The Forester's Daughter

by Garland, Hamlin

  It was dark when they reached the village, but Wayland declared his ability to go on, although his wounded head was throbbing with fever and he was clinging to the pommel of his saddle; so Berrie rode on.

  Mrs. McFarlane, hearing the horses on the bridge, was at the door and received her daughter with wondering question, while the stable-hands, quick to detect an injured man, hurried to lift Norcross down from his saddle.

  “What’s the matter?” repeated Mrs. McFarlane.

  “He fell and struck his head on a stone,” Berea hastily explained. “Take the horses, boys, mother and I will look out for Mr. Norcross.”

  The men obeyed her and fell back, but they were consumed with curiosity, and their glances irritated the girl. “Slip the packs at once,” she insisted.

  With instant sympathy her mother came to her aid in supporting the wounded, weary youth indoors, and as he stretched out on the couch in the sitting-room, he remarked, with a faint, ironic smile: “This beats any bed of balsam boughs.”

  “Where’s your father?” asked Mrs. McFarlane of her daughter.

  “He’s over on the Ptarmigan. I’ve a powerful lot to tell you, mother; but not now; we must look after Wayland. He’s nearly done up, and so am I.”

  Mrs. McFarlane winced a little at her daughter’s use of Norcross’s first name, but she said nothing further at the moment, although she watched Berrie closely while she took off Wayland’s shoes and stockings and rubbed his icy feet. “Get him something hot as quick as you can!” she commanded; and Mrs. McFarlane obeyed without a word.

  Gradually the tremor passed out of his limbs and a delicious sense of warmth, of safety, stole over him, and he closed his eyes in the comfort of her presence and care. “Rigorous business this life of the pioneer,” he said, with mocking inflection. “I think I prefer a place in the lumber trust.”

  “Don’t talk,” she said. Then, with a rush of tender remorse: “Why didn’t you tell me to stop? I didn’t realize that you were so tired. We could have stopped at the Springs.”

  “I didn’t know how tired I was till I got here. Gee,” he said, boyishly, “that door-knob at the back of my head is red-hot! You’re good to me,” he added, humbly.

  She hated to have him resume that tone of self-depreciation, and, kneeling to him, she kissed his cheek, and laid her head beside his. “You’re splendid,” she insisted. “Nobody could be braver; but you should have told me you were exhausted. You fooled me with your cheerful answers.”

  He accepted her loving praise, her clasping arms, as a part of the rescue from the darkness and pain of the long ride, careless of what it might bring to him in the future. He ate his toast and drank his coffee, and permitted the women to lead him to his room, and then being alone he crept into his bed and fell instantly asleep.

  Berrie and her mother went back to the sitting-room, and Mrs. McFarlane closed the door behind them. “Now tell me all about it,” she said, in the tone of one not to be denied.

  The story went along very smoothly till the girl came to the second night in camp beside the lake; there her voice faltered, and the reflective look in the mother’s eyes deepened as she learned that her daughter had shared her tent with the young man. “It was the only thing to do, mother,” Berrie bravely said. “It was cold and wet outside, and you know he isn’t very strong, and his teeth were chattering, he was so chilled. I know it sounds strange down here; but up there in the woods in the storm what I did seemed right and natural. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I understand. I don’t blame you—only—if others should hear of it—”

  “But they won’t. No one knows of our being alone there except Tony and father.”

  “Are you sure? Doesn’t Mrs. Belden know?”

  “I don’t think so—not yet.”

  Mrs. McFarlane’s nervousness grew. “I wish you hadn’t gone on this trip. If the Beldens find out you were alone with Mr. Norcross they’ll make much of it. It will give them a chance at your father.” Her mind turned upon another point. “When did Mr. Norcross get his fall?”

  “On the way back.” Here Berrie hesitated again. “I don’t like to tell you, mother, but he didn’t fall, Cliff jumped him and tried to kill him.”

  The mother doubted her ears. “Cliff did? How did he happen to meet you?”

