The Chalice Of Courage: A Romance of Colorado

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER XXI

  THE CHALLENGE OF THE RANGE

  Mr. James Armstrong sat at his desk before the west window of hisprivate room in one of the tallest buildings in Denver. His suite ofoffices was situated on one of the top floors and from it over theintervening house tops and other buildings, he had a clear andunobstructed view of the mighty range. The earth was covered with snow.It had fallen steadily through the night but with the dawn the air hadcleared and the sun had come out brightly although it was very cold.

  Letters, papers, documents, the demands of a business extensive andvaried, were left unnoticed. He sat with his elbow on the desk and hishead on his hand, looking moodily at the range. In the month that hadelapsed since he had received news of Enid Maitland's disappearance hehad sat often in that way, in that place, staring at the range, a preyto most despondent reflections, heavy hearted and disconsolate indeed.

  After that memorable interview with Mr. Stephen Maitland in Philadelphiahe had deemed it proper to await there the arrival of Mr. RobertMaitland. A brief conversation with that distracted gentleman had puthim in possession of all the facts in the case. As Robert Maitland hadsaid, after his presentation of the tragic story, the situation wasquite hopeless. Even Armstrong reluctantly admitted that her uncle andold Kirkby had done everything that was possible for the rescue ordiscovery of the girl.

  Therefore the two despondent gentlemen had shortly after returned totheir western homes, Robert Maitland in this instance being accompaniedby his brother Stephen. The latter never knew how much his daughter hadbeen to him until this evil fate had befallen her. Robert Maitland hadpromised to inaugurate a thorough and extensive search to solve themystery of her death, which he felt was certain, in the spring when theweather permitted humanity to have free course through the mountains.

  Mr. Stephen Maitland found a certain melancholy satisfaction in being atleast near the place where neither he nor anyone had any doubt hisdaughter's remains lay hid beneath the snow or ice on the mountains inthe freezing cold. Robert Maitland had no other idea than that Enid'sbody was in the lake. He intended to drain it--an engineering task of nogreat difficulty--and yet he intended also to search the hills formiles on either side of the main stream down which she had gone; for shemight possibly have strayed away and died of starvation and exposurerather than drowning. At any rate he would leave nothing undone todiscover her.

  He had strenuously opposed Armstrong's recklessly expressed intention ofgoing into the mountains immediately to search for her. Armstrong wasnot easily moved from any purpose he once entertained or lightly to behindered from attempting any enterprise that he projected, but by thetime the party reached Denver the winter had set in and even he realizedthe futility of any immediate search for a dead body lost in themountains. Admitting that Enid was dead the conclusions were sound ofcourse.

  The others pointed out to Armstrong that if the woman they all loved hadby any fortunate chance escaped the cloud burst she must inevitably haveperished from cold, starvation and exposure in the mountain long since.There was scarcely a possibility that she could have escaped the flood,but if she had it would only to be devoted to death a little later. Ifshe was not in the lake what remained of her would be in some lateralcanyon. It would be impossible to discover her body in the deep snowsuntil the spring and the warm weather came. When the snows melted whatwas concealed would be revealed. Alone, she could do nothing. Andadmitting again that Enid was alone this conclusion was as sound as theother.

  Now no one had the faintest hope that Enid Maitland was yet alive exceptperhaps her father, Mr. Stephen Maitland. They could not convince him,he was so old and set in his opinions and so utterly unfamiliar with theconditions that they tried to describe to him, that he clung to hisbelief in spite of all, and finally they let him take such comfort as hecould from his vain hope without any further attempt at contradiction.

  In spite of all the arguments, however, Mr. James Armstrong was notsatisfied. He was as hopeless as the rest, but his temperament would notpermit him to accept the inevitable calmly. It was barely possible thatshe might not be dead and that she might not be alone. There wasscarcely enough possibility of this to justify a suspicion, but that isnot saying there was none at all.

