Such a love story of summer was told by him in the allegory of the butterflies; but the young heart throbbing through it was that of the woman-child who had wept while the two brothers had clasped hands and accepted her as the trust of the dying; and her joyous teacher of love had been the fair-haired, fine-faced boy whose grief had been so great and whose promises so fervent. It is a very old story, but an ever-pathetic one—that tragedy of life; and likewise this one, without thought of sin, with only a fatal fondness on her part, a fatal desire for being loved on his, and a season's farewell to be uttered, of which they could speak no word—the emotions that have led to more than one tragedy of soul. And one of the butterflies in this one flitted for many days through the flowers of her garden, shy, yet happy, whispering over and over, "His wife, his wife!" while traveling southward, the other felt a passion of remorse in his heart, and resolved on multitudinous plans for the following of a perfection of life in the future.
All this he told—too delicately to give offense, yet too unsparingly not to show that the evil wrought in a moment of idle pastime, of joyous carelessness, is as fatal in its results as the most deliberate act of preconceived wickedness.
And back of the lives and loves of those two, with their emotional impulses and joyous union of untutored hearts, there arose, unloved and seemingly unloving, the quiet, watchful figure of the Esau.
Looking at his life from a distance, and perhaps through eyes of remorse, the writer had idealized that one character, while he had only photographed the others; had studied out the deeds back of every decided action, and discovered, or thought he had, that it was the lack of sympathy in his home-life had made a sort of human porcupine of him, and none had guessed that, back of the keen darts, there beat a pulse hungry for words such as he begged from his mother at the last—and receiving, was ready to sacrifice every hope of his, present or future, that he might prove himself worthy of the trust she had granted him, though so late.
Something in the final ignoring of self and the taking on his own shoulders the responsibilities of those two whom his mother had loved—something in all that, made him appear a character of heroic proportions, viewed from Stuart's point of view. He walked through those pages as a live thing, the feeling in the author's voice testifying to his own earnestness in the portrayal—an earnestness that seemed to gain strength as he went along, and held his listeners with convincing power until the abrupt close of the scene between those two men in the old New Orleans house.
Everyone felt vaguely surprised and disturbed when he finished—it was all so totally unlike Stuart's stories with which he had entertained them before. They were unprepared for the emotions provoked; and there was in it, and in the reading, a suggestion of something beyond all that was told.
The silence was so long that Stuart himself was the first to lift his eyes to those opposite, and tried to say carelessly:
"Well?"
His face was pale, but not more so than that of Genesee, who, surprised in that intent gaze, tried to meet his eyes steadily, but failed, faltered, wavered, and finally turned to Rachel, as if seeking in some way his former assurance. And what he saw there was the reaching out of her hand until it touched Stuart's shoulder with a gesture of approving comradeship.
"Good!" she said tersely; "don't ever again talk of writing for pastime—the character of that one man is enough to be proud of."
"But there are two men," said Fred, finding her voice again, with a sense of relief; "which one do you mean?"
"No," contradicted Rachel, with sharp decision; "I can see only one—the Esau."
Stuart shrank a little under her hand, not even thanking her for the words of praise; and, to her surprise, it was Genesee who answered her, his eyes steady enough, except when looking at the author of the story.
"Don't be too quick about playing judge," he suggested; and the words took her back like a flash to that other time when he had given her the same curt advice. "May be that boy had some good points that are not put down there. Maybe he might have had plans about doing the square thing, and something upset them; or—or he might have got tangled up in a lariat he wasn't looking for. It's just natural bad luck some men have of getting tangled up like that; and may be he—this fellow—"
Fred broke out laughing at his reasoning for the defense.
"Why, Mr. Genesee," she said gleefully, "an audience of you would be an inspiration to an author or actor; you are talking about the man as if he was a flesh and blood specimen, instead of belonging to Mr. Stuart's imagination."
"Yes, I reckon you're right, Miss," he said, rising to his feet, with a queer, half-apologetic smile; "you see, I'm not used to hearing folks read—romances." But the insolent sarcasm with which he had spoken of the word at first was gone.
The others had all regained their tongues, or the use of them, and comment and praise were given the author—not much notice taken of Genesee's opinion and protest. His theories of the character might be natural ones; but his own likelihood for entanglements, to judge by his reputation, was apt to prejudice him, rendering him unduly charitable toward any other fellow who was unlucky.
"My only objection to it," said Tillie, "is that there is not enough of it. It seems unfinished."
"Well, he warned us in the beginning that it was only a prologue," reminded her husband; "but there is a good deal in it, too, for only a prologue—a good deal."
"For my part," remarked the Lieutenant, "I don't think I should want anything added to it. Just as it stands, it proves the characters of the two men. If it was carried further, it might gain nothing, and leave nothing for one's imagination."
"I had not thought of that," said Stuart; "in fact, it was only written to help myself in analyzing two characters I had in my head, and could not get rid of until I put them on paper. Authors are haunted by such ghosts sometimes. It is Miss Fred's fault that I resurrected this one to-night—she thrust on me the accidental remembrance."