  Berrie was quick to answer. “I don’t know how he found out we were on the trail. I suppose the old lady ’phoned him. Anyhow, while we were camped for noon yesterday”—her face flamed again at thought of that tender, beautiful moment when they were resting on the grass—“while we were at our lunch he came tearing down the hill on that big bay horse of his and took a flying jump at Wayland. As Wayland went down he struck his head on a stone. I thought he was dead, and I was paralyzed for a second. Then I flew at Cliff and just about choked the life out of him. I’d have ended him right there if he hadn’t let go.”

  Mrs. McFarlane, looking upon her daughter in amazement, saw on her face the shadow of the deadly rage which had burned in her heart as she clenched young Belden’s throat.

  “What then? What happened then?”

  “He let go, you bet.” Her smile came back. “And when he realized what he’d done—he thought Wayland was dead—he began to weaken. Then I took my gun and was all for putting an end to him right there, when I saw Wayland’s eyelids move. After that I didn’t care what became of Cliff. I told him to ride on and keep a-ridin’, and I reckon he’s clear out of the state by this time. If he ever shows up I’ll put him where he’ll have all night to be sorry in.”

  “When did this take place?”

  “Yesterday about two. Of course Wayland couldn’t ride, he was so dizzy and kind o’ confused, and so I went into camp right there at timber-line. Along about sunset Nash came riding up from this side, and insisted on staying to help me—so I let him.”

  Mrs. McFarlane’s tense attitude relaxed. “Nash is not the kind that tattles. I’m glad he turned up.”

  “And this morning I saddled and came down.”

  “Did Nash go on?”

  “Yes, daddy was waiting for him, so I sent him along.”

  “It’s all sad business,” groaned Mrs. McFarlane, “and I can see you’re keeping something back. How did Cliff happen to know just where you were? And what started you back without your father?”

  For the first time Berrie showed signs of weakness and distress. “Why, you see, Alec Belden and Mr. Moore were over there to look at some timber, and old Marm Belden and that Moore girl went along. I suppose they sent word to Cliff, and I presume that Moore girl put him on our trail. Leastwise that’s the way I figure it out. That’s the worst of the whole business.” She admitted this with darkened brow. “Mrs. Belden’s tongue is hung in the middle and loose at both ends—and that Moore girl is spiteful mean.” She could not keep the contempt out of her voice. “She saw us start off, and she is sure to follow it up and find out what happened on the way home; even if they don’t see Cliff they’ll talk.”

  “Oh, I wish you hadn’t gone!” exclaimed the worried mother.

  “It can’t be helped now, and it hasn’t done me any real harm. It’s all in the day’s work, anyhow. I’ve always gone with daddy before, and this trip isn’t going to spoil me. The boys all know me, and they will treat me fair.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Norcross is an outsider—a city man. They will all think evil of him on that account.”

  “I know; that’s what troubles me. No one will know how fine and considerate he was. Mother, I’ve never known any one like him. He’s a poet! He’s taught me to see things I never saw before. Everything interests him—the birds, the clouds, the voices in the fire. I never was so happy in my life as I was during those first two days, and that night in camp before he began to worry—it was just wonderful.” Words failed her, but her shining face and the forward straining pose of her body enlightened the mother. “I don’t care what people say of me if only they will be just to him. They’ve got to treat him right,” sh
e added, firmly.

  “Did he speak to you—are you engaged?”

  Her head drooped. “Not really engaged, mother; but he told me how much he liked me—and—it’s all right, mother, I know it is. I’m not fine enough for him, but I’m going to try to change my ways so he won’t be ashamed of me.”

  Mrs. McFarlane’s face cleared. “He surely is a fine young fellow, and can be trusted to do the right thing. Well, we might as well go to bed. We can’t settle anything till your father gets home,” she said.

  Wayland rose next morning free from dizziness and almost free from pain, and when he came out of his room his expression was cheerful. “I feel as if I’d slept a week, and I’m hungry. I don’t know why I should be, but I am.”

  Mrs. McFarlane met him with something very intimate, something almost maternal in her look; but her words were as few and as restrained as ever. He divined that she had been talking with Berrie, and that a fairly clear understanding of the situation had been reached. That this understanding involved him closely he was aware; but nothing in his manner acknowledged it.

