The Forester's Daughter: A Romance of the Bear-Tooth Range

by Hamlin Garland

  VII

  THE WALK IN THE RAIN

  Norcross, with his city training, was acutely conscious of the delicacyof the situation. In his sister's circle a girl left alone in this waywith a man would have been very seriously embarrassed; but it was evidentthat Berrie took it all joyously, innocently. Their being together wassomething which had happened in the natural course of weather, acondition for which they were in no way responsible. Therefore shepermitted herself to be frankly happy in the charm of their enforcedintimacy.

  She had never known a youth of his quality. He was so considerate, sorefined, so quick of understanding, and so swift to serve. He filled hermind to the exclusion of unimportant matters like the snow, which wasbeginning again; indeed, her only anxiety concerned his health, and as hetoiled amid the falling flakes, intent upon heaping up wood enough tolast out the night, she became solicitous.

  "You will be soaked," she warningly cried. "Don't stay out any more. Cometo the fire. I'll bring in the wood."

  Something primeval, some strength he did not know he possessed sustainedhim, and he toiled on. "Suppose this snow keeps falling?" he retorted."The Supervisor will not be able to get back to-night--perhaps not for acouple of nights. We will need a lot of fuel."

  He did not voice the fear of the storm which filled his thought; but thegirl understood it. "It won't be very cold," she calmly replied. "Itnever is during these early blizzards; and, besides, all we need to do isto drop down the trail ten miles and we'll be entirely out of it."

  "I'll feel safer with plenty of wood," he argued; but soon found itnecessary to rest from his labors. Coming in to camp, he seated himselfbeside her on a roll of blankets, and so together they tended the fireand watched the darkness roll over the lake till the shining crystalsseemed to drop from a measureless black arch, soundless and oppressive.The wind died away, and the trees stood as if turned into bronze,moveless, save when a small branch gave way and dropped its rimy burden,or a squirrel leaped from one top to another. Even the voice of thewaterfall seemed muffled and remote.

  "I'm a long way from home and mother," Wayland said, with a smile;"but--I like it."

  "Isn't it fun?" she responded. "In a way it's nicer on account of thestorm. But you are not dressed right; you should have waterproof boots.You never can tell when you may be set afoot. You should always goprepared for rain and snow, and, above all, have an extra pair of thickstockings. Your feet are soaked now, aren't they?"

  "They are; but your father told me to always dry my boots on my feet,otherwise they'd shrink out of shape."

  "That's right, too; but you'd better take 'em off and wring out yoursocks or else put on dry ones."

  "You insist on my playing the invalid," he complained, "and that makes meangry. When I've been over here a month you'll find me a glutton forhardship. I shall be a bear, a grizzly, fearful to contemplate. My roarwill affright you."

  She laughed like a child at his ferocity. "You'll have to change a wholelot," she said, and drew the blanket closer about his shoulders. "Justnow your job is to keep warm and dry. I hope you won't get lonesome overhere."

  "I'm not going to open a book or read a newspaper. I'm not going to writeto a single soul except you. I'll be obliged to report to you, won't I?"

  "I'm not the Supervisor."

  "You're the next thing to it," he quickly retorted. "You've been my boardof health from the very first. I should have fled for home long ago hadit not been for you."

  Her eyes fell under his glance. "You'll get pretty tired of things overhere. It's one of the lonesomest stations in the forest."

  "I'll get lonesome for you; but not for the East." This remark, or ratherthe tone in which it was uttered, brought another flush of consciousnessto the girl's face.

  "What time is it now?" she asked, abruptly.

  He looked at his watch. "Half after eight."

  "If father isn't on this side of the divide now he won't try to cross. Ifhe's coming down the slope he'll be here in an hour, although that trailis a tolerably tough proposition this minute. A patch of dead timber on adark night is sure a nuisance, even to a good man. He may not make it."

  "Shall I fire my gun?"

  "What for?"

  "As a signal to him."

  This amused her. "Daddy don't need any hint about direction--what heneeds is a light to see the twist of the trail through those fallenlogs."

