by Zane Grey
“How wonderfully you put it!” exclaimed Bo, with all her impulsiveness. “Oh, I’m glad I didn’t kill the lion.”
“What you say somehow hurts me,” said Helen, wistfully, to the hunter. “I see — I feel how true — how inevitable it is. But it changes my — my feelings. Almost I’d rather not acquire such knowledge as yours. This balance of nature — how tragic — how sad!”
“But why?” asked Dale. “You love birds, an’ birds are the greatest killers in the forest.”
“Don’t tell me that — don’t prove it,” implored Helen. “It is not so much the love of life in a deer or any creature, and the terrible clinging to life, that gives me distress. It is suffering. I can’t bear to see pain. I can STAND pain myself, but I can’t BEAR to see or think of it.”
“Well,” replied. Dale, thoughtfully, “There you stump me again. I’ve lived long in the forest an’ when a man’s alone he does a heap of thinkin’. An’ always I couldn’t understand a reason or a meanin’ for pain. Of all the bafflin’ things of life, that is the hardest to understand an’ to forgive — pain!”
That evening, as they sat in restful places round the camp-fire, with the still twilight fading into night, Dale seriously asked the girls what the day’s chase had meant to them. His manner of asking was productive of thought. Both girls were silent for a moment.
“Glorious!” was Bo’s brief and eloquent reply.
“Why?” asked. Dale, curiously. “You are a girl. You’ve been used to home, people, love, comfort, safety, quiet.”
“Maybe that is just why it was glorious,” said Bo, earnestly. “I can hardly explain. I loved the motion of the horse, the feel of wind in my face, the smell of the pine, the sight of slope and forest glade and windfall and rocks, and the black shade under the spruces. My blood beat and burned. My teeth clicked. My nerves all quivered. My heart sometimes, at dangerous moments, almost choked me, and all the time it pounded hard. Now my skin was hot and then it was cold. But I think the best of that chase for me was that I was on a fast horse, guiding him, controlling him. He was alive. Oh, how I felt his running!”
“Well, what you say is as natural to me as if I felt it,” said Dale. “I wondered. You’re certainly full of fire, An’, Helen, what do you say?”
“Bo has answered you with her feelings,” replied Helen, “I could not do that and be honest. The fact that Bo wouldn’t shoot the lion after we treed him acquits her. Nevertheless, her answer is purely physical. You know, Mr. Dale, how you talk about the physical. I should say my sister was just a young, wild, highly sensitive, hot-blooded female of the species. She exulted in that chase as an Indian. Her sensations were inherited ones — certainly not acquired by education. Bo always hated study. The ride was a revelation to me. I had a good many of Bo’s feelings — though not so strong. But over against them was the opposition of reason, of consciousness. A new-born side of my nature confronted me, strange, surprising, violent, irresistible. It was as if another side of my personality suddenly said: ‘Here I am. Reckon with me now!’ And there was no use for the moment to oppose that strange side. I — the thinking Helen Rayner, was powerless. Oh yes, I had such thoughts even when the branches were stinging my face and I was thrilling to the bay of the hound. Once my horse fell and threw me.... You needn’t look alarmed. It was fine. I went into a soft place and was unhurt. But when I was sailing through the air a thought flashed: this is the end of me! It was like a dream when you are falling dreadfully. Much of what I felt and thought on that chase must have been because of what I have studied and read and taught. The reality of it, the action and flash, were splendid. But fear of danger, pity for the chased lion, consciousness of foolish risk, of a reckless disregard for the serious responsibility I have taken — all these worked in my mind and held back what might have been a sheer physical, primitive joy of the wild moment.”
Dale listened intently, and after Helen had finished he studied the fire and thoughtfully poked the red embers with his stick. His face was still and serene, untroubled and unlined, but to Helen his eyes seemed sad, pensive, expressive of an unsatisfied yearning and wonder. She had carefully and earnestly spoken, because she was very curious to hear what he might say.
