The Chalice Of Courage: A Romance of Colorado

by Cyrus Townsend Brady

  CHAPTER XV

  THE CASTAWAYS OF THE MOUNTAINS

  The man was evidently seeking her, for so soon as he caught sight of herhe broke into a run and came bounding up the steep ascent with the speedand agility of a chamois or a mountain sheep. As he approached the girlrose to her feet and supported herself upon the boulder against whichshe had been leaning, at the same time extending her hand to greet him.

  "Oh," she cried, her voice rising nervously as he drew near, "I am soglad you are back, another hour of loneliness and I believe I shouldhave gone crazy."

  Now whether that joy in his return was for him, personally or for himabstractly, he could not tell; whether she was glad that he had comeback simply because he was a human being who would relieve herloneliness or whether she rejoiced to see him individually, was a matternot yet to be determined. He hoped the latter, he believed the former.At any rate he caught and held her outstretched hand in the warm claspof both his own. Burning words of greeting rushed to his lipstorrentially, what he said, however, was quite commonplace; as is sooften the case, thought and outward speech did not correspond.

  "It's too cold for you out here, you must go into the house at once," hedeclared masterfully and she obeyed with unwonted meekness.

  The sun had set and the night air had grown suddenly chill. Stillholding her hand they started toward the cabin a few rods away. Herwounded foot was of little support to her and the excitement hadunnerved her; in spite of his hand she swayed; without a thought hecaught her about the waist and half lifted, half led her to the door. Itseemed as natural as it was inevitable for him to assist her in this wayand in her weakness and bewilderment she suffered it without comment orresistance. Indeed there was such strength and power in his arm, she wasso secure there, that she liked it. As for him his pulses were boundingat the contact; but for that matter even to look at her quickened hisheart beat.

  Entering the main room he led her gently to one of the chairs near thetable and immediately thereafter lighted the fire which he had taken theprecaution to lay before his departure. It had been dark in the cabin,but the fire soon filled it with glorious light. She watched him at histask and as he rose from the hearth questioned him.

  "Now tell me," she began, "you found--"

  "First your supper, and then the story," he answered, turning toward thedoor of the other room.

  "No," pleaded the girl, "can't you see that nothing is of any importanceto me but the story? Did you find the camp?"

  "I found the place where it had been."

  "Where it had been!"

  "There wasn't a single vestige of it left. That whole pocket, I knew itwell, had been swept clean by the flood."

  "But Kirkby, and Mrs. Maitland and--"

  "They weren't there."

  "Did you search for them?"

  "Certainly."

  "But they can't have been drowned," she exclaimed piteously.

  "Of course not," he began reassuringly. "Kirkby is a veteran of thesemountains and--"

  "But do you know him?" queried the girl in great surprise.

  "I did once," said the man, flushing darkly at his admission. "I haven'tseen him for five years."

  So that was the measure of his isolation, thought the woman, keen forthe slightest evidence as to her companion's history, of which, by theway, he meant to tell her nothing.

  "Well?" she asked, breaking the pause.

  "Kirkby would certainly see the cloudburst coming and he would take thepeople with him in the camp up on the hogback near it. It is far abovethe flood line, they would be quite safe there."

  "And did you look for them there?"

  "I did. The trail had been washed out, but I scrambled up and foundundisputed evidence that my surmise was correct. I haven't a doubt thatall who were in the camp were saved."

  "Thank God for that," said the girl, greatly relieved and comforted byhis reassuring words. "And my uncle, Mr. Robert Maitland, and the reston the mountain, what do you think of them?"

  "I am sure that they must have escaped too. I don't think any of themhave suffered more than a thorough drenching in the downpour and thatthey are all safe and perhaps on their way to the settlements now."

  "But they wouldn't go back without searching for me, would they?" criedthe girl.

  "Certainly not, I suppose they are searching for you now."

  "Well then--"

  "Wait," said the man. "You started down the canyon, you told everybodythat you were going that way. They naturally searched in that direction;they hadn't the faintest idea that you were going up the river."

  "No," admitted Enid, "that is true. I did not tell anyone. I didn'tdream of going up the canyon when I started out in the morning; it wasthe result of a sudden impulse."

  "God bless that--" burst out the man and then he checked himself,flushing again, darkly.

  What had he been about to say? The question flashed into his own mindand into the woman's mind at the same time when she heard, theincompleted sentence; but she, too, checked the question that rose toher lips.

  "This is the way I figure it," continued the man hurriedly to cover uphis confusion. "They fancy themselves alone in these mountains, whichsave for me they are; they believe you to have gone down the canyon.Kirkby with Mrs. Maitland and the others waited on the ridge until Mr.Maitland and his party joined them. They couldn't have saved very muchto eat or wear from the camp, they were miles from a settlement, theyprobably divided into two parties; the larger with the woman andchildren started for home, the second went down the canyon searching foryour dead body!"

  "And had it not been for you," cried the girl impulsively, "they hadfound it."

  "God permitted me to be of service to you," answered the man simply. "Ican follow their speculations exactly; up or down, they believed you tohave been in the canyon when the storm broke, therefore there was onlyone place and one direction to search for you."

