The Forester's Daughter

by Garland, Hamlin

  “Hello, old man, what you been doing with yourself? Hitting the high spots?”

  Norcross smiled feebly. “No, the hill flew up and bumped me.”

  “How did it all happen?”

  “I don’t exactly know. It all came of a sudden. I had no share in it—I didn’t go for to do it.”

  “Whether you did or not, you seem to have made a good job of it.”

  Nash examined the wounded man carefully, and his skill and strength in handling Norcross pleased Berrie, though she was jealous of the warm friendship which seemed to exist between the men.

  She had always liked Nash, but she resented him now, especially as he insisted on taking charge of the case; but she gave way finally, and went back to her pots and pans with pensive countenance.

  A little later, when Nash came out to make report, she was not very gracious in her manner. “He’s pretty badly hurt,” he said. “There’s an ugly gash in his scalp, and the shock has produced a good deal of pain and confusion in his head; but he’s going to be all right in a day or two. For a man seeking rest and recuperation he certainly has had a tough run of weather.”

  Though a serious-minded, honorable forester, determined to keep sternly in mind that he was in the presence of the daughter of his chief, and that she was engaged to marry another, Nash was, after all, a man, and the witchery of the hour, the charm of the girl’s graceful figure, asserted their power over him. His eyes grew tender, and his voice eloquent in spite of himself. His words he could guard, but it was hard to keep from his speech the song of the lover. The thought that he was to camp in her company, to help her about the fire, to see her from moment to moment, with full liberty to speak to her, to meet her glance, pleased him. It was the most romantic and moving episode in his life, and though of a rather dry and analytic temperament he had a sense of poesy.

  The night, black, oppressive, and silent, brought a closer bond of mutual help and understanding between them. He built a fire of dry branches close to the tent door, and there sat, side by side with the girl, in the glow of embers, so close to the injured youth that they could talk together, and as he spoke freely, yet modestly, of his experiences Berrie found him more deeply interesting than she had hitherto believed him to be. True, he saw things less poetically than Wayland, but he was finely observant, and a man of studious and refined habits.

  She grew friendlier, and asked him about his work, and especially about his ambitions and plans for the future. They discussed the forest and its enemies, and he wondered at her freedom in speaking of the Mill and saloon. He said: “Of course you know that Alec Belden is a partner in that business, and I’m told—of course I don’t know this—that Clifford Belden is also interested.”

  She offered no defense of young Belden, and this unconcern puzzled him. He had expected indignant protest, but she merely replied: “I don’t care who owns it. It should be rooted out. I hate that kind of thing. It’s just another way of robbing those poor tie-jacks.”

  “Clifford should get out of it. Can’t you persuade him to do so?”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “His relationship to you—”

  “He is not related to me.”

  Her tone amazed him. “You know what I mean.”

  “Of course I do, but you’re mistaken. We’re not related that way any longer.”

  This silenced him for a few moments, then he said: “I’m rather glad of that. He isn’t anything like the man you thought he was—I couldn’t say these things before—but he is as greedy as Alec, only not so open about it.”

  All this comment, which moved the forester so deeply to utter, seemed not to interest Berea. She sat staring at the fire with the calm brow of an Indian. Clifford Belden had passed out of her life as completely as he had vanished out of the landscape. She felt an immense relief at being rid of him, and resented his being brought back even as a subject of conversation.

  Wayland, listening, fancied he understood her desire, and said nothing that might arouse Nash’s curiosity.

  Nash, on his part, knowing that she had broken with Belden, began to understand the tenderness, the anxious care of her face and voice, as she bent above young Norcross. As the night deepened and the cold air stung, he asked: “Have you plenty of blankets for a bed?”

  “Oh yes,” she answered, “but I don’t intend to sleep.”

  “Oh, you must!” he declared. “Go to bed. I will keep the fire going.”

  At last she consented. “I will make my bed right here at the mouth of the tent close to the fire,” she said, “and you can call me if you need me.”

  “Why not put your bed in the tent? It’s going to be cold up here.”

  “I am all right outside,” she protested.

  “Put your bed inside, Miss Berrie. We can’t let conventions count above timber-line. I shall rest better if I know you are properly sheltered.”

  And so it happened that for the third time she shared the same roof with her lover; but the nurse was uppermost in her now. At eleven thousand feet above the sea—with a cold drizzle of fine rain in the air—one does not consider the course of gossip as carefully as in a village, and Berrie slept unbrokenly till daylight.

  Nash was the first to arise in the dusk of dawn, and Berrie, awakened by the crackle of his fire, soon joined him. There is no sweeter sound than the voice of the flame at such a time, in such a place. It endows the bleak mountainside with comfort, makes the ledge a hearthstone. It holds the promise of savory meats and fragrant liquor, and robs the frosty air of its terrors.

  Wayland, hearing their voices, called out, with feeble humor: “Will some one please turn on the steam in my room?”

  Berrie uttered a happy word. “How do you feel this morning?” she asked.

  “Not precisely like a pugilist—well, yes, I believe I do—like the fellow who got second money.”

  “How is the bump?” inquired Nash, thrusting his head inside the door.

