“He can’t make any of his charges stick,” declared Berrie.
“Of course he can’t. He knows that. But he can bring us all into court. You and Mr. Norcross will both be called as witnesses, for it seems that Tony was defending your name. The papers call it ‘a fight for a girl.’ Oh, it’s a sweet mess.”
For the first time Berrie betrayed alarm. “What shall we do? I can’t go on the stand! They can’t make me do that, can they?” She turned to Wayland. “Now you must go away. It is a shame to have you mixed up in such a trial.”
“I shall not run away and leave you and the Supervisor to bear all the burden of this fight.”
He anticipated in imagination—as they all did—some of the consequences of this trial. The entire story of the camping trip would be dragged in, distorted into a scandal, and flashed over the country as a disgraceful episode. The country would ring with laughter and coarse jest. Berrie’s testimony would be a feast for court-room loafers.
“There’s only one thing to do,” said McFarlane, after a few moments of thought. “You and Berrie and Mrs. McFarlane must get out of here before you are subpoenaed.”
“And leave you to fight it out alone?” exclaimed his wife. “I shall do nothing of the kind. Berrie and Mr. Norcross can go.”
“That won’t do,” retorted McFarlane, quickly. “That won’t do at all. You must go with them. I can take care of myself. I will not have you dragged into this muck-hole. We’ve got to think quick and act quick. There won’t be any delay about their side of the game. I don’t think they’ll do anything to-day; but you’ve got to fade out of the valley. You all get ready and I’ll have one of the boys hook up the surrey as if for a little drive, and you can pull out over the old stage-road to Flume and catch the narrow-gage morning train for Denver. You’ve been wanting for some time to go down the line. Now here’s a good time to start.”
Berrie now argued against running away. Her blood was up. She joined her mother. “We won’t leave you to inherit all this trouble. Who will look after the ranch? Who will keep house for you?”
McFarlane remained firm. “I’ll manage. Don’t worry about me. Just get out of reach. The more I consider this thing, the more worrisome it gets. Suppose Cliff should come back to testify?”
“He won’t. If he does I’ll have him arrested for trying to kill Wayland,” retorted Berrie.
“And make the whole thing worse! No. You are all going to cross the range. You can start out as if for a little turn round the valley, and just naturally keep going. It can’t do any harm, and it may save a nasty time in court.”
“One would think we were a lot of criminals,” remarked Wayland.
“That’s the way you’ll be treated,” retorted McFarlane. “Belden has retained old Whitby, the foulest old brute in the business, and he’ll bring you all into it if he can.”
“But running away from it will not prevent talk,” argued his wife.
“Not entirely; but talk and testimony are two different things. Suppose they call daughter to the stand? Do you want her cross-examined as to what basis there was for this gossip? They know something of Cliff’s being let out, and that will inflame them. He may be at the mill this minute.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Norcross, sadly. “Our delightful excursion into the forest has led us into a predicament from which there is only one way of escape, and that is flight.”
Back of all this talk, this argument, there remained still unanswered the most vital, most important question: “Shall I speak of marriage at this time? Would it be a source of comfort to them as well as a joy to her?” At the moment he was ready to speak, for he felt himself to be the direct cause of all their embarrassment. But closer thought made it clear that a hasty ceremony would only be considered a cloak to cover something illicit. “I’ll leave it to the future,” he decided.
McFarlane was again called to the telephone. Landon, with characteristic brevity, conveyed to him the fact that Mrs. Belden was at home and busily ’phoning scandalous stories about the country. “If you don’t stop her she’s going to poison every ear in the valley,” ended the ranger.
“You’d think they’d all know my daughter well enough not to believe anything Mrs. Belden says,” responded McFarlane, bitterly.
“All the boys are ready to do what Tony did. But nobody can stop this old fool’s mouth but you. Cliff has disappeared, and that adds to the excitement.”
“Thank the boys for me,” said McFarlane, “and tell them not to fight. Tell ’em to keep cool. It will all be cleared up soon.”