  "And that was?"

  "Down the canyon."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I went down the canyon myself. I think I saw evidences that someone hadpreceded me, too."

  "Did you overtake them!"

  "Certainly not; they traveled as rapidly as I, they must have startedearly in the morning and they had several hours the advantage of me."

  "But they must have stopped somewhere for the night and--"

  "Yes," answered the man. "If I had had only myself to consider, I shouldhave pressed on through the night and overtaken them when they camped."

  "Only yourself?"

  "You made me promise to return here by nightfall. I don't know whether Ishould have obeyed you or not. I kept on as long as I dared and stillleave myself time to get back to you by dark."

  She had no idea of the desperate speed he had made to reach her while itwas still daylight.

  "If you hadn't come when you did, I should have died," cried the girlimpetuously. "You did perfectly right. I don't think I am a coward, Ihope not, I never was afraid before, but--"

  "Don't apologize or explain to me, it's not necessary; I understandeverything you feel. It was only because I had given you my word to beback by sunset that I left off following their trail. I was afraid thatyou might think me dead or that something had happened and--"

  "I should, I did," admitted the girl. "It wasn't so bad during the daytime, but when the sun went down and you did not come I began to imagineeverything. I saw myself left alone here in these mountains, helpless,wounded, without a human being to speak to. I could not bear it."

  "But I have been here alone for five years," said the man grimly.

  "That's different. I don't know why you have chosen solitude, but I--"

  "You are a woman," returned the other gently, "and you have suffered,that accounts for everything."

  "Thank you," said Enid gratefully. "And I am so glad you came back tome."

  "Back to you," reiterated the man and then he stopped. If he had allowedhis heart to speak he would have said, back to you from the very ends of
the world--"But I want you to believe that I honestly did not leave thetrail until the ultimate moment," he added.

  "I do believe it," she extended her hand to him. "You have been verygood to me, I trust you absolutely."

  And for the second time he took that graceful, dainty, aristocratic handin his own larger, stronger, firmer grasp. His face flushed again; underother circumstances and in other days perhaps he might have kissed thathand; as it was he only held it for a moment and then gently releasedit.

  "And you think they are searching for me?" she asked.

  "I know it. I am sure of what I myself would do for one I love--I lovedI mean, and they--"

  "And they will find me?"

  The man shook his head.

  "I am afraid they will be convinced that you have gone down with theflood. Didn't you have a cap or--"

  "Yes," said the woman, "and a sweater. The bear you shot covered thesweater with blood. I could not put it on again."

  As she spoke she flushed a glorious crimson at the remembrance of thatmeeting, but the man was looking away with studied care. She thanked himin her heart for such generous and kindly consideration.

  "They will have gone down the stream with the rest, and it's justpossible that the searchers may find them, the body of the bear too.This river ends in a deep mountain lake and I think it is going to snow,it will be frozen hard to-morrow."

  "And they will think me--there?"

  "I am afraid so."

  "And they won't come up here?"

  "It is scarcely possible."

  "Oh!" exclaimed the woman faintly at the dire possibility that she mightnot be found.

  "I took an empty bottle with me," said the man, breaking the silence,"in which I had enclosed a paper saying that you were here and safe,save for your wounded foot, and giving directions how to reach theplace. I built a cairn of rocks in a sheltered nook in the valley whereyour camp had been pitched and left the tightly corked bottle wedged ontop of it. If they return to the camp they can scarcely fail to see it."

  "But if they don't go back there."

  "Well, it was just a chance."

  "And if they don't find me?"

  "You will have to stay here for a while; until your foot gets wellenough to travel," returned the man evasively.

  "But winter is coming on, you said the lake would freeze to-night, andif it snows?"

  "It will snow."

  The woman stared at him, appalled.

  "And in that case--"

  "I am afraid," was the slow reply, "that you will have to stay here"--hehesitated in the face of her white still face--"all winter," he addeddesperately.

  "Alone!" exclaimed the girl faintly. "With you?"

  "Miss Maitland," said the man resolutely, "I might as well tell you thetruth. I can make my way to the settlements now or later, but it will bea journey of perhaps a week. There will be no danger to me, but you willhave to stay here. You could not go with me. If I am any judge youcouldn't possibly use your foot for a mountain journey for at leastthree weeks, and by that time we shall be snowed in as effectually as ifwe were within the Arctic Circle. But if you will let me go alone to thesettlement I can bring back your uncle, and a woman to keep you company,before the trails are impassable. Or enough men to make it practicableto take you through the canyons and down the trails to your home again. Icould not do that alone even if you were well, in the depth of thewinter."

  The girl shook her head stubbornly.

  "A week alone in these mountains and I should be mad," she saiddecisively. "It isn't to be thought of."

  "It must be thought of," urged the man. "You don't understand. It iseither that or spend the winter here--with me."

  The woman looked at him steadily.

  "And what have I to fear from you?" she asked.

  "Nothing, nothing," protested the other, "but the world?"