  "Couldn't I rig up a torch and go to meet him?"

  She put her hand on his arm. "You stay right here!" she commanded. "Youcouldn't follow that trail five minutes."

  "You have a very poor opinion of my skill."

  "No, I haven't; but I know how hard it is to keep direction on a nightlike this and I don't want you wandering around in the timber. Father cantake care of himself. He's probably sitting under a big tree smoking hispipe before his fire--or else he's at home. He knows we're all right, andwe are. We have wood and grub, and plenty of blankets, and a roof overus. You can make your bed under this fly," she said, looking up at thecanvas. "It beats the old balsam as a roof. You mustn't sleep coldagain."

  "I think I'd better sit up and keep the fire going," he replied,heroically. "There's a big log out there that I'm going to bring in toroll up on the windward side."

  "It'll be cold and wet early in the morning, and I don't like to huntkindling in the snow," she said. "I always get everything ready the nightbefore. I wish you had a better bed. It seems selfish of me to have thetent while you are cold."

  One by one--under her supervision--he made preparations for morning. Hecut some shavings from a dead, dry branch of fir and put them under thefly, and brought a bucket of water from the creek, and then together theydragged up the dead tree.

  Had the young man been other than he was, the girl's purity, candor, andself-reliance would have conquered him, and when she withdrew to thelittle tent and let fall the frail barrier between them, she was as safefrom intrusion as if she had taken refuge behind gates of triple brass.Nothing in all his life had moved him so deeply as her solicitude, hersweet trust in his honor, and he sat long in profound meditation. Any manwould be rich in the ownership of her love, he admitted. That hepossessed her pity and her friendship he knew, and he began to wonder ifhe had made a deeper appeal to her than this.

  "Can it be that I am really a man to her," he thought, "I who am only apoor weakling whom the rain and snow can appall?"

  Then he thought of the effect of this night upon her life. What wouldClifford Belden do now? To what deeps would his rage descend if he shouldcome to know of it?

  Berrie was serene. Twice she spoke from her couch to say: "You'd bettergo to bed. Daddy can't get here till to-morrow now."

  "I'll stay up awhile yet. My boots aren't entirely dried out."

  As the flame sank low the cold bit, and he built up the half-burned logsso that they blazed again. He worked as silently as he could; but thegirl again spoke, with sweet authority: "Haven't you gone to bed yet?"

  "Oh yes, I've been asleep. I only got up to rebuild the fire."

  "I'm afraid you're cold."

  "I'm as comfortable as I deserve; it's all schooling, you know. Please goto sleep again." His teeth were chattering as he spoke, but he added:"I'm all right."

  After a silence she said: "You must not get chilled. Bring your bed intothe tent. There is room for you."

  "Oh no, that isn't necessary. I'm standing it very well."

  "You'll be sick!" she urged, in a voice of alarm. "Please drag your bedinside the door. What would I do if you should have pneumonia to-morrow?You must not take any risk of a fever."

  The thought of a sheltered spot, of something to break the remorselesswind, overcame his scruples, and he drew his bed inside the tent andrearranged it there.

  "You're half frozen," she said. "Your teeth are chattering."

  "It isn't so much the cold," he stammered. "I'm tired."

  "You poor boy!" she exclaimed, and rose in her bed. "I'll get up and heatsome water for you."

  "I'll b
e all right, in a few moments," he said. "Please go to sleep. Ishall be snug as a bug in a moment."

  She watched his shadowy motions from her bed, and when at last he hadnestled into his blankets, she said: "If you don't lose your chill I'llheat a rock and put at your feet."

  He was ready to cry out in shame of his weakness; but he lay silent tillhe could command his voice, then he said: "That would drive me from thecountry in disgrace. Think of what the fellows down below will say whenthey know of my cold feet."

  "They won't hear of it; and, besides, it is better to carry a hot-waterbag than to be laid up with a fever."