  Day after day he had sat in his office denying himself to everyone andrefusing to consider anything, brooding over the situation. He lovedEnid Maitland, he loved her before and now that he had lost her he lovedher still more.

  Not altogether admirable had been James Armstrong's outwardly successfulcareer. In much that is high and noble and manly his actions--and hischaracter--had often been lacking, but even the base can love andsometimes love transforms if it be given a chance. The passion of Cymonfor Iphigenia, made a man and prince out of the rustic boor. His reallove for Enid Maitland might have done more for Armstrong than hehimself or anyone who knew him as he was--and few there were who hadsuch knowledge of him--dreamed was possible. There was one thing thatlove could not do, however; it could not make him a patient philosopher,a good waiter. His rule of life was not very high, but in one way it wasadmirable in that prompt bold decisive action was its chiefestcharacteristic.

  On this certain morning a month after the heart breaking disaster hispower of passive endurance had been strained to the vanishing point. Thegreat white range was flung in his face like a challenge. Within itssecret recesses lay the solution of the mystery. Somewhere, dead oralive, beyond the soaring rampart was the woman he loved. It wasimpossible for him to remain quiet any longer. Common sense, reason,every argument that had been adduced, suddenly became of no weight. Helifted his head and stared straight westward. His eyes swept the longsemi-circle of the horizon across which the mighty range was drawn likethe chord of a gigantic arc or the string of a mighty bow. Each whitepeak mocked him, the insolent aggression of the range called himirresistibly to action.

  "By God," he said under his breath, rising to his feet, "winter or nowinter, I go."

  Robert Maitland had offices in the same building. Having once come to afinal determination there was no more uncertainty or hesitation aboutArmstrong's course. In another moment he was standing in the privateroom of his friend. The two men were not alone there. Stephen Maitlandsat in a low chair before another window removed from the desk somewhat,staring out at the range. The old man was huddled down in his seat,every line of his figure spoke of grief and despair. Of all the placesin Denver he liked best his brother's office fronting the rampart of themountains, and hour after hour he sat there quietly looking at thesummits, sometimes softly shrouded in white, sometimes swept bare by thefierce winter gales that blew across them, sometimes shining andsparkling so that the eye could scarce sustain their reflection of thedazzling sun of Colorado; and at other times seen dimly through mists ofwhirling snow.

  Oh, yes, the mountains challenged him also to the other side of therange. His heart yearned for his child, but he was too old to make theattempt. He could only sit and pray and wait with such faint and fadinghope as he could still cherish until the break up of the spring came.For the rest he troubled nobody; nobody noticed him, nobody marked him,nobody minded him. Robert Maitland transacted his business a little moresoftly, a little more gently, that was all. Yet the presence of hisbrother was a living grief and a living reproach to him. Although he wasquite blameless he blamed himself. He did not know how much he had grownto love his niece until he had lost her. His conscience accused himhourly, and yet he knew not where he was at fault or how he could havedone differently. It was a helpless and hopeless situation. To him,therefore, entered Armstrong.

  "Maitland," he began, "I can't stand it any longer, I'm going into themountains."

  "You are mad!"

  "I can't help it. I can't sit here and face them, damn them, and remainquiet."

  "You will never come out alive."

  "Oh, yes I will, but if I don't I swear to God I don't care."

  Old Stephen Maitland rose unsteadily to his feet and gripped the back ofhis chair.

&nbs
p; "Did I hear aright, sir?" he asked with all the polished and gracefulcourtesy of birth and breeding which never deserted him in any emergencywhatsoever. "Do you say--"

  "I said I was going into the mountains to search for her."

  "It is madness," urged Robert Maitland.

  But the old man did not hear him.

  "Thank God!" he exclaimed with deep feeling. "I have sat here day afterday and watched those mighty hills, and I have said to myself that if Ihad youth and strength as I have love, I would not wait."

  "You are right," returned Armstrong, equally moved, and indeed it wouldhave been hard to have heard and seen that father unresponsively, "and Iam not going to wait either."

