The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Forester's Daughter, by Hamlin Garland
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Title: The Forester's Daughter
A Romance of the Bear-Tooth Range
Author: Hamlin Garland
Release Date: August 9, 2008 [EBook #26239]
Language: English
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
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* * *
HER FACE SHONE AS SHE CALLED OUT: “WELL, HOW DO YOU STACK UP THIS MORNING?” (See page 31)
* * *
THE FORESTER’S
DAUGHTER
A ROMANCE OF THE BEAR-TOOTH RANGE
BY
HAMLIN GARLAND
AUTHOR OF
“THE CAPTAIN OF THE GRAY-HORSE TROOP”
“MAIN-TRAVELLED ROADS” ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXIV
* * *
COPYRIGHT. 1914. BY HAMLIN GARLAND
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED FEBRUARY, 1914
A-O
* * *
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Happy Girl 1
II A Ride In The Rain 19
III Wayland Receives a Warning 46
IV The Supervisor of the Forest 68
V The Golden Pathway 82
VI Storm-Bound 110
VII The Walk in the Rain 123
VIII The Other Girl 142
IX Further Perplexities 159
X The Camp on the Pass 173
XI The Death-Grapple 195
XII Berrie’s Vigil 204
XIII The Gossips Awake 223
XIV The Summons 247
XV A Matter of Millinery 260
XVI The Private Car 274
* * *
Illustrations
PAGE
Her Face Shone as She Called Out: “Well, How Do You Stack Up This Morning?” Frontispiece
The Girl Behind Him was a Wondrous Part of This Wild and Unaccountable Country 6
She Found Herself Confronted by an Endless Maze of Blackened Tree-Trunks 140
The Slender Youth Went Down Before the Big Rancher as though Struck by a Catapult 196
* * *
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD
This little story is the outcome of two trips (neither of which was in the Bear Tooth Forest) during the years 1909 and 1910. Its main claim on the reader’s interest will lie, no doubt, in the character of Berea McFarlane; but I find myself re-living with keen pleasure the splendid drama of wind and cloud and swaying forest which made the expeditions memorable.
The golden trail is an actuality for me. The camp on the lake was mine. The rain, the snow I met. The prying camp-robbers, the grouse, the muskrats, the beaver were my companions. But Berrie was with me only in imagination. She is a fiction, born of a momentary, powerful hand-clasp of a Western rancher’s daughter. The story of Wayland Norcross is fiction also. But the McFarlane ranch, the mill, and the lonely ranger-stations are closely drawn pictures of realities. Although the stage of my comedy is Colorado, I have not held to any one locality. The scene is composite.
It was my intention, originally, to write a much longer and more important book concerning Supervisor McFarlane, but Berrie took the story into her own strong hands and made of it something so intimate and so idyllic that I could not bring the more prosaic element into it. It remained personal and youthful in spite of my plans, a divergence for which, perhaps, most of my readers will be grateful.
As for its title, I had little to do with its selection. My daughter, Mary Isabel, aged ten, selected it from among a half-dozen others, and for luck I let it stand, although it sounds somewhat like that of a paper-bound German romance. For the sub-title my publishers are responsible.
Finally, I warn the reader that this is merely the very slender story of a young Western girl who, being desired of three strong men, bestows her love on a “tourist” whose weakness is at once her allurement and her care. The administration problem, the sociologic theme, which was to have made the novel worth while, got lost in some way on the low trail and never caught up with the lovers. I’m sorry—but so it was!
Chicago, January, 1914.
* * *
THE FORESTER’S DAUGHTER
* * *
THE FORESTER’S DAUGHTER
I
THE HAPPY GIRL
The stage line which ran from Williams to Bear Tooth (one of the most authentic then to be found in all the West) possessed at least one genuine Concord coach, so faded, so saddened, so cracked, and so splintered that its passengers entered it under protest, and alighted from it with thanksgiving, and yet it must have been built by honorable men, for in 190- it still made the run of one hundred and twenty miles twice each week without loss of wheel or even so much as moulting a scrap of paint.
And yet, whatever it may have been in its youth, it was in its age no longer a gay dash of color in the landscape. On the contrary, it fitted into the dust-brown and sage-green plain as defensively as a beetle in a dusty path. Nevertheless, it was an indispensable part of a very moving picture as it crept, creaking and groaning (or it may be it was the suffering passenger creaking and groaning), along the hillside.
After leaving the Grande River the road winds up a pretty high divide before plunging down into Ute Park, as they call all that region lying between the Continental Range on the east and the Bear Tooth plateau on the west. It was a big spread of land, and very far from an Eastern man’s conception of a park. From Dome Peak it seems a plain; but, in fact, when clouds shut off the high summits to the west, this “valley” becomes a veritable mountain land, a tumbled, lonely country, over which an occasional horseman crawls, a minute but persistent insect. It is, to be exact, a succession of ridges and ravines, sculptured (in some far-off, post-glacial time) by floods of water, covered now, rather sparsely, with pinons, cedars, and aspens, a dry, forbidding, but majestic landscape.