"There are mighty few accidents in the world," was Genesee's concise statement, as he pulled on his heavy buckskin gloves. "I'm about to cut for camp. Going?" This to the Lieutenant.
After that laconic remark on accidents, no further word or notice was exchanged between Stuart and Genesee; but it was easily seen that the story read had smoothed out several wrinkles of threatened discord and discontent. It had at least tamed the spirit of the scout, and left him more the man Rachel knew in him. Her impatience at his manner early in the evening disappeared as he showed improvement; and just before they left, she crossed over to him, asking something of the snows on the Scot Mountain trail, his eyes warming at the directness of her speech and movement, showing to any who cared to notice that she spoke to him as to a friend; but his glance turned instinctively from her to Stuart. He remembered watching them that day as they rode from camp.
"But what of Davy?" she repeated; "have you heard any word of him?"
"No, and I'm ashamed to say it," he acknowledged; "I haven't been to see him at all since I got back. I've had a lot of things in my head to keep track of, and didn't even send. I'll do it, though, in a day or so—or else go myself."
"I'm afraid he may be sick. If the snow is not bad, it's a wonder he has not been down. I believe I will go."
"I don't like you to go over those trails alone," he said in a lower tone; "not just now, at any rate."
"Why not now?"
"Well, you know these Indian troubles may bring queer cattle into the country. The Kootenai tribe would rather take care of you than do you harm; but—well, I reckon you had better keep to the ranch."
"And you don't reckon you can trust me to tell me why?" she said in a challenging way.
"It mightn't do any good. I don't know, you see, that it is really dangerous, only I'd rather you'd keep on the safe side; and—and—don't say I can't trust you. I'd trust you with my life—yes, more than that, if I had it!"
His voice was not heard by the others, who were laughing and chatting, it was so low; but it
s intensity made her step back, looking up at him.
"Don't look as if I frighten you," he said quickly; "I didn't come in here for that. You shouldn't have made me come, anyway—I belong to the outside; coming in only helps me remember it."
"So that was what put you in such a humor. I thought it was Stuart."
"You did?"
"Yes; I know you don't like him—but, I think you are prejudiced."
"Oh, you do?" And she saw the same inscrutable smile on his face that she had noticed when he looked at Stuart.
"There—there," she laughed, throwing up her hand as if to check him, "don't tell me again that I am too anxious to judge people; but he is a good fellow."
"And you are a good girl," he said warmly, looking down at her with so much feeling in his face that Stuart, glancing toward them, was startled into strange conjectures at the revelation in it. It was the first time he had ever seen them talking together.
"And you're a plucky girl, too," added Genesee, "else you wouldn't stand here talking to me before everyone. I'll remember it always of you. Tillikum, good-night."
* * *
PART FOURTH
ONE SQUAW MAN
* * *
CHAPTER I.
LAMONTI.
The next morning awoke with the balmy air of spring following the sunrise over the snow—a fair, soft day, with treachery back of its smiles; for along in the afternoon the sky gathered in gray drifts, and the weather-wise prophesied a big snow-fall.
All the morning Genesee wrote. One page after another was torn up, and it was the middle of the afternoon before he finally finished the work to his satisfaction, did it up in a flat, square package, and having sealed it securely, called Kalitan.
"You take this to the express office at the station," he said; "get a paper for it—receipt; then go to Holland's—to the bank store; give them this," and he handed a slip of written paper. "If they give you letter, keep it carefully—so," and he took from his shirt-pocket a rubber case the size of an ordinary envelope. Evidently Kalitan had carried it before, for he opened a rather intricate clasp and slipped the bit of paper into it.
"All good—not get wet," he said, picking up the larger package. "The Arrow fly down; come back how soon?"
"Send this," pointing to the package, "the first thing in the morning; then wait until night for the stage from Pacific that brings the mail—may be if road is bad it will not come till next morning."
"Kalitan wait?"
"Yes, wait till the stage comes, then ask for letter, and keep your eyes open; watch for bad whites. Klahowya!"
Watching Kalitan start off with that package, he drew a long breath of relief, like a man who had laid down some burden; and leaving the avenue and the camp behind, he struck out over the trail toward Hardy's, not even stopping to saddle a horse. He was going to have a "wau-wau" with Mowitza.
He had barely entered the stable door when Tillie came across the yard, with a shawl thrown over her head and looking disturbed.
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Genesee?" she said, with a little sigh of disappointment; "I thought it was Hen or one of the others come back. Did you meet them?"
"Yes; going up the west valley after stock."
"The west valley! Then they won't get back before dark, and I—I don't know what to do!" and the worried look reached utter despair as she spoke.
"What's up? I can ride after them if you say so."
"I don't know what to say. I should have told Hen at noon; but I knew it would put him out of patience with Rachel, and I trusted to her getting back all right; but now, if the snow sets in quickly, and it threatens to, she may get lost, and I—"
"Where is she?"
"Gone to Scot's Mountain."