  "I understand your feeling, Jim, and yours too, Steve," began RobertMaitland, arguing against his own emotions, "but even if she escaped theflood, she must be dead by this time."

  "You needn't go over the old arguments, Bob. I'm going into themountains and I'm going now. No," he continued swiftly, as the otheropened his mouth to interpose further objections, "you needn't sayanother word. I'm a free agent and I'm old enough to decide what I cando. There is no argument, there is no force, there is no appeal, thereis nothing that will restrain me. I can't sit here and eat my heart outwhen she may be there."

  "But it's impossible!"

  "It isn't impossible. How do I know that there may not have beensomebody in the mountains, she may have wandered to some settlement,some hunter's cabin, some prospector's hut."

  "But we were there for weeks and saw nothing, no evidence of humanity."

  "I don't care. The mountains are filled with secret nooks you could passby within a stone's throw and never see into, she may be in one of them.I suppose she is dead and it's all foolish, this hope, but I'll neverbelieve it until I have examined every square rod within a radius offifty miles from your camp. I'll take the long chance, the longesteven."

  "Well, that's all right," said Robert Maitland. "Of course I intend todo that as soon as the spring opens, but what's the use of trying to doit now?"

  "It's use to me. I'll either go mad here in Denver, or I must go to seekfor her there."

  "But you will never come back if you once get in those mountains alone."

  "I don't care whether I do or not. It's no use, old man, I am going andthat's all there is about it."

  Robert Maitland knew men, he recognized finality when he heard it orwhen he saw it and it was quite evident that he was in the presence ofit then. It was of no use for him or anyone to say more.

  "Very well," he said, "I honor you for your feeling even if I don'tthink much of your common sense."

  "Damn common sense," cried Armstrong triumphantly, "it's love that movesme now."

  At that moment there was a tap on the door. A clerk from an outer officebidden to enter announced that old Kirkby was in the ante-room.

  "Bring him in," directed Maitland, eager to welcome him.

  He fancied that the new comer would undoubtedly assist him in dissuadingArmstrong from his foolhardy, useless enterprise.

  "Mornin', old man," drawled Kirkby.

  "Howdy, Armstrong. My respects to you, sir," he said, sinking his voicea little as he bowed respectfully toward Mr. Stephen Maitland, a verysympathetic look in the old frontiersman's eyes at the sight of thebereaved father.

  "Kirkby, you've come in the very nick of time," at once began RobertMaitland.

  "Allus glad to be Johnny-on-the-spot," smiled the older man.

  "Armstrong here," continued the other intent upon his purpose, "says hecan't wait until the spring and the snows melt, he is going into themountains now to look for Enid."

  Kirkby did not love Armstrong, he did not care for him a little bit, butthere was something in the bold hardihood of the man, something in theway which he met the reckless challenge of the mountains that the oldman and all the others felt that moved the inmost soul of the hardyfrontiersman. He threw an approving glance at him.

  "I tell him that it is absurd, impossible; that he risks his life fornothing, and I want you to tell him the same thing. You know more aboutthe mountains than either of us."

  "Mr. Kirkby," quavered Stephen Maitland, "allow me. I don't want toinfluence you against your better judgment, but if you could sit here asI have done and think that maybe she is there and perhaps alive still,and in need, you would not say a word to deter him."

  "Why, Steve," expostulated Robert Maitland, "surely you know I wouldrisk anything for Enid; somehow it seems as if I were being put in theselfish position by my opposition."

  "No, no," said his brother, "it isn't that. You have your wife andchildren, but this young man--"

  "Well, what do you say, Kirkby? Not that it makes any difference to mewhat anybody says. Come, we are wasting time," interposed Armstrong,who, now that he had made up his mind, was anxious to be off.

  "Jim Armstrong," answered Kirkby decidedly, "I never thought much of youin the past, an' I think sence you've put out this last projick of yournthat I'm entitled to call you a damn fool, w'ich you are, an' I'manother, for I'm goin' into the mountains with you."

