by Zane Grey
CHAPTER VII
The first camp duty Dale performed was to throw a pack off one of thehorses, and, opening it, he took out tarpaulin and blankets, which hearranged on the ground under a pine-tree.
"You girls rest," he said, briefly.
"Can't we help?" asked Helen, though she could scarcely stand.
"You'll be welcome to do all you like after you're broke in."
"Broke in!" ejaculated Bo, with a little laugh. "I'm all broke UP now."
"Bo, it looks as if Mr. Dale expects us to have quite a stay with him inthe woods."
"It does," replied Bo, as slowly she sat down upon the blankets,stretched out with a long sigh, and laid her head on a saddle. "Nell,didn't he say not to call him Mister?"
Dale was throwing the packs off the other horses.
Helen lay down beside Bo, and then for once in her life she experiencedthe sweetness of rest.
"Well, sister, what do you intend to call him?" queried Helen,curiously.
"Milt, of course," replied Bo.
Helen had to laugh despite her weariness and aches.
"I suppose, then, when your Las Vegas cowboy comes along you will callhim what he called you."
Bo blushed, which was a rather unusual thing for her.
"I will if I like," she retorted. "Nell, ever since I could rememberyou've raved about the West. Now you're OUT West, right in it good anddeep. So wake up!"
That was Bo's blunt and characteristic way of advising the eliminationof Helen's superficialities. It sank deep. Helen had no retort. Herambition, as far as the West was concerned, had most assuredly not beenfor such a wild, unheard-of jaunt as this. But possibly the West--aliving from day to day--was one succession of adventures, trials,tests, troubles, and achievements. To make a place for others to livecomfortably some day! That might be Bo's meaning, embodied in herforceful hint. But Helen was too tired to think it out then. She foundit interesting and vaguely pleasant to watch Dale.
He hobbled the horses and turned them loose. Then with ax in hand heapproached a short, dead tree, standing among a few white-barkedaspens. Dale appeared to advantage swinging the ax. With his coat off,displaying his wide shoulders, straight back, and long, powerful arms,he looked a young giant. He was lithe and supple, brawny but not bulky.The ax rang on the hard wood, reverberating through the forest. A fewstrokes sufficed to bring down the stub. Then he split it up. Helen wascurious to see how he kindled a fire. First he ripped splinters out ofthe heart of the log, and laid them with coarser pieces on the ground.Then from a saddlebag which hung on a near-by branch he took flint andsteel and a piece of what Helen supposed was rag or buckskin, uponwhich powder had been rubbed. At any rate, the first strike of the steelbrought sparks, a blaze, and burning splinters. Instantly the flameleaped a foot high. He put on larger pieces of wood crosswise, and thefire roared.
That done, he stood erect, and, facing the north, he listened. Helenremembered now that she had seen him do the same thing twice beforesince the arrival at Big Spring. It was Roy for whom he was listeningand watching. The sun had set and across the open space the tips of thepines were losing their brightness.
The camp utensils, which the hunter emptied out of a sack, gave forth ajangle of iron and tin. Next he unrolled a large pack, the contentsof which appeared to be numerous sacks of all sizes. These evidentlycontained food supplies. The bucket looked as if a horse had rolled overit, pack and all. Dale filled it at the spring. Upon returning to thecamp-fire he poured water into a washbasin, and, getting down to hisknees, proceeded to wash his hands thoroughly. The act seemed a habit,for Helen saw that while he was doing it he gazed off into the woodsand listened. Then he dried his hands over the fire, and, turning to thespread-out pack, he began preparations for the meal.