  "The world," said the woman reflectively. "I don't mean to say that itmeans nothing to me, but it has cause enough for what it would fain saynow." She came to her decision swiftly. "There is no help for it," shecontinued; "we are marooned together." She smiled faintly as she usedthe old word of tropic island and southern sea. "You have shown me thatyou are a man and a gentleman, in God and you I put my trust. When myfoot gets well, if you can teach me to walk on snow shoes and it ispossible to get through the passes, we will try to go back; if not, wemust wait."

  "The decision is yours," said the man, "yet I feel that I ought to pointout to you how--"

  "I see all that you see," she interrupted. "I know what is in your mind,it is entirely clear to me, we can do nothing else."

  "So be it. You need have no apprehension as to your material comfort; Ihave lived in these mountains for a long time, I am prepared for anyemergency, I pass my time in the summer getting ready for the winter.There is a cave, or recess rather, behind the house which, as you see,is built against the rock wall, and it is filled with wood enough tokeep us warm for two or three winters; I have an ample supply ofprovisions and clothing for my own needs, but you will need somethingwarmer than that you wear," he continued.

  "Have you needle and thread and cloth?" she asked.

  "Everything," was the prompt answer.

  "Then I shall not suffer."

  "Are you that wonder of wonders," asked the man, smiling slightly, "aneducated woman who knows how to sew?"

  "It is a tradition of Philadelphia," answered the girl, "that herdaughters should be expert needlewomen."

  "Oh, you are from Philadelphia."

  "Yes, and you?"

  She threw the question at him so deftly and so quickly that she caughthim unaware and off his guard a second time within the hour.

  "Baltimore," he answered before he thought and then bit his lip.

  He had determined to vouchsafe her no information regarding himself andhere she had surprised him into an admission in the first blush of theiracquaintance, and she knew that she had triumphed for she smiled inrecognition of it.

  She tried another tack.

  "Mr. Newbold," she began at a venture, and as it was five years since hehad heard that name, his surprise at her knowledge, which after all wasvery simple, betrayed him a third time. "We are like stories I haveread, people who have been cast away on desert islands and--"

  "Yes," said the man, "but no castaways that I have ever read of havebeen so bountifully provided with everything necessary to the comfortof life as we are. I told you I lacked nothing for your materialwelfare, and even your mind need not stagnate."

  "I have looked at your books already," said the woman, answering hisglance.

  This was where she had found his name he realized.

  "You will have this room for your own use and I will take the other formine," he continued.

  "I am loath to dispossess you."

  "I shall be quite comfortable there, and this shall be your roomexclusively except when you bid me enter, as when I bring you yourmeals; otherwise I shall hold it inviolate."

  "But," said the woman, "there must be an equal division of labor, I mustdo my share."

  "There isn't much to do in the winter, except to take care of theburros, keep up the fire and prepare what we have to eat."

  "I am afraid I should be unequal to outdoor work, but in the rest I mustdo my part."

  He recognized at once that idleness would be irksome.

  "So you shall," he assented heartily, "when your foot is well enough tomake you an efficient member of our little society."

  "Thank you, and now--"

  "Is there anything else before I get supper?"

  "You think there is no hope of their searching for me here?"

  The man shook his head.

  "If James Armstrong had been in the party," she said reflectively, "I amsure he would never have given up."

  "And who is James Armstrong, may I ask?" burst forth the other bluntly.

  "Why he--I--he is a friend of my uncle's and an--acquaintance of myown."

  "Oh," said the man shortly and
gloomily, as he turned away.

  Enid Maitland had been very brave in his presence, but when he went outshe put her head down on her arms on the table and cried softly toherself. Was ever a woman in such a predicament, thrown into the arms ofa man who had established every conceivable claim upon her gratitude,forced to live with him shut up in a two-room log cabin upon a lonelymountain range, surrounded by lofty and inaccessible peaks, pierced byterrific gorges soon to be impassable from the snows? She had read manystories of castaways from Charles Reade's famous "Foul Play" down tomore modern instances, but in those cases there had always been anisland comparatively large over which to range, with privacy,seclusion, opportunity for withdrawal; bright heavens, balmy breezes,idyllic conditions. Here were two uplifted from the earth upon asky-piercing mountain; they would have had more range of action and moreliberty of motion if they had been upon a derelict in the ocean.

  And she realized at the same time that in all those stories the twocastaways always loved each other. Would it be so with them? Was it so!And again the hot flame within outvied the fire on the hearth as theblood rushed to the smooth surface of her cheek again.

  What would her father say if he could know her position, what would theworld say, and above all what would Armstrong say? It cannot be deniedthat her thoughts were terribly and overwhelmingly dismayed, and yetthat despair was not without a certain relief. No man had ever sointerested her as this one. What was the mystery of his life, why was hethere, what had he meant when he had blessed the idle impulse that hadsent her into his arms?

  Her heart throbbed again. She lifted her face from her hands and driedher tears, a warm glow stole over her and once again not altogether fromthe fire. Who and what was this man? Who was that woman whose picture hehad taken from her? Well, she would have time to find out. And meantimethe world outside could think and do what it pleased. She sat staringinto the firelight, seeing pictures there, dreaming dreams. She was aslovely as an angel to the man when he came back into the room.

  BOOK IV

  OH YE ICE AND SNOW, PRAISE YE THE LORD