  “Reduced to the size of a golf-ball as near as I can judge of it. I doubt if I can wear a hat; but I’m feeling fine. I’m going to get up.”

  Berrie was greatly relieved. “I’m so glad! Do you feel like riding down the hill?”

  “Sure thing! I’m hungry, and as soon as I am fed I’m ready to start.”

  Berrie joined the surveyor at the fire.

  “If you’ll round up our horses, Mr. Nash, I’ll rustle breakfast and we’ll get going,” she said.

  Nash, enthralled, lingered while she twisted her hair into place, then went out to bring in the ponies.

  Wayland came out a little uncertainly, but looking very well. “I think I shall discourage my friends from coming to this region for their health,” he said, ruefully. “If I were a novelist now all this would be grist for my mill.”

  Beneath his joking he was profoundly chagrined. He had hoped by this time to be as sinewy, as alert as Nash, instead of which here he sat, shivering over the fire like a sick girl, his head swollen, his blood sluggish; but this discouragement only increased Berea’s tenderness—a tenderness which melted all his reserve.

  “I’m not worth all your care,” he said to her, with poignant glance.

  The sun rose clear and warm, and the fire, the coffee, put new courage into him as well as into the others, and while the morning was yet early and the forest chill and damp with rain, the surveyor brought up the horses and started packing the outfit.

  In this Berrie again took part, doing her half of the work quite as dextrously as Nash himself. Indeed, the forester was noticeably confused and not quite up to his usual level of adroit ease.

  At last both packs were on, and as they stood together for a moment, Nash said: “This has been a great experience—one I shall remember as long as I live.”

  She stirred uneasily under his frank admiration. “I’m mightily obliged to you,” she replied, as heartily as she could command.

  “Don’t thank me, I’m indebted to you. There is so little in my life of such companionshi
p as you and Norcross give me.”

  “You’ll find it lonesome over at the station, I’m afraid,” said she. “But Moore intends to put a crew of tie-cutters in over there—that will help some.” She smiled.

  “I’m not partial to the society of tie-jacks.”

  “If you ride hard you may find that Moore girl in camp. She was there when we left.” There was a sparkle of mischief in her glance.

  “I’m not interested in the Moore girl,” he retorted.

  “Do you know her?”

  “I’ve seen her at the post-office once or twice; she is not my kind.”

  She gave him her hand. “Well, good-by. I’m all right now that Wayland can ride.”

  He held her hand an instant. “I believe I’ll ride back with you as far as the camp.”

  “You’d better go on. Father is waiting for you. I’ll send the men along.” There was dismissal in her voice, and yet she recognized as never before the fine qualities that were his. “Please don’t say anything of this to others, and tell my father not to worry about us. We’ll pull in all right.”

  He helped Norcross mount his horse, and as he put the lead rope into Berrie’s hand, he said: with much feeling: “Good luck to you. I shall remember this night all the rest of my life.”

  “I hate to be going to the rear,” called Wayland, whose bare, bandaged head made him look like a wounded young officer. “But I guess it’s better for me to lay off for a week or two and recover my tone.”

  And so they parted, the surveyor riding his determined way up the naked mountainside toward the clouds, while Berrie and her ward plunged at once into the dark and dripping forest below. “If you can stand the grief,” she said, “we’ll go clear through.”

  Wayland had his misgivings, but did not say so. His confidence in his guide was complete. She would do her part, that was certain. Several times she was forced to dismount and blaze out a new path in order to avoid some bog; but she sternly refused his aid. “You must not get off,” she warned; “stay where you are. I can do this work better alone.”

  They were again in that green, gloomy, and silent zone of the range, where giant spruces grow, and springs, oozing from the rocks, trickle over the trail. It was very beautiful, but menacing, by reason of its apparently endless thickets cut by stony ridges. It was here she met the two young men, Downing and Travis, bringing forward the surveying outfit, but she paused only to say: “Push along steadily. You are needed on the other side.”

  After leaving the men, and with a knowledge that the remaining leagues of the trail were solitary, Norcross grew fearful. “The fall of a horse, an accident to that brave girl, and we would be helpless,” he thought. “I wish Nash had returned with us.” Once his blood chilled with horror as he watched his guide striking out across the marge of a grassy lake. This meadow, as he divined, was really a carpet of sod floating above a bottomless pool of muck, for it shook beneath her horse’s feet.

  “Come on, it’s all right,” she called back, cheerily. “We’ll soon pick up the other trail.”

  He wondered how she knew, for to him each hill was precisely like another, each thicket a maze.

  Her caution was all for him. She tried each dangerous slough first, and thus was able to advise him which way was safest. His head throbbed with pain and his knees were weary, but he rode on, manifesting such cheer as he could, resolving not to complain at any cost; but his self-respect ebbed steadily, leaving him in bitter, silent dejection.

  At last they came into open ground on a high ridge, and were gladdened by the valley outspread below them, for it was still radiant with color, though not as brilliant as before the rain. It had been dimmed, but not darkened. And yet it seemed that a month had passed since their ecstatic ride upward through the golden forest, and Wayland said as much while they stood for a moment surveying the majestic park with its wall of guardian peaks.