Suddenly Helen thought of the man and all that his actions implied.At Magdalena, on the stage-ride, and last night, she had trustedthis stranger, a hunter of the White Mountains, who appeared ready tobefriend her. And she had felt an exceeding gratitude. Still, she hadlooked at him impersonally. But it began to dawn upon her that chancehad thrown her in the company of a remarkable man. That impressionbaffled her. It did not spring from the fact that he was brave and kindto help a young woman in peril, or that he appeared deft and quick atcamp-fire chores. Most Western men were brave, her uncle had told her,and many were roughly kind, and all of them could cook. This hunter wasphysically a wonderful specimen of manhood, with something leonine abouthis stature. But that did not give rise to her impression. Helenhad been a school-teacher and used to boys, and she sensed a boyishsimplicity or vigor or freshness in this hunter. She believed, however,that it was a mental and spiritual force in Dale which had drawn her tothink of it.
"Nell, I've spoken to you three times," protested Bo, petulantly. "What're you mooning over?"
"I'm pretty tired--and far away, Bo," replied Helen. "What did you say?"
"I said I had an e-normous appetite."
"Really. That's not remarkable for you. I'm too tired to eat. And afraidto shut my eyes. They'd never come open. When did we sleep last, Bo?"
"Second night before we left home," declared Bo.
"Four nights! Oh, we've slept some."
"I'll bet I make mine up in this woods. Do you suppose we'll sleep righthere--under this tree--with no covering?"
"It looks so," replied Helen, dubiously.
"How perfectly lovely!" exclaimed Bo, in delight. "We'll see the starsthrough the pines."
"Seems to be clouding over. Wouldn't it be awful if we had a storm?"
"Why, I don't know," answered Bo, thoughtfully. "It must storm outWest."
Again Helen felt a quality of inevitableness in Bo. It was somethingthat had appeared only practical in the humdrum home life in St. Joseph.All of a sudden Helen received a flash of wondering thought--a thrillingconsciousness that she and Bo had begun to develop in a new and wildenvironment. How strange, and fearful, perhaps, to watch that growth!Bo, being younger, more impressionable, with elemental rather thanintellectual instincts, would grow stronger more swiftly. Helen wonderedif she could yield to her own leaning to the primitive. But how couldanyone with a thoughtful and grasping mind yield that way? It was thesavage who did not think.
Helen saw Dale stand erect once more and gaze into the forest.
"Reckon Roy ain't comin'," he soliloquized. "An' that's good." Then heturned to the girls. "Supper's ready."
The girls responded with a spirit greater than their activity. Andthey ate like famished children that had been lost in the woods. Daleattended them with a pleasant light upon his still face.
"To-morrow night we'll have meat," he said.
"What kind?" asked Bo.
"Wild turkey or deer. Maybe both, if you like. But it's well to takewild meat slow. An' turkey--that 'll melt in your mouth."
"Uummm!" murmured Bo, greedily. "I've heard of wild turkey."
When they had finished Dale ate his meal, listening to the talk of thegirls, and occasionally replying briefly to some query of Bo's. It wastwilight when he began to wash the pots and pans, and almost dark by thetime his duties appeared ended. Then he replenished the campfire andsat down on a log to gaze into the fire. The girls leaned comfortablypropped against the saddles.
"Nell, I'll keel over in a minute," said Bo. "And I oughtn't--right onsuch a big supper."
"I don't see how I can sleep, and I know I can't stay awake," rejoinedHelen.
Dale lifted his head alertly.
"Listen."
The girls grew tense and still. Helen could not hear a sound, unless itwas a low thud of hoof out in the gloom. The forest seemed sleeping. Sheknew from Bo's eyes, wide and shining in the camp-fire light, that she,too, had failed to catch whatever it was Dale meant.
"Bunch of coyotes comin'," he explained.
Suddenly the quietness split to a chorus of snappy, high-strung, strangebarks. They sounded wild, yet they held something of a friendly orinquisitive note. Presently gray forms could be descried just at theedge
of the circle of light. Soft rustlings of stealthy feet surroundedthe camp, and then barks and yelps broke out all around. It was arestless and sneaking pack of animals, thought Helen; she was glad afterthe chorus ended and with a few desultory, spiteful yelps the coyoteswent away.