In late August the hills become iridescent, opaline with the translucent yellow of the aspen, the coral and crimson of the fire-weed, the blood-red of huckleberry beds, and the royal purple of the asters, while flowing round all, as solvent and neutral setting, lies the gray-green of the ever-present and ever-enduring sage-brush. On the loftier heights these colors are arranged in most intricate and cunning patterns, with nothing hard, nothing flaring in the prospect. All is harmonious and restful. It is, moreover, silent, silent as a dream world, and so flooded with light that the senses ache with the stress of it.
Through this gorgeous land of mist, of stillness, and of death, a few years ago a pale young man (seated beside the driver) rode one summer day in a voiceless rapture which made Bill McCoy weary.
“If you’d had as much of this as I have you’d talk of something else,” he growled, after a half dozen attempts at conversation. Bill wasn’t much to look at, but he was a good driver and the stranger respected him for it.
Eventually this simple-minded horseman became curious about the slim young fellow sitting beside him.
“What you doing out here, anyhow—fishing or just rebuilding a lung?”
“Rebuilding two lungs,” answered the tourist.
“Well, this climate will just about put lungs into a coffee-can,�
�� retorted Bill, with official loyalty to his country.
To his discerning eye “the tourist” now became “a lunger.” “Where do you live when you’re to home?”
“Connecticut.”
“I knew it.”
“How did you know it?” The youth seemed really interested to know.
“I drove another fellow up here last fall that dealt out the same kind of brogue you do.”
This amused the tourist. “You think I have a ‘brogue,’ do you?”
“I don’t think it—I know it!” Bill replied, shortly.
He was prevented at the moment from pursuing this line of inquiry by the discovery of a couple of horsemen racing from a distant ranch toward the road. It was plain, even to the stranger, that they intended to intercept the stage, and Bill plied the lash with sudden vigor.
“I’ll give ’em a chase,” said he, grimly.
The other appeared a little alarmed, “What are they—bandits?”
“Bandits!” sneered Bill. “Your eyesight is piercing. Them’s girls.”
The traveler apologized. “My eyes aren’t very good,” he said, hurriedly.
He was, however, quite justified in his mistake, for both riders wore wide-rimmed sombreros and rode astride at a furious pace, bandanas fluttering, skirts streaming, and one was calling in shrill command, “Oh, Bill!”
As they neared the gate the driver drew up with a word of surprise. “Why, howdy, girls, howdy!” he said, with an assumption of innocence. “Were you wishin’ fer to speak to me?”
“Oh, shut up!” commanded one of the girls, a round-faced, freckled romp. “You know perfectly well that Berrie is going home to-day—we told you all about it yesterday.”
“Sure thing!” exclaimed Bill. “I’d forgot all about it.”
“Like nothin’!” exclaimed the maid. “You’ve been countin’ the hours till you got here—I know you.”
Meanwhile her companion had slipped from her horse. “Well, good-by, Molly, wish I could stay longer.”
“Good-by. Run down again.”
“I will. You come up.”
The young passenger sprang to the ground and politely said: “May I help you in?”
Bill stared, the girl smiled, and her companion called: “Be careful, Berrie, don’t hurt yourself, the wagon might pitch.”
The youth, perceiving that he had made another mistake, stammered an apology.
The girl perceived his embarrassment and sweetly accepted his hand. “I am much obliged, all the same.”
Bill shook with malicious laughter. “Out in this country girls are warranted to jump clean over a measly little hack like this,” he explained.
The girl took a seat in the back corner of the dusty vehicle, and Bill opened conversation with her by asking what kind of a time she had been having “in the East.”
“Fine,” said she.
“Did ye get as far back as my old town?”
“What town is that, Bill?”
“Oh, come off! You know I’m from Omaha.”
“No, I only got as far as South Bend.”
The picture which the girl had made as she dashed up to the pasture gate (her hat-rim blown away from her brown face and sparkling eyes), united with the kindliness in her voice as she accepted his gallant aid, entered a deep impression on the tourist’s mind; but he did not turn his head to look at her—perhaps he feared Bill’s elbow quite as much as his guffaw—but he listened closely, and by listening learned that she had been “East” for several weeks, and also that she was known, and favorably known, all along the line, for whenever they met a team or passed a ranch some one called out, “Hello, Berrie!” in cordial salute, and the men, old and young, were especially pleased to see her.
THE GIRL BEHIND HIM WAS A WONDROUS PART OF THIS WILD AND UNACCOUNTABLE COUNTRY
Meanwhile the stage rose and fell over the gigantic swells like a tiny boat on a monster sea, while the sun blazed ever more fervently from the splendid sky, and the hills glowed with ever-increasing tumult of color. Through this land of color, of repose, of romance, the young traveler rode, drinking deep of the germless air, feeling that the girl behind him was a wondrous part of this wild and unaccountable country.