  "Oh, thank God!" cried Stephen Maitland fervently.

  "I know you don't like me," answered Armstrong; "that's neither here northere. Perhaps you have cause to dislike me, perhaps you have not; Idon't like you any too well myself; but there is no man on earth I'drather have go with me on a quest of this kind than you, and there's myhand on it."

  Kirkby shook it vigorously.

  "This ain't committin' myself," he said cautiously. "So far's I'mconcerned you ain't good enough for Miss Maitland, but I admires yourspirit, Armstrong, an' I'm goin' with you. Tain't no good, twon'tproduce nothin', most likely we'll never come back agin; but jest thesame I'm goin' along; nobody's goin' to show me the trail; my nerve andgrit w'en it comes to helpin' a young feemale like that girl is as goodas anybody's I guess. You're her father," he drawled on, turning toStephen Maitland, "an' I ain't no kin to her, but by gosh, I believe Ican understand better than anyone else yere what you are feelin'."

  "Kirkby," said Robert Maitland, smiling at the other two, "you have goneclean back on me. I thought you had more sense. But somehow I guess it'scontagious, for I am going along with you two myself."

  "And I, cannot I accompany you?" pleaded Stephen Maitland, eagerlydrawing near to the other three.

  "Not much," said old Kirkby promptly. "You ain't got the stren'th, ol'man, you don't know them mountains, nuther; you'd be helpless on a pairof snow shoes, there ain't anything you could do, you'd jest be a dragon us. Without sayin' anything about myself, w'ich I'm too modest forthat, there ain't three better men in Colorado to tackle this job thanJim Armstrong an' Bob Maitland an'--well, as I said, I won't mention noother names."

  "God bless you all, gentlemen," faltered Stephen Maitland. "I thinkperhaps I may have been wrong, a little prejudiced against the west, youare men that would do honor to any family, to any society inPhiladelphia or anywhere else."

  "Lord love ye," drawled Kirkby, his eyes twinkling, "there ain't nothree men on the Atlantic seaboard that kin match up with two of usyere, to say nothin' of the third."

  "Well," said Robert Maitland, "the thing now is to decide on what's tobe done."

  "My plan," said Armstrong, "is to go to the old camp."

  "Yep," said Kirkby, "that's a good point of deeparture, as my seafarin'father down Cape Cod way used to say, an' wot's next."

  "I am going up the canyon instead of down," said the man, with a flash ofinspiration.

  "That ain't no bad idea nuther," assented the old man; "we looked theground over pretty thoroughly down the canyon, mebbe we can findsomething up it."

  "And what do you propose to take with you?" asked Maitland.

  "What we can carry on the backs of men. We will make a camp somewhereabout where you did. We can get enough husky men up at Morrison who willpack in what we want and with that as a basis we will explore the upperreaches of the range."

  "And when do we start?"

  "There
is a train for Morrison in two hours," answered Armstrong. "Wecan get what we want in the way of sleeping bags and equipment betweennow and then if we hurry about it."

  "Ef we are goin' to do it, we might as well git a move on us," assentedKirkby, making ready to go.

  "Right," answered Robert Maitland grimly. "When three men set out tomake fools of themselves the sooner they get at it and get over with itthe better. I've got some business matters to settle, you two get what'sneeded and I'll bear my share."

  A week later a little band of men on snow shoes, wrapped in furs totheir eyes, every one heavily burdened with a pack, staggered into theclearing where once had been pitched the Maitland camp. The place wascovered with snow of course, but on a shelf of rock half way up thehogback, they found a comparatively level clearing and there, allworking like beavers, they built a rude hut which they covered withcanvas and then with tightly packed snow and which would keep the threewho remained from freezing to death. Fortunately they were favored by abrief period of pleasant weather and a few days served to make asufficiently habitable camp.