  She did not ask any questions, believing that sooner or later the whole story must come out. The fact that Siona Moore and Mrs. Belden knew that Berrie had started back on Thursday with young Norcross made it easy for the villagers to discover that she had not reached the ranch till Saturday. “What could Joe have been thinking of to allow them to go?” she said. “Mr. Nash’s presence in the camp must be made known; but then there is Clifford’s assault upon Mr. Norcross, can that be kept secret, too?” And so while the young people chatted, the troubled mother waited in fear, knowing that in a day or two the countryside would be aflame with accusation.

  In a landscape like this, as she well knew, nothing moves unobserved. The native—man or woman—is able to perceive and name objects scarcely discernible to the eye of the alien. A minute speck is discovered on the hillside. “Hello, there’s Jim Sanders on his roan,” says one, or “Here comes Kit Jenkins with her flea-bit gray. I wonder who’s on the bay alongside of her,” remarks another, and each of these observations is taken quite as a matter of course. With a wide and empty field of vision, and with trained, unspoiled optic nerves, the plainsman is marvelously penetrating of glance. Hence, Mrs. McFarlane was perfectly certain that not one but several of her neighbors had seen and recognized Berrie and young Norcross as they came down the hill. In a day or two every man would know just where they camped, and what had taken place in camp. Mrs. Belden would not rest till she had ferreted out every crook and turn of that trail, and her speech was quite as coarse as that of any of her male associates.

  Easy-going with regard to many things, these citizens were abnormally alive to all matters relating to courtship, and popular as she believed Berrie to be, Mrs. McFarlane could not hope that her daughter would be spared—especially by the Beldens, who would naturally feel that Clifford had been cheated. She sighed deeply. “Well, nothing can be done till Joe returns,” she repeated.

  A long day’s rest, a second night’s sleep, set Wayland on his feet. He came to breakfast quite gay. “Barring the hickory-nut on the back of my head,” he explained, “I’m feeling fine, almost ready for another expedition. I may make a ranger yet.”

  Berrie, though equally gay, was not so sure of his ability to return to work. “I reckon you’d better go easy till daddy gets back; but if you feel like it we’ll ride up to the post-office this afternoon.”

  “I want to start right in to learn to throw that hitch, and I’m going to practise with an ax till I can strike twice in the same place. This trip was an eye-opener. Great man I’d be in a windfall—wouldn’t I?”

  He was persuaded to remain very quiet for another day, and part of it was spent in conversation with Mrs. McFarlane—whom he liked very much—and an hour or more in writing a long letter wherein he announced to his father his intention of going into the Forest Service. “I’ve got to build up a constitution,” he said, “and I don’t know of a better place to do it in. Besides, I’m beginning to be interested in the scheme. I like the Supervisor. I’m living in his house at the present time, and I’m feeling contented and happy, so don’t worry about me.”

  He was indeed quite comfortable, save when he realized that Mrs. McFarlane was taking altogether too much for granted in their relationship. It was delightful to be so watched over, so waited upon, so instructed. “But where is it all leading me?” he continued to ask himself—and still that wall of reserve troubled and saddened Berrie.

  They expected McFarlane that night, and waited supper for him, but he did not come, and so they ate without him, and afterward Wayland helped Berrie do up the dishes while the mother bent above her sewing by the kitchen lamp.

  There was something very sweet and gentle about Mrs. McFarlane, and the exile took almost as much pleasure in talking with her as with her daughter. He led her to tell of her early experiences in the valley, and of the strange types of men and women with whom she had crossed the range.

  “Some of them are here yet,” she said. “In fact the most violent of all the opponents to the Service are these old adventurers. I don’t think they deserve to be called pioneers. They never did any work in clearing the land or in building homes. Some of them, who own big herds of cattle, still live in dug-outs. They raged at Mr. McFarlane for going into the Service—called him a traitor. Old Jake Proudfoot was especially furious—”

  “You should see where old Jake lives,” interrupted Berrie. “He sleeps on the floor in one corner of his cabin, and never changes his shirt.”

  “Hush!” warned Mrs. McFarlane.