Silence again settled down. If it had not been for the anxiety alwayspresent in Helen's mind she would have thought this silence sweet andunfamiliarly beautiful.
"Ah! Listen to that fellow," spoke up Dale. His voice was thrilling.
Again the girls strained their ears. That was not necessary, forpresently, clear and cold out of the silence, pealed a mournful howl,long drawn, strange and full and wild.
"Oh! What's that?" whispered Bo.
"That's a big gray wolf--a timber-wolf, or lofer, as he's sometimescalled," replied Dale. "He's high on some rocky ridge back there. Hescents us, an' he doesn't like it.... There he goes again. Listen! Ah,he's hungry."
While Helen listened to this exceedingly wild cry--so wild that it madeher flesh creep and the most indescribable sensations of loneliness comeover her--she kept her glance upon Dale.
"You love him?" she murmured involuntarily, quite without understandingthe motive of her query.
Assuredly Dale had never had that question asked of him before, andit seemed to Helen, as he pondered, that he had never even asked it ofhimself.
"I reckon so," he replied, presently.
"But wolves kill deer, and little fawns, and everything helpless in theforest," expostulated Bo.
The hunter nodded his head.
"Why, then, can you love him?" repeated Helen.
"Come to think of it, I reckon it's because of lots of reasons,"returned Dale. "He kills clean. He eats no carrion. He's no coward. Hefights. He dies game.... An' he likes to be alone."
"Kills clean. What do you mean by that?"
"A cougar, now, he mangles a deer. An' a silvertip, when killin' acow or colt, he makes a mess of it. But a wolf kills clean, with sharpsnaps."
"What are a cougar and a silvertip?"
"Cougar means mountain-lion or panther, an' a silvertip is a grizzlybear."
"Oh, they're all cruel!" exclaimed Helen, shrinking.
"I reckon. Often I've shot wolves for relayin' a deer."
"What's that?"
"Sometimes two or more wolves will run a deer, an' while one of themrests the other will drive the deer around to his pardner, who'll, takeup the chase. That way they run the deer down. Cruel it is, but nature,an' no worse than snow an' ice that starve deer, or a fox that killsturkey-chicks breakin' out of the egg, or ravens that pick the eyes outof new-born lambs an' wait till they die. An' for that matter, men arecrueler than beasts of prey, for men add to nature, an' have more thaninstincts."
Helen was silenced, as well as shocked. She had not only learned a newand striking viewpoint in natural history, but a clear intimation to thereason why she had vaguely imagined or divined a remarkable character inthis man. A hunter was one who killed animals for their fur, for theirmeat or horns, or for some lust for blood--that was Helen's definitionof a hunter, and she believed it was held by the majority of peopleliving in settled states. But the majority might be wrong. A huntermight be vastly different, and vastly more than a tracker and slayerof game. The mountain world of forest was a mystery to almost all men.Perhaps Dale knew its secrets, its life, its terror, its beauty, itssadness, and its joy; and if so, how full, how wonderful must be hismind! He spoke of men as no better than wolves. Could a lonely lifein the wilderness teach a man that? Bitterness, envy, jealousy, spite,greed, and hate--these had no place in this hunter's heart. It was notHelen's shrewdness, but a woman's intuition, which divined that.
Dale rose to his feet and, turning his ear to the north, listened oncemore.
"Are you expecting Roy still?" inquired Helen.
"No, it ain't likely he'll turn up to-night," replied Dale, and then hestrode over to put a hand on the pine-tree that soared above where thegirls lay. His action, and the way he looked up at the tree-top and thenat adjacent trees, held more of that significance which so interestedHelen.
"I reckon he's stood there some five hundred years an' will standthrough to-night," muttered Dale.
This pine was the monarch of that wide-spread group.
"Listen again," said Dale.
Bo was asleep. And Helen, listening, at once caught low, distant roar.