  Her anxiety lessened as his voice resumed its pleasant tenor flow. "Deargirl," he said, "no one could have been sweeter--more like a guardianangel to me. Don't place me under any greater obligation. Go to sleep. Iam better--much better now."

  She did not speak for a few moments, then in a voice that conveyed to hima knowledge that his words of endearment had deeply moved her, she softlysaid: "Good night."

  He heard her sigh drowsily thereafter once or twice, and then she slept,and her slumber redoubled in him his sense of guardianship, ofresponsibility. Lying there in the shelter of her tent, the wholesituation seemed simple, innocent, and poetic; but looked at from thestandpoint of Clifford Belden it held an accusation.

  "It cannot be helped," he said. "The only thing we can do is to concealthe fact that we spent the night beneath this tent alone."

  In the belief that the way would clear with the dawn, he, too, fellasleep, while the fire sputtered and smudged in the fitful mountainwind.

  The second dawn came slowly, as though crippled by the storm and walledback by the clouds. Gradually, austerely, the bleak, white peaks began todefine themselves above the firs. The camp-birds called cheerily from thewet branches which overhung the smoldering embers of the fire, and so atlast day was abroad in the sky.

  With a dull ache in his bones, Wayland crept out to the fire and set towork fanning the coals with his hat, as he had seen the Supervisor do. Heworked desperately till one of the embers began to angrily sparkle and tosmoke. Then slipping away out of earshot he broke an armful of dry firbranches to heap above the wet, charred logs. Soon these twigs broke intoflame, and Berrie, awakened by the crackle of the pine branches, calledout: "Is it daylight?"

  "Yes, but it's a very _dark_ daylight. Don't leave your warm bed for thedampness and cold out here; stay where you are; I'll get breakfast."

  "How are you this morning? Did you sleep?"

  "Fine!"

  "I'm afraid you had a bad night," she insisted, in a tone which indicatedher knowledge of his suffering.

  "Camp life has its disadvantages," he admitted, as he put the coffee-poton the fire. "But I'm feeling better now. I never fried a bird in mylife, but I'm going to try it this morning. I have some water heating foryour bath." He put the soap, towel, and basin of hot water just insidethe tent flap. "Here it is. I'm going to bathe in the lake. I must showmy hardihood."

  He heard her protesting as he went off down the bank, but his heart wasresolute. "I'm not dead yet," he said, grimly. "An invalid who can spendtwo such nights as these, and still face a cold wind, has some vitalityin his bones after all."

  When he returned he found the girl full dressed, alert, and glowing; butshe greeted him with a touch of shyness and self-consciousness new toher, and her eyes veiled themselves before his glance.

  "_Now_, where do you suppose the Supervisor is?" he asked.

  "I hope he's at home," she replied, quite seriously. "I'd hate to thinkof him camped in the high country without bedding or tent."

  "Oughtn't I to take a turn up the trail and see? I feel guilty somehow--Imust do something!"

  "You can't help matters any by hoofing about in the mud. No, we'll justhold the fort till he comes, that's what he'll expect us to do."

  He submitted once more to the force of her argument, and they atebreakfast in such intimacy and good cheer that the night's discomfortsand anxieties counted for little. As the sun broke through the cloudsBerrie hung out the bedding in order that its dampness might be warmedaway.

  "We may have to camp here again to-night," she explained, demurely.

  "Worse things could happen than that," he gallantly answered. "I wouldn'tmind a month of it, only I shouldn't want it to rain or snow all thetime."

  "Poor boy! You did suffer, didn't you? I was afraid you would. Did yousleep at all?" she asked, tenderly.

  "Oh yes, after I came inside; but, of course, I was more or less restlessexpecting your father to ride up, and then it's all rather excitingbusiness to a novice. I could hear all sorts of birds and beasts steppingand fluttering about. I was scared in spite of my best resolution."

  "That's funny; I never feel that way. I slept like a log after I knew youwere comfortable. You must have a better bed and more blankets. It'salways cold up here."