As McFarlane went out to order the horses hooked up, Wayland followed him as far as the bars. “I’m conscience-smitten over this thing, Supervisor, for I am aware that I am the cause of all your trouble.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” responded the older man. But he spoke with effort. “It can’t be helped. It was all unavoidable.”
“The most appalling thing to me is the fact that not even your daughter’s popularity can neutralize the gossip of a woman like Mrs. Belden. My being an outsider counts against Berrie, and I’m ready to do anything—anything,” he repeated, earnestly. “I love your daughter, Mr. McFarlane, and I’m ready to marry her at once if you think best. She’s a noble girl, and I cannot bear to be the cause of her calumniation.”
There was mist in the Supervisor’s eyes as he turned them on the young man. “I’m right glad to hear you say that, my boy.” He reached out his hand, and Wayland took it. “I knew you’d say the word when the time came. I didn’t know how strongly she felt toward you till to-day. I knew she liked you, of course, for she said so, but I didn’t know that she had plum set her heart on you. I didn’t expect her to marry a city man; but—I like you and—well, she’s the doctor! What suits her suits me. Don’t you be afraid of her not meeting all comers.” He went on after a pause, “She’s never seen much of city life, but she’ll hold her own anywhere, you can gamble on that.”
“She has wonderful adaptability, I know,” answered Wayland, slowly. “But I don’t like to take her away from here—from you.”
“If you hadn’t come she would have married Cliff—and what kind of a life would she have led with him?” demanded McFarlane. “I knew Cliff was rough, but I couldn’t convince her that he was cheap. I live only for her happiness, my boy, and, though I know you will take her away from me, I believe you can make her happy, and so—I give her over to you. As to time and place, arrange that—with—her mother.” He turned and walked away, unable to utter another word.
Wayland’s throat was aching also, and he went back into the house with a sense of responsibility which exalted him into sturdier manhood.
Berea met him in a pretty gown, a dress he had never seen her wear, a costume which transformed her into something entirely feminine.
She seemed to have put away the self-reliant manner of the trail, and in its stead presented the lambent gaze, the tremulous lips of the bride. As he looked at her thus transfigured his heart cast out its hesitancy and he entered upon his new adventure without further question or regret.
* * *
XV
A MATTER OF MILLINERY
It was three o’clock of a fine, clear, golden afternoon as they said good-by to McFarlane and started eastward, as if for a little drive. Berrie held the reins in spite of Wayland’s protestations. “These bronchos are only about half busted,” she said. “They need watching. I know them better than you do.” Therefore he submitted, well knowing that she was entirely competent and fully informed.
Mrs. McFarlane, while looking back at her husband, sadly exclaimed: “I feel like a coward running away like this.”
“Forget it, mother,” commanded her daughter, cheerily. “Just imagine we’re off for a short vacation. I’m for going clear through to Chicago. So long as we must go, let’s go whooping. Father’s better off without us.”
Her voice was gay, her eyes shining, and Wayland saw her as she had been that first day in the coach�
��the care-free, laughing girl. The trouble they were fleeing from was less real to her than the happiness toward which she rode.
Her hand on the reins, her foot on the brake, brought back her confidence; but Wayland did not feel so sure of his part in the adventure. She seemed so unalterably a part of this life, so fitted to this landscape, that the thought of transplanting her to the East brought uneasiness and question. Could such a creature of the open air be content with the walls of a city?
For several miles the road ran over the level floor of the valley, and she urged the team to full speed. “I don’t want to meet anybody if I can help it. Once we reach the old stage route the chances of being scouted are few. Nobody uses that road since the broad-gauge reached Cragg’s.”