"Wind. It's goin' to storm," explained Dale. "You'll hear somethin'worth while. But don't be scared. Reckon we'll be safe. Pines blow downoften. But this fellow will stand any fall wind that ever was.... Betterslip under the blankets so I can pull the tarp up."
Helen slid down, just as she was, fully dressed except for boots, whichshe and Bo had removed; and she laid her head close to Bo's. Dale pulledthe tarpaulin up and folded it back just below their heads.
"When it rains you'll wake, an' then just pull the tarp up over you," hesaid.
"Will it rain?" Helen asked. But she was thinking that this momentwas the strangest that had ever happened to her. By the light of thecamp-fire she saw Dale's face, just as usual, still, darkly serene,expressing no thought. He was kind, but he was not thinking of thesesisters as girls, alone with him in a pitch-black forest, helpless anddefenseless. He did not seem to be thinking at all. But Helen had neverbefore in her life been so keenly susceptible to experience.
"I'll be close by an' keep the fire goin' all night," he said.
She heard him stride off into the darkness. Presently there came adragging, bumping sound, then a crash of a log dropped upon the fire.A cloud of sparks shot up, and many pattered down to hiss upon the dampground. Smoke again curled upward along the great, seamed tree-trunk,and flames sputtered and crackled.
Helen listened again for the roar of wind. It seemed to come on a breathof air that fanned her cheek and softly blew Bo's curls, and it wasstronger. But it died out presently, only to come again, and stillstronger. Helen realized then that the sound was that of an approachingstorm. Her heavy eyelids almost refused to stay open, and she knew ifshe let them close she would instantly drop to sleep. And she wanted tohear the storm-wind in the pines.
A few drops of cold rain fell upon her face, thrilling her with theproof that no roof stood between her and the elements. Then a breezebore the smell of burnt wood into her face, and somehow her quick mindflew to girlhood days when she burned brush and leaves with her littlebrothers. The memory faded. The roar that had seemed distant was nowback in the forest, coming swiftly, increasing in volume. Like astream in flood it bore down. Helen grew amazed, startled. How rushing,oncoming, and heavy this storm-wind! She likened its approach to thetread of an army. Then the roar filled the forest, yet it was back therebehind her. Not a pine-needle quivered in the light of the camp-fire.But the air seemed to be oppressed with a terrible charge. The roaraugmented till it was no longer a roar, but an on-sweeping crash, likean ocean torrent engulfing the earth. Bo awoke to cling to Helenwith fright. The deafening storm-blast was upon them. Helen felt thesaddle-pillow move under her head. The giant pine had trembled to itsvery roots. That mighty fury of wind was all aloft, in the tree-tops.And for a long moment it bowed the forest under its tremendous power.Then the deafening crash passed to roar, and that swept on and on,lessening in volume, deepening in low detonation, at last to die in thedistance.
No sooner had it died than back to the north another low roar rose andceased and rose again. Helen lay there, whispering to Bo, and heardagain the great wave of wind come and crash and cease. That was the wayof this storm-wind of the mountain forest.
A soft patter of rain on the tarpaulin warned Helen to remember Dale'sdirections, and, pulling up the heavy covering, she arranged it hoodlikeover the saddle. Then, with Bo close and warm beside her, she closedher eyes, and the sense of the black forest and the wind and rainfaded. Last of all sensations was the smell of smoke that blew under thetarpaulin.
When she opened her eyes she remembered everything, as if only a momenthad elapsed. But it was daylight,
though gray and cloudy. The pines weredripping mist. A fire crackled cheerily and blue smoke curled upward anda savory odor of hot coffee hung in the air. Horses were standingnear by, biting and kicking at one another. Bo was sound asleep. Daleappeared busy around the camp-fire. As Helen watched the hunter shesaw him pause in his task, turn his ear to listen, and then lookexpectantly. And at that juncture a shout pealed from the forest.Helen recognized Roy's voice. Then she heard a splashing of water, andhoof-beats coming closer. With that the buckskin mustang trotted intocamp, carrying Roy.