  The sunlight was short-lived. The clouds settled over the peaks, andragged wisps of gray vapor dropped down the timbered slopes of theprodigious amphitheater in which the lake lay. Again Berrie madeeverything snug while her young woodsman toiled at bringing logs for thefire.

  In truth, he was more elated than he had been since leaving school, forhe was not only doing a man's work in the world, he was serving a womanin the immemorial way of the hewer of wood and the carrier of water. Hisfatigue and the chill of the morning wore away, and he took vast pride indragging long poles down the hillside, forcing Berrie to acknowledge thathe was astonishingly strong. "But don't overdo it," she warned.

  At last fully provided for, they sat contentedly side by side under theawning and watched the falling rain as it splashed and sizzled on thesturdy fire. "It's a little like being shipwrecked on a desert island,isn't it?" he said. "As if our boats had drifted away."

  At noon she again prepared an elaborate meal. She served potatoes andgrouse, hot biscuit with sugar syrup, and canned peaches, and coffee doneto just the right color and aroma. He declared it wonderful, and they atewith repeated wishes that the Supervisor might turn up in time to sharetheir feast; but he did not. Then Berrie said, firmly: "Now you must takea snooze, you look tired."

  He was, in truth, not only drowsy but lame and tired. Therefore, heyielded to her suggestion.

  She covered him with blankets and put him away like a child. "Now youhave a good sleep," she said, tenderly. "I'll call you when daddycomes."

  With a delicious sense of her protecting care he lay for a few momentslistening to the drip of the water on the tent, then drifted away intopeace and silence.

  When he woke the ground was again covered with snow, and the girl wasfeeding the fire with wood which her own hands had supplied.

  Hearing him stir, she turned and fixed her eyes upon him with clear, softgaze. "How do you feel by now?" she asked.

  "Quite made over," he replied, rising alertly.

  His cheer, however, was only pretense. He was greatly worried. "Somethinghas happened to your father," he said. "His horse has thrown him, or hehas slipped and fallen." His peace and exultation were gone. "How far isit down to the ranger station?"

  "About twelve miles."

  "Don't you think we'd better close camp and go down there? It is nowthree o'clock; we can walk it in five hours."

  She shook her head. "No, I think we'd better stay right here. It's along, hard walk, and the trail is muddy."

  "But, dear girl," he began, desperately, "it won't do for us to camphere--alone--in this way another night. What will Cliff say?"

  She flamed red, then whitened. "I don't care what Cliff thinks--I'm donewith him--and no one that I really care about would blame us." She wasfully aware of his anxiety now. "It isn't our fault."

  "It will be _my_ fault if I keep you here longer!" he answered. "We mustreach a telephone and send word out. Something may have happened to yourfather."

  "I'm not worried a bit about him. It may be that there's been a bigsnowfall up above us--or else a windstorm. The trail may be blocked; butdon't worry. He may have to
go round by Lost Lake pass." She pondered amoment. "I reckon you're right. We'd better pack up and rack down thetrail to the ranger's cabin. Not on my account, but on yours. I'm afraidyou've taken cold."

  "I'm all right, except I'm very lame; but I am anxious to go on. By theway, is this ranger Settle married?"

  "No, his station is one of the lonesomest cabins on the forest. No womanwill stay there."

  This made Wayland ponder. "Nevertheless," he decided, "we'll go. Afterall, the man is a forest officer, and you are the Supervisor'sdaughter."

  She made no further protest, but busied herself closing the panniers andputting away the camp utensils. She seemed to recognize that his judgmentwas sound.

  It was after three when they left the tent and started down the trail,carrying nothing but a few toilet articles.

  He stopped at the edge of the clearing. "Should we have left a note forthe Supervisor?"

  She pointed to their footprints. "There's all the writing he needs," sheassured him, leading the way at a pace which made him ache. She plashedplumply into the first puddle in the path. "No use dodging 'em," shecalled over her shoulder, and he soon saw that she was right.