He had no chance to study her face again till the coach rolled down the hill to “Yancy’s,” where they were to take dinner and change horses.
Yancy’s ranch-house stood on the bank of a fine stream which purled—in keen defiance of the hot sun—over a gravel bed, so near to the mountain snows that their coolness still lingered in the ripples. The house, a long, low, log hut, was fenced with antlers of the elk, adorned with morning-glory vines, and shaded by lofty cottonwood-trees, and its green grass-plat—after the sun-smit hills of the long morning’s ride—was very grateful to the Eastern man’s eyes.
With intent to show Bill that he did not greatly fear his smiles, the youth sprang down and offered a hand to assist his charming fellow-passenger to alight; and she, with kindly understanding, again accepted his aid—to Bill’s chagrin—and they walked up the path side by side.
“This is all very new and wonderful to me,” the young man said in explanation; “but I suppose it’s quite commonplace to you—and Bill.”
“Oh no—it’s home!”
“You were born here?”
“No, I was born in the East; but I’ve lived here ever since I was three years old.”
“By East you mean Kansas?”
“No, Missouri,” she laughed back at him.
She was taller than most women, and gave out an air of fine unconscious health which made her good to see, although her face was too broad to be pretty. She smiled easily, and her teeth were white and even. Her hand he noticed was as strong as steel and brown as leather. Her neck rose from her shoulders like that of an acrobat, and she walked with the sense of security which comes from self-reliant strength.
She was met at the door by old lady Yancy, who pumped her hand up and down, exclaiming: “My stars, I’m glad to see ye back! ’Pears like the country is just naturally goin’ to the dogs without you. The dance last Saturday was a frost, so I hear, no snap to the fiddlin’, no gimp to the jiggin’. It shorely was pitiful.”
Yancy himself, tall, grizzled, succinct, shook her hand in his turn. “Ma’s right, girl, the country needs ye. I’m scared every time ye go away fer fear some feller will snap ye up.”
She laughed. “No danger. Well, how are ye all, anyway?” she asked.
“All well, ‘ceptin’ me,” said the little old woman. “I’m just about able to pick at my vittles.”
“She does her share o’ the work, and half the cook’s besides,” volunteered Yancy.
“I know her,” retorted Berrie, as she laid off her hat. “It’s me for a dip. Gee, but it’s dusty on the road!”
The young tourist—he signed W. W. Norcross in Yancy’s register—watched her closely and listened to every word she spoke with an intensity of interest which led Mrs. Yancy to say, privately:
“’Pears like that young ‘lunger’ ain’t goin’ to forgit you if he can help it.”
“What makes you think he’s a ‘lunger’?”
“Don’t haf to think. One look at him is enough.”
Thereafter a softer light—the light of pity—shone in the eyes of the girl. “Poor fellow, he does look kind o’ peaked; but this climate will bring him up to the scratch,” she added, with optimistic faith in her beloved hills.
A moment later the down-coming stage pulled in, loaded to the side-lines, and everybody on it seemed to know Berea McFarlane. It was hello here and hello there, and how are ye between, with smacks from the women and open cries of “pass it around” on the part of the men, till Norcross marveled at the display.
“She seems a great favorite,” he observed to Yancy.
“Who—Berrie? She’s the whole works up at Bear Tooth. Good thing she don’t want to go to Congress—she’d lay Jim Worthy on the shelf.”
Berea’s popularity was not so
remarkable as her manner of receiving it. She took it all as a sort of joke—a good, kindly joke. She shook hands with her male admirers, and smacked the cheeks of her female friends with an air of modest deprecation. “Oh, you don’t mean it,” was one of her phrases. She enjoyed this display of affection, but it seemed not to touch her deeply, and her impartial, humorous acceptance of the courtship of the men was equally charming, though this was due, according to remark, to the claims of some rancher up the line.
She continued to be the theme of conversation at the dinner-table and yet remained unembarrassed, and gave back quite as good as she received.
“If I was Cliff,” declared one lanky admirer, “I’d be shot if I let you out of my sight. It ain’t safe.”
She smiled broadly. “I don’t feel scared.”
“Oh, you’re all right! It’s the other feller—like me—that gets hurt.”
“Don’t worry, you’re old enough and tough enough to turn a steel-jacketed bullet.”
This raised a laugh, and Mrs. Yancy, who was waiting on the table, put in a word: “I’ll board ye free, Berrie, if you’ll jest naturally turn up here regular at meal-time. You do take the fellers’ appetites. It’s the only time I make a cent.”
To the Eastern man this was all very unrestrained and deeply diverting. The people seemed to know all about one another notwithstanding the fact that they came from ranches scattered up and down the stage line twenty, thirty miles apart—to be neighbors in this country means to be anywhere within a sixty-mile ride—and they gossiped of the countryside as minutely as the residents of a village in Wisconsin discuss their kind. News was scarce.
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