An energetic expletive broke from his lips, unchecked even by the presence of the little woman who had seemed a sort of Madonna to him in the days a year old. The Madonna did not look much shocked. She had an idea that the occasion was a warrant for condemnation, and she felt rather guilty herself.
"One of the Kootenai tribe came here this morning, and after jabbering Chinook with him, she told me Davy MacDougall was sick, and she was going to ride up there. Hen was out, and she wouldn't listen to Miss Fred and me—just told us to keep quiet and not tell him where she was, and that she would get back for supper; so we haven't said a word; and now the snow is coming, she may get lost."
Tillie was almost in tears; it was easy to see she was terribly frightened, and very remorseful for keeping Rachel's command to say nothing to Hardy.
"Did that Indian go with her?"
"No; and she started him back first, up over that hill, to be sure he would not go over to the camp. I can't see what her idea was for that."
Genesee could—it was to prevent him from knowing she was going up into the hills despite his caution.
"There is not a man left on the place, except Jim," continued Tillie, "or I would send them after her. But Jim does not know the short-cut trail that I've heard Rachel speak of, and he might miss her in the hills; and—oh, dear! oh, dear!"
Genesee reached to the wooden peg where his saddle hung, and threw it across Mowitza's back.
In a moment Tillie understood what it meant, and felt that, capable as he might be, he was not the person she should send as guardian for a young girl. To be sure, he had once before filled that position, and brought her in safety; but that was before his real character was known.
Tillie thought of what the rest would say, of what Stuart would think for she had already bracketed Rachel and Stuart in her match-making calendar. She was between several fires of anxiety and indecision, as she noted the quick buckling of straps and the appropriation of two blankets from the hanging shelf above them.
"Are you—can you get someone to go for me—from the camp?" she asked hurriedly. He turned and looked at her with a smile in his eyes.
"I reckon so," he answered briefly; and then, seeing her face flushed and embarrassed, the smile died out as he felt what her thoughts were. "Who do you want?" he added, leading Mowitza out and standing beside her, ready to mount.
She did not even look up. She felt exactly as she had when she told Hen that she knew she was right, and yet felt ashamed of herself.
"I thought if you could spare Kalitan—" she hesitated. "She knows him, and he has been with her so often up there, no one else would know so well where to look for her—that is, if you could spare him," she added helplessly.
"The chances are that I can," he said in a business-like way; "and if I was you I'd just keep quiet about the trip, or else tell them she has an Indian guide—and she will have. Can you give me a bottle of brandy and some biscuits?"
She ran into the house, and came back with them at once. He was mounted and a-waiting her.
"Kalitan has left the camp—gone over that hill;" and he motioned rather vaguely toward the ridge across the valley. "I'll just ride over and start him from there, so he won't need to go back to camp for rations. Don't you worry; just keep quiet, and she'll come back all right with Kalitan."
He turned without further words, and rode away through the soft flakes of snow that were already beginning to fall. He did not even say a good-bye; and Tillie, hedged in by her convictions and her anxiety, let him go without even a word of thanks.
"I simply did not dare to say 'thank you' to him," she thought, as he disappeared. And then she went into the house and eased Fred's heart and her own conscience with the statement that Kalitan, the best guide Rachel could have, had gone to meet her. She made no mention of the objectionable character who had sent Kalitan.
By the time of sunset, Scot's Mountain was smothered in the white cloud that had closed over it so suddenly, and the snow was still falling straight down, and so steadily that one could not retrace steps and find tracks ten minutes after they were made. Through the banked-up masses a white-coated unrecognizable individual plowed his way to MacDougall's door, and without ceremony opened it and floundered in, carrying with him what looked enough
snow to smother a man; but his eyes were clear of it, and a glance told him the cabin had but one occupant.
"When did she leave?" was the salutation MacDougall received, after a separation of six weeks.
"Why, Jack, my lad!"
"Yes, that's who it is, and little time to talk. Has she been here?"
"The lass—Rachel? She has that—a sight for sore eyes—and set all things neat and tidy for me in no time;" and he waved his hand toward the clean-swept hearth, and the table with clean dishes, and a basket with a loaf of new bread showing through. "But she did na stay long wi' me. The clouds were comin' up heavy, she said, and she must get home before the snow fell; an' it snows now?"
"Well, rather. Can't you see out?"
"I doubt na I've had a nap since she left;" and the Old man raised himself stiffly from the bunk. "I got none the night, for the sore pain o' my back, but the lass helped me. She's a rare helpful one."
"Which trail did she take?" asked Genesee impatiently.
He saw the old man was not able to help him look for her, and did not want to alarm him; but to stand listening to comments when every minute was deepening the snow, and the darkness—well, it was a test to the man waiting.
"I canna say for sure, but she spoke o' the trail through the Maples being the quickest way home; likely she took it."
Genesee turned to the door with a gesture of despair. He had come that way and seen no sign of her; but the trail wound above gulches where a misstep was fatal, and where a horse and rider could be buried in the depths that day and leave no trace.
At the door he stopped and glanced at Davy MacDougall, and then about the cabin.
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