  The trees were dripping, the willows heavy with water, and the mudankle-deep--in places--but she pushed on steadily, and he, following inher tracks, could only marvel at her strength and sturdy self-reliance.The swing of her shoulders, the poise of her head, and the lithe movementof her waist, made his own body seem a poor thing.

  For two hours they zigzagged down a narrow canyon heavily timbered withfir and spruce--a dark, stern avenue, crossed by roaring streams, andfilled with frequent boggy meadows whereon the water lay mid-leg deep.

  "We'll get out of this very soon," she called, cheerily.

  By degrees the gorge widened, grew more open, more genial. Aspen thicketsof pale-gold flashed upon their eyes like sunlight, and grassy bunchesafforded firmer footing, but on the slopes their feet slipped and slidpainfully. Still Berea kept her stride. "We must get to the middle forkbefore dark," she stopped to explain, "for I don't know the trail downthere, and there's a lot of down timber just above the station. Now thatwe're cut loose from our camp I feel nervous. As long as I have a tent Iam all right; but now we are in the open I worry. How are you standingit?" She studied him with keen and anxious glance, her hand upon hisarm.

  "Fine as a fiddle," he replied, assuming a spirit he did not possess,"but you are marvelous. I thought cowgirls couldn't walk?"

  "I can do anything when I have to," she replied. "We've got three hoursmore of it." And she warningly exclaimed: "Look back there!"

  They had reached a point from which the range could be seen, and beholdit was covered deep with a seamless robe of new snow.

  "That's why dad didn't get back last night. He's probably wallowing alongup there this minute." And she set off again with resolute stride.Wayland's pale face and labored breath alarmed her. She was filled withlove and pity, but she pressed forward desperately.

  As he grew tired, Wayland's boots, loaded with mud, became fetters, andevery slope greasy with mire seemed an almost insurmountable barricade.He fell several times, but made no outcry. "I will not add to heranxiety," he said to himself.

  At last they came to the valley floor, over which a devastating fire hadrun some years before, and which was still covered with fallen trees indesolate confusion. Here the girl made her first mistake. She kept ontoward the river, although Wayland called attention to a trail leading tothe right up over the low grassy hills. For a mile the path was clear,but she soon found herself confronted by an endless maze of blackenedtree-trunks, and at last the path ended abruptly.

  Dismayed and halting, she said: "We've got to go back to that trail whichbranched off to the right. I reckon that was the highland trail whichSettle made to keep out of the swamp. I thought it was a trail fromCameron Peak, but it wasn't. Back we go."

  She was suffering keenly now, not on her own account, but on his, for shecould see that he was very tired, and to climb up that hill again waslike punishing him a second time.

  When she picked up the blazed trail it was so dark that she couldscarcely follow it; but she felt her way onward, turning often to be surethat he was following. Once she saw him fall, and cried out: "It's ashame to make you climb this hill again. It's all my fault. I ought tohave known that that lower road led down into the timber."

  Standing close beside him in the darkness, knowing that he was weary,wet, and ill, she permitted herself the expression of her love and pity.Putting her arm about him, she drew his cheek against her own, saying:"Poor boy, your hands are cold as ice." She took them in her own warmclasp. "Oh, I wish we had never left the camp! What does it matter whatpeople say?" Then she broke down and wailed. "I shall never forgivemyself if you--" Her voice failed her.

  SHE FOUND HERSELF CONFRONTED BY AN ENDLESS MAZEOF BLACKENED TREE-TRUNKS]

  He bravely reassured her: "I'm not defeated, I'm just tired. That's all.I can go on."

  "But you are shaking."

  "That is merely a nervous chill. I'm good for another hour. It's betterto keep moving, anyhow."

  She thrust her hand under his coat and laid it over his heart. "You aretired out," she said, and there was anguish in her voice. "Your heart ispounding terribly. You mustn't do any more climbing. And, hark, there's awolf!"

  He listened. "I hear him; but we are both armed. There's no danger fromwild animals."

  "Come!" she said, instantly recovering her natural resolution. "We can'tstand here. The station can't be far away. We must go on."