Mrs. McFarlane could not rid herself of the resentment with which she suffered this enforced departure; but she had small opportunity to protest, for the wagon bumped and clattered over the stony stretches with a motion which confused as well as silenced her. It was all so humiliating, so unlike the position which she had imagined herself to have attained in the eyes of her neighbors. Furthermore, she was going away without a trunk, with only one small bag for herself and Berrie—running away like a criminal from an intangible foe. However, she was somewhat comforted by the gaiety of the young people before her. They were indeed jocund as jaybirds. With the resiliency of youth they had accepted the situation, and were making the best of it.
“Here comes somebody,” called Berrie, pulling her ponies to a walk. “Throw a blanket over that valise.” She was chuckling as if it were all a good joke. “It’s old Jake Proudfoot. I can smell him. Now hang on. I’m going to pass him on the jump.”
Wayland, who was riding with his hat in his hand because he could not make it cover his bump, held it up as if to keep the wind from his face, and so defeated the round-eyed, owl-like stare of the inquisitive rancher, who brought his team to a full stop in order to peer after them, muttering in a stupor of resentment and surprise.
“He’ll worry himself sick over us,” predicted Berrie. “He’ll wonder where we’re going and what was under that blanket till the end of summer. He is as curious as a fool hen.”
A few minutes more and they were at the fork in the way, and, leaving the trail to Cragg’s, the girl pulled into the grass-grown, less-traveled trail to the south, which entered the timber at this point and began to climb with steady grade. Letting the reins fall slack, she turned to her mother with reassuring words. “There! Now we’re safe. We won’t meet anybody on this road except possibly a mover’s outfit. We’re in the forest again,” she added.
For two hours they crawled slowly upward, with a roaring stream on one side and the pine-covered slopes on the other. Jays and camp-birds called from the trees. Water-robins fluttered from rock to rock in the foaming flood. Squirrels and minute chipmunks raced across the fallen tree-trunks or clattered from great boulders, and in the peace and order and beauty of the forest they all recovered a serener outlook on the noisome tumult they were leaving behind them. Invisible as well as inaudible, the serpent of slander lost its terror.
Once, as they paused to rest the horses, Wayland said: “It is hard to realize that down in that ethereal valley people like old Jake and Mrs. Belden have their dwelling-place.”
This moved Mrs. McFarlane to admit that it might all turn out a blessing in disguise. “Mr. McFarlane may resign and move to Denver, as I’ve long wanted him to do.”
“I wish he would,” exclaimed Berrie, fervently. “It’s time you had a rest. Daddy will hate to quit under fire, but he’d better do it.”
Peak by peak the Bear Tooth Range rose behind them, while before them the smooth, grassy slopes of the pass told that they were nearing timber-line. The air was chill, the sun was hidden by old Solidor, and the stream had diminished to a silent rill winding among sear grass and yellowed willows. The valley behind them was vague with mist. The southern boundary of the forest was in sight.
At last the topmost looming crags of the Continental Divide cut the sky-line, and then in the smooth hollow between two rounded grassy summits Berrie halted, and they all silently contemplated the two worlds. To the west and north lay an endless spread of mountains, wave on wave, snow-lined, savage, sullen in the dying light; while to the east and southeast the foot-hills faded into the plain, whose dim cities, insubstantial as flecks in a veil of violet mist, were hardly distinguishable without the aid of glasses.
To the girl there was something splendid, something heroical in that majestic, menacing landscape to the west. In one of its folds she had begun her life. In another she had grown to womanhood and self-confident power. The rough men, the coarse, ungainly women of that land seemed less hateful now that she was leaving them, perhaps forever, and a confused memory of the many splendid dawns and purple sunsets she had loved filled her thought.
Wayland, divining some part of what was moving in her mind, cheerily remarked, “Yes, it’s a splendid place for a summer vacation, but a stern place in winter-time, and for a lifelong residence it is not inspiring.”
Mrs. McFarlane agreed with him in this estimate. “It is terribly lonesome in there at times. I’ve had enough of it. I’m ready for the comforts of civilization.”
Berrie turned in her seat, and was about to take up the reins when Wayland asserted himself. “Wait a moment. Here’s where my dominion begins. Here’s where you change seats with me. I am the driver now.”