  But Berrie replied: “It seems only a few hours to me.”

  From this point the traveling was good, and they descended rapidly, zigzagging from side to side of a long, sweeping ridge. By noon they were once more down amid the aspens, basking in a world of sad gold leaves and delicious September sunshine.

  At one o’clock, on the bank of a clear stream, the girl halted. “I reckon we’d better camp awhile. You look tired, and I am hungry.”

  He gratefully acquiesced in this stop, for his knees were trembling with the strain of the stirrups; but he would not permit her to ease him down from his saddle. Turning a wan glance upon her, he bitterly asked: “Must I always play the weakling before you? I am ashamed of myself. Ride on and leave me to rot here in the grass. I’m not worth keeping alive.”

  “You must not talk like that,” she gently admonished him. “You’re not to blame.”

  “Yes, I am. I should never have ventured into this man’s country.”

  “I’m glad you did,” she answered, as if she were comforting a child. “For if you hadn’t I should never have known you.”

  “That would have been no loss—to you,” he bitterly responded.

  She unsaddled one pack-animal and spread some blankets on the grass. “Lie down and rest while I boil some coffee,” she commanded; and he obeyed, too tired to make pretension toward assisting.

  Lying so, feeling the magic of the sun, hearing the music of the water, and watching the girl, he regained a serener mood, and when she came back with his food he thanked her for it with a glance before which her eyes fell. “I don’t see why you are so kind to me, I really believe you like to do things for me.” Her head drooped to hide her face, and he went on: “Why do you care for me? Tell me!”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured. Then she added, with a flash of bravery: “But I do.”

  “What a mystery it all is! You turn from a splendid fellow like Landon to a ‘skate’ like me. Landon worships you—you know that—don’t you?”

  “I know—he—” she ended, vaguely distressed.

  “Did he ask you to marry him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you? He’s just the mate for you. He’s a man of high character and education.” She made no answer to this, and he went on: “Dear girl, I’m not worth your care—truly I’m not. I resented your engagement to Belden, for he was a brute; but Landon is different. He thinks the world of you. He’ll go high in the service. I’ve never done anything in the world—I never shall. It will be better for you if I go—to-morrow.”

  She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek, then, putting her arm about his neck, drew him to her bosom and kissed him passionately. “You break my heart when you talk like that,” she protested, with tears. “You mustn’t say such gloomy things—I won’t let you give up. You shall come right home with me, and I will nurse you till you are well. It was all my fault. If we had only stayed in camp at the lake daddy would have joined us that night, and if I had not loitered on the mountain yesterday Cliff would not have overtaken us. It’s all my fault.”

  “I will not have it go that way,” he said. “I’ve brought you only care and unhappiness thus far. I’m an alien—my ways are not your ways.”

  “I can change,” she answered. “I hate my ways, and I like yours.”

  As they argued she felt no shame, and he voiced no resentment. She knew his mood. She understood his doubt, his depression. She pleaded as a man might have done, ready to prove her love, eager to restore his self-respect, while he remained both bitter and sadly contemptuous.

  A cow-hand riding up the trail greeted Berrie respectfully, but a cynical smile broke out on his lips as he passed on. Another witness—another gossip.

  She did not care. She had no further concern of the valley’s comment. Her life’s happiness hung on the drooping eyelashes of this wounded boy, and to win him back to cheerful acceptance of life was her only concern.

  “I’ve never had any motives,” he confessed. “I’ve always done what pleased me at the moment—or because it was easier to do as others were doing. I went to col
lege that way. Truth is, I never had any surplus vitality, and my father never demanded anything of me. I haven’t any motives now. A few days ago I was interested in forestry. At this time it all seems futile. What’s the use of my trying to live?”

  Part of all this despairing cry arose from weariness, and part from a luxurious desire to be comforted, for it was sweet to feel her sympathy. He even took a morbid pleasure in the distress of her eyes and lips while her rich voice murmured in soothing protest.

  She, on her part, was frightened for him, and as she thought of the long ride still before them she wrung her hands. “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” she moaned.

  Instantly smitten into shame, into manlier mood, he said: “Don’t worry about me, please don’t. I can ride. I’m feeling better. You must not weaken. Please forgive my selfish complaints. I’m done! You’ll never hear it again. Come, let us go on. I can ride.”

  “If we can reach Miller’s ranch—”

  “I can ride to your ranch,” he declared, and rose with such new-found resolution that she stared at him in wonder.

  He was able to smile. “I’ve had my little crying spell. I’ve relieved my heart of its load. I didn’t mean to agonize you. It was only a slump.” He put his hand to his head. “I must be a comical figure. Wonder what that cowboy thought of me?”

  His sudden reversal to cheer was a little alarming to her, but at length she perceived that he had in truth mastered his depression, and bringing up the horses she saddled them, and helped him to mount. “If you get tired or feel worse, tell me, and we’ll go into camp,” she urged as they were about to start.

  “You keep going till I give the sign,” he replied; and his voice was so firm and clear that her own sunny smile came back. “I don’t know what to make of you,” she said. “I reckon you must be a poet.”

  * * *

  XIII

  THE GOSSIPS AWAKE