"Bad mornin' for ducks, but good for us," he called.
"Howdy, Roy!" greeted Dale, and his gladness was unmistakable. "I waslookin' for you."
Roy appeared to slide off the mustang without effort, and his swifthands slapped the straps as he unsaddled. Buckskin was wet with sweatand foam mixed with rain. He heaved. And steam rose from him.
"Must have rode hard," observed Dale.
"I shore did," replied Roy. Then he espied Helen, who had sat up, withhands to her hair, and eyes staring at him.
"Mornin', miss. It's good news."
"Thank Heaven!" murmured Helen, and then she shook Bo. That young ladyawoke, but was loath to give up slumber. "Bo! Bo! Wake up! Mr. Roy isback."
Whereupon Bo sat up, disheveled and sleepy-eyed.
"Oh-h, but I ache!" she moaned. But her eyes took in the camp scene tothe effect that she added, "Is breakfast ready?"
"Almost. An' flapjacks this mornin'," replied Dale.
Bo manifested active symptoms of health in the manner with which shelaced her boots. Helen got their traveling-bag, and with this theyrepaired to a flat stone beside the spring, not, however, out of earshotof the men.
"How long are you goin' to hang around camp before tellin' me?" inquiredDale.
"Jest as I figgered, Milt," replied Roy. "Thet rider who passed you wasa messenger to Anson. He an' his gang got on our trail quick. About teno'clock I seen them comin'. Then I lit out for the woods. I stayed offin the woods close enough to see where they come in. An' shore theylost your trail. Then they spread through the woods, workin' off to thesouth, thinkin', of course, thet you would circle round to Pine on thesouth side of Old Baldy. There ain't a hoss-tracker in Snake Anson'sgang, thet's shore. Wal, I follered them for an hour till they'd rustledsome miles off our trail. Then I went back to where you struck intothe woods. An' I waited there all afternoon till dark, expectin' mebbethey'd back-trail. But they didn't. I rode on a ways an' camped in thewoods till jest before daylight."
"So far so good," declared Dale.
"Shore. There's rough country south of Baldy an' along the two or threetrails Anson an' his outfit will camp, you bet."
"It ain't to be thought of," muttered Dale, at some idea that had struckhim.
"What ain't?"
"Goin' round the north side of Baldy."
"It shore ain't," rejoined Roy, bluntly.
"Then I've got to hide tracks certain--rustle to my camp an' stay theretill you say it's safe to risk takin' the girls to Pine."
"Milt, you're talkin' the wisdom of the prophets."
"I ain't so sure we can hide tracks altogether. If Anson had any eyesfor the woods he'd not have lost me so soon.
"No. But, you see, he's figgerin' to cross your trail."
"If I could get fifteen or twenty mile farther on an' hide trackscertain, I'd feel safe from pursuit, anyway," said the hunter,reflectively.
"Shore an' easy," responded Roy, quickly. "I jest met up with somegreaser sheep-herders drivin' a big flock. They've come up from thesouth an' are goin' to fatten up at Turkey Senacas. Then they'll driveback south an' go on to Phenix. Wal, it's muddy weather. Now you breakcamp quick an' make a plain trail out to thet sheep trail, as if youwas travelin' south. But, instead, you ride round ahead of thet flock ofsheep. They'll keep to the open parks an' the trails through them necksof woods out here. An', passin' over your tracks, they'll hide 'em."
"But supposin' Anson circles an' hits this camp? He'll track me easy outto that sheep trail. What then?"
"Jest what you want. Goin' south thet sheep trail is downhill an' muddy.It's goin' to rain hard. Your tracks would get washed out even if youdid go south. An' Anson would keep on thet way till he was clear off thescent. Leave it to me, Milt. You're a hunter. But I'm a hoss-tracker."
"All right. We'll rustle."
Then he called the girls to hurry.