt broken, andbroken with patience, not violence, as was the method of the hard-ridingboys at Pine. So one and all they besieged Dale with their selfishneeds, all unconscious of the flattering nature of these overtures. Andon the moment there happened by two women whose remarks, as they enteredthe store, bore strong testimony to Dale's personality.
"If there ain't Milt Dale!" exclaimed the older of the two. "How lucky!My cow's sick, an' the men are no good doctorin'. I'll jest ask Miltover."
"No one like Milt!" responded the other woman, heartily.
"Good day there--you Milt Dale!" called the first speaker. "When you gitaway from these lazy men come over."
Dale never refused a service, and that was why his infrequent visits toPine were wont to be prolonged beyond his own pleasure.
Presently Beasley strode down the street, and when about to enter thestore he espied Dale.
"Hullo there, Milt!" he called, cordially, as he came forward withextended hand. His greeting was sincere, but the lightning glance heshot over Dale was not born of his pleasure. Seen in daylight, Beasleywas a big, bold, bluff man, with strong, dark features. His aggressivepresence suggested that he was a good friend and a bad enemy.
Dale shook hands with him.
"How are you, Beasley?"
"Ain't complainin', Milt, though I got more work than I can rustle.Reckon you wouldn't take a job bossin' my sheep-herders?"
"Reckon I wouldn't," replied Dale. "Thanks all the same."
"What's goin' on up in the woods?"
"Plenty of turkey an' deer. Lots of bear, too. The Indians have workedback on the south side early this fall. But I reckon winter will comelate an' be mild."
"Good! An' where 're you headin' from?"
"'Cross-country from my camp," replied Dale, rather evasively.
"Your camp! Nobody ever found that yet," declared Beasley, gruffly.
"It's up there," said Dale.
"Reckon you've got that cougar chained in your cabin door?" queriedBeasley, and there was a barely distinguishable shudder of his muscularframe. Also the pupils dilated in his hard brown eyes.
"Tom ain't chained. An' I haven't no cabin, Beasley."
"You mean to tell me that big brute stays in your camp without bein'hog-tied or corralled!" demanded Beasley.
"Sure he does."
"Beats me! But, then, I'm queer on cougars. Have had many a cougar trailme at night. Ain't sayin' I was scared. But I don't care for that brandof varmint.... Milt, you goin' to stay down awhile?"
"Yes, I'll hang around some."
"Come over to the ranch. Glad to see you any time. Some old huntin'pards of yours are workin' for me."
"Thanks, Beasley. I reckon I'll come over."
Beasley turned away and took a step, and then, as if with anafter-thought, he wheeled again.
"Suppose you've heard about old Al Auchincloss bein' near petered out?"queried Beasley. A strong, ponderous cast of thought seemed to emanatefrom his features. Dale divined that Beasley's next step would be tofurther his advancement by some word or hint.
"Widow Cass was tellin' me all the news. Too bad about old Al," repliedDale.
"Sure is. He's done for. An' I'm sorry--though Al's never been square--"
"Beasley," interrupted Dale, quickly, "you can't say that to me. AlAuchincloss always was the whitest an' squarest man in this sheepcountry."
Beasley gave Dale a fleeting, dark glance.
"Dale, what you think ain't goin' to influence feelin' on this range,"returned Beasley, deliberately. "You live in the woods an'--"
"Reckon livin' in the woods I might think--an' know a whole lot,"interposed Dale, just as deliberately. The group of men exchangedsurprised glances. This was Milt Dale in different aspect. And Beasleydid not conceal a puzzled surprise.
"About what--now?" he asked, bluntly.
"Why, about what's goin' on in Pine," replied Dale.
Some of the men laughed.
"Shore lots goin' on--an' no mistake," put in Lem Harden.
Probably the keen Beasley had never before considered Milt Dale as aresponsible person; certainly never one in any way to cross his trail.But on the instant, perhaps, some instinct was born, or he divined anantagonism in Dale that was both surprising and perplexing.
"Dale, I've differences with Al Auchincloss--have had them for years,"said Beasley. "Much of what he owns is mine. An' it's goin' to come tome. Now I reckon people will be takin' sides--some for me an' some forAl. Most are for me.... Where do you stand? Al Auchincloss never had nouse for you, an' besides he's a dyin' man. Are you goin' on his side?"
"Yes, I reckon I am."
"Wal, I'm glad you've declared yourself," rejoined Beasley, shortly,and he strode away with the ponderous gait of a man who would brush anyobstacle from his path.
"Milt, thet's bad--makin' Beasley sore at you," said Lem Harden. "He'son the way to boss this outfit."
"He's sure goin' to step into Al's boots," said another.
"Thet was white of Milt to stick up fer poor old Al," declared Lem'sbrother.
Dale broke away from them and wended a thoughtful way down the road. Theburden of what he knew about Beasley weighed less heavily upon him, andthe close-lipped course he had decided upon appeared wisest. He neededto think before undertaking to call upon old Al Auchincloss; and to thatend he sought an hour's seclusion under the pines.