She looked at him with questioning, smiling glance. “Can you drive? It’s all the way down-hill—and steep?”
“If I can’t I’ll ask your aid. I’m old enough to remember the family carriage. I’ve even driven a four-in-hand.”
She surrendered her seat doubtfully, and smiled to see him take up the reins as if he were starting a four-horse coach. He proved adequate and careful, and she was proud of him as, with foot on the brake and the bronchos well in hand, he swung down the long looping road to the railway. She was pleased, too, by his care of the weary animals, easing them down the steepest slopes and sending them along on the comparatively level spots.
Their descent was rapid, but it was long after dark before they reached Flume, which lay up the valley to the right. It was a poor little decaying mining-town set against the hillside, and had but one hotel, a sun-warped and sagging pine building just above the station.
“Not much like the Profile House,” said Wayland, as he drew up to the porch. “But I see no choice.”
“There isn’t any,” Berrie assured him.
“Well, now,” he went on, “I am in command of this expedition. From this on I lead this outfit. When it comes to hotels, railways, and the like o’ that, I’m head ranger.”
Mrs. McFarlane, tired, hungry, and a little dismayed, accepted his control gladly; but Berrie could not at once slip aside her responsibility. “Tell the hostler—”
“Not a word!” commanded Norcross; and the girl with a smile submitted to his guidance, and thereafter his efficiency, his self-possession, his tact delighted her. He persuaded the sullen landlady to get them supper. He secured the best rooms in the house, and arranged for the care of the team, and when they were all seated around the dim, fly-specked oil-lamp at the end of the crumby dining-room table he discovered such a gay and confident mien that the women looked at each other in surprise.
Berrie was correspondingly less masculine. In drawing off her buckskin driving-gloves she had put away the cowgirl, and was silent, a little sad even, in the midst of her enjoyment of his dictatorship. And when he said, “If my father reaches Denver in time I want you to meet him,” she looked the dismay she felt.
“I’ll do it—but I’m scared of him.”
“You needn’t be. I’ll see him first and draw his fire.”
Mrs. McFarlane interposed. “We must do a little shopping first. We can’t meet your father as we are.”
“Very well. I’ll go with you if you’ll let me. I’m a great little shopper. I have infallible taste, so my sisters say. If
it’s a case of buying new hats, for instance, I’m the final authority with them.” This amused Berrie, but her mother took it seriously.
“Of course, I’m anxious to have my daughter make the best possible impression.”
“Very well. It is arranged. We get in, I find, about noon. We’ll go straight to the biggest shop in town. If we work with speed we’ll be able to lunch with my father. He’ll be at the Palmer House at one.”
Berrie said nothing, either in acceptance or rejection of his plan. Her mind was concerned with new conceptions, new relationships, and when in the hall he took her face between his hands and said, “Cheer up! All is not lost,” she put her arms about his neck and laid her cheek against his breast to hide her tears. “Oh, Wayland! I’m such an idiot in the city. I’m afraid your father will despise me.”
What he said was not very cogent, and not in the least literary, but it was reassuring and lover-like, and when he turned her over to her mother she was composed, though unwontedly grave.
She woke to a new life next morning—a life of compliance, of following, of dependence upon the judgment of another. She stood in silence while her lover paid the bills, bought the tickets, and telegraphed their coming to his father. She acquiesced when he prevented her mother from telephoning to the ranch. She complied when he countermanded her order to have the team sent back at once. His judgment ruled, and she enjoyed her sudden freedom from responsibility. It was novel, and it was very sweet to think that she was being cared for as she had cared for and shielded him in the world of the trail.
In the little railway-coach, which held a score of passengers, she found herself among some Eastern travelers who had taken the trip up the Valley of the Flume in the full belief that they were piercing the heart of the Rocky Mountains! It amused Wayland almost as much as it amused Berrie when one man said to his wife:
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