  “That’s what the men all say. Daddy declares if they were to scrape Jake they’d find at least five layers of shirts. His wife left him fifteen years ago, couldn’t stand his habits, and he’s got worse ever since. Naturally he is opposed to the Service.”

  “Of course,” her mother explained, “those who oppose the Supervisor aren’t all like Jake; but it makes me angry to have the papers all quoting Jake as ‘one of the leading ranchers of the valley.’”

  She could not bring herself to take up the most vital subject of all—the question of her daughter’s future. “I’ll wait till father gets home,” she decided.

  On the fourth morning the ’phone rang, and the squawking voice of Mrs. Belden came over the wire. “I wanted to know if Berrie and her feller got home all right?”

  “Yes, they arrived safely.”

  The old woman chuckled. “Last I see of Cliff he was hot on their trail—looked like he expected to take a hand in that expedition. Did he overtake ’em?”

  “I don’t hear very well—where are you?”

  “I’m at the Scott ranch—we’re coming round ‘the horn’ to-day.”

  “Where is the Supervisor?”

  “He headed across yesterday. Say, Cliff was mad as a hornet when he started. I’d like to know what happened—”

  Mrs. McFarlane hung up the receiver. The old woman’s nasty chuckle was intolerable; but in silencing the ’phone Mrs. McFarlane was perfectly aware that she was not silencing the gossip; on the contrary, she was certain that the Beldens would leave a trail of poisonous comment from the Ptarmigan to Bear Tooth. It was all sweet material for them.

  Berrie wanted to know who was speaking, and Mrs. McFarlane replied: “Mrs. Belden wanted to know if you got through all right.”

  “She said something else, something to heat you up,” persisted the girl, who perceived her mother’s agitation. “What did she say—something about me—and Cliff?”

  The mother did not answer, for Wayland entered the room at the moment; but Berrie knew that traducers were already busy with her affairs. “I don’t care anything about old lady Belden,” she said, later; “but I hate to have that Moore girl telling lies about me.”

  As for Wayland, the nights in the camp by the lake, and, indeed, all the experiences of his trip in the high places were becoming each moment more remote, more unreal. Camp life at timber-line did not seem to
him subject to ordinary conventional laws of human conduct, and the fact that he and Berrie had shared the same tent under the stress of cold and snow, now seemed so far away as to be only a complication in a splendid mountain drama. Surely no blame could attach to the frank and generous girl, even though the jealous assault of Cliff Belden should throw the valley into a fever of chatter. “Furthermore, I don’t believe he will be in haste to speak of his share in the play,” he added. “It was too nearly criminal.”

  It was almost noon of the fourth day when the Supervisor called up to say that he was at the office, and would reach the ranch at six o’clock.

  “I wish you would come home at once,” his wife argued; and something in her voice convinced him that he was more needed at home, than in the town.

  “All right, mother. Hold the fort an hour and I’ll be there.”

  Mrs. McFarlane met him at the hitching-bar, and it required but a glance for him to read in her face a troubled state of mind.

  “This has been a disastrous trip for Berrie,” she said, after one of the hands had relieved the Supervisor of his horse.

  “In what way?”

  She was a bit impatient. “Mrs. Belden is filling the valley with the story of Berrie’s stay in camp with Mr. Norcross.”

  His face showed a graver line. “It couldn’t be helped. The horses had to be followed, and that youngster couldn’t do it—and, besides, I expected to get back that night. Nobody but an old snoop like Seth Belden would think evil of our girl. And, besides, Norcross is a man to be trusted.”

  “Of course he is, but the Beldens are ready to think evil of any one connected with us. And Cliff’s assault on Wayland—”

  He looked up quickly. “Assault? Did he make trouble?”

  “Yes, he overtook them on the trail, and would have killed Norcross if Berrie hadn’t interfered. He was crazy with jealousy.”

  “Nash didn’t say anything about any assault.”

  “He didn’t know it. Berrie told him that Norcross fell from his horse.”

  McFarlane was deeply stirred. “I saw Cliff leave camp, but I didn’t think anything of it. Why should he jump Norcross?”