  Maitland, Kirkby and Armstrong worked with the rest. There was nothought of search at first. Their lives depended upon the erection of asuitable shelter and it was not until the helpers, leaving their burdensbehind them, had departed that the three men even considered what was tobe done next.

  "We must begin a systematic search to-morrow," said Armstrong decisivelyas the three men sat around the cheerful fire in the hut.

  "Yes," assented Maitland. "Shall we go together, or separately?"

  "Separately, of course. We are all hardy and experienced men, nothing isapt to happen to us, we will meet here every night and plan the nextday's work. What do you say, Kirkby?"

  The old man had been quietly smoking while the others talked. He smiledat them in a way which aroused their curiosity and made them feel thathe had news for them.

  "While you was puttin' the finishin' touches on this yere camp, I comeacrost a heap o' stuns, that somehow the wind had swept bare. There wasa big drift in front of it w'ich kep' us from seein' it afore; it wasbuilt up in the open w'ere there want no trees, an' in our lumberin'operations we want lookin' that-a-way. I came acrost a bottle by chancean'--"

  "Well, for God's sake, old man," cried Armstrong impatiently, "what didyou find in it, anything?"

  "This," answered Kirkby, carefully producing a folded scrap of paperfrom his leather vest.

  Armstrong fell on it ravenously, and as Maitland bent over him they bothread these words by the fire light.

  "_Miss Enid Maitland, whose foot is so badly crushed as to prevent her traveling, is safe in a cabin at the head of this canyon. I put this notice here to reassure any who may be seeking her as to her welfare. Follow the stream up to its source._"

  _Wm. Berkeley Newbold._

  "Thank God!" exclaimed Robert Maitland.

  "You called me a damn fool, Kirkby," said Armstrong, his eyes gleaming."What do you think of it now?"

  "It's the damn fool, I find," said Kirkby sapiently, "that gener'ly gitsthere. Providence seems to be a-watchin' over 'em."

  "You said you chanced on this paper, Jack," continued Maitland, "itlooks to me like the deliberate intention of Almighty God."

  "I reckon so," answered the other simply. "You see He's got to lookafter all the damn fools on earth to keep 'em from doin' too much damageto theirselves an' to others in this yere crooked trail of a world."

  "Let us start now," urged Armstrong.

  "Tain't possible," said the old man, taking another puff at his pipe,and only a glistening of the eye betrayed the joy that he felt;otherwise his phlegmatic calm was unbroken, his demeanor just asundisturbed as it always was. "We'd jest throw away our lives awanderin' round these yere mountains in the dark, we've got to havelight an' clear weather. Ef it should be snowin' in the mornin' we'dhave to wait until it cleared."

  "I won't wait a minute," cried Armstrong. "At daybreak, weather or noweather, I start."

  "What's your hurry, Jim?" continued Kirkby calmly. "The gal's safe, oneday more or less ain't goin' to make no difference."

  "She's with another man," answered Armstrong quickly.

  "Do you know this Newbold?" asked Maitland, looking at the note again.

  "No, not personally, but I have heard of him."

  "I know him," answered Kirkby quickly, "an' you've seed him too, Bob;he's the fellow that shot his wife, that married Louise Rosser."

  "That man!"

  "The very same."

  "You say you never saw him, Jim?" asked Maitland.

  "I repeat I never met him," said Armstrong, flushing suddenly, "but Iknew his wife."

  "Yes, you did that--" drawled the old mountaineer.

  "What do you mean?" flashed Armstrong.

  "I mean that you knowed her, that's all," answered the old man with aninnocent air that was almost childlike.

  When the others woke up in the morning Armstrong's sleeping bag wasempty. Kirkby crawled out of his own warm nest, opened the door andpeered out into the storm.

  "Well," he said, "I guess the damn fool has beat God this time; it don'tlook to me as if even He could save him now."

  "But we must go after him at once," urged Maitland.

  "See for yourself," answered the old man, throwing wider the door."We've got to wait 'til this wind dies down unless we give the Almightythe job o' lookin' after three instid o' one."