“I understand you,” he replied, presently. “An’ I’m sure surprised that I can. I’ve read my books — an’ reread them, but no one ever talked like that to me. What I make of it is this. You’ve the same blood in you that’s in Bo. An’ blood is stronger than brain. Remember that blood is life. It would be good for you to have it run an’ beat an’ burn, as Bo’s did. Your blood did that a thousand years or ten thousand before intellect was born in your ancestors. Instinct may not be greater than reason, but it’s a million years older. Don’t fight your instincts so hard. If they were not good the God of Creation would not have given them to you. To-day your mind was full of self-restraint that did not altogether restrain. You couldn’t forget yourself. You couldn’t FEEL only, as Bo did. You couldn’t be true to your real nature.”
“I don’t agree with you,” replied Helen, quickly. “I don’t have to be an Indian to be true to myself.”
“Why, yes you do,” said Dale.
“But I couldn’t be an Indian,” declared Helen, spiritedly. “I couldn’t FEEL only, as you say Bo did. I couldn’t go back in the scale, as you hint. What would all my education amount to — though goodness knows it’s little enough — if I had no control over primitive feelings that happened to be born in me?”
“You’ll have little or no control over them when the right time comes,” replied Dale. “Your sheltered life an’ education have led you away from natural instincts. But they’re in you an’ you’ll learn the proof of that out here.”
“No. Not if I lived a hundred years in the West,” asserted Helen.
“But, child, do you know what you’re talkin’ about?”
Here Bo let out a blissful peal of laughter.
“Mr. Dale!” exclaimed Helen, almost affronted. She was stirred. “I know MYSELF, at least.”
“But you do not. You’ve no idea of yourself. You’ve education, yes, but not in nature an’ life. An’ after all, they are the real things. Answer me, now — honestly, will you?”
“Certainly, if I can. Some of your questions are hard to answer.”
“Have you ever been starved?” he asked.
“No,” replied Helen.
“Have you ever been lost away from home?”
“No.”
“Have you ever faced death — real stark an’ naked death, close an’ terrible?”
“No, indeed.”
“Have you ever wanted to kill any one with your bare hands?”
“Oh, Mr. Dale, you — you amaze me. No!... No!”
“I reckon I know your answer to my last question, but I’ll ask it, anyhow.... Have you ever been so madly in love with a man that you could not live without him?”
Bo fell off her seat with a high, trilling laugh. “Oh, you two are great!”
“Thank Heaven, I haven’t been,” replied Helen, shortly.
“Then you don’t know anythin’ about life,” declared Dale, with finality.
Helen was not to be put down by that, dubious and troubled as it made her.
“Have you experienced all those things?” she queried, stubbornly.
“All but the last one. Love never came my way. How could it? I live alone. I seldom go to the villages where there are girls. No girl would ever care for me. I have nothin’.... But, all the same, I understand love a little, just by comparison with strong feelin’s I’ve lived.”
Helen watched the hunter and marveled at his simplicity. His sad and penetrating gaze was on the fire, as if in its white heart to read the secret denied him. He had said that no girl would ever love him. She imagined he might know considerably less about the nature of girls than of the forest.
“To come back to myself,” said Helen, wanting to continue the argument. “You declared I didn’t know myself. That I would have
no self-control. I will!”
“I meant the big things of life,” he said, patiently.
“What things?”
“I told you. By askin’ what had never happened to you I learned what will happen.”
“Those experiences to come to ME!” breathed Helen, incredulously. “Never!”
“Sister Nell, they sure will — particularly the last-named one — the mad love,” chimed in Bo, mischievously, yet believingly.
Neither Dale nor Helen appeared to hear her interruption.
“Let me put it simpler,” began Dale, evidently racking his brain for analogy. His perplexity appeared painful to him, because he had a great faith, a great conviction that he could not make clear. “Here I am, the natural physical man, livin’ in the wilds. An’ here you come, the complex, intellectual woman. Remember, for my argument’s sake, that you’re here. An’ suppose circumstances forced you to stay here. You’d fight the elements with me an’ work with me to sustain life. There must be a great change in either you or me, accordin’ to the other’s influence. An’ can’t you see that change must come in you, not because of anythin’ superior in me — I’m really inferior to you — but because of our environment? You’d lose your complexity. An’ in years to come you’d be a natural physical woman, because you’d live through an’ by the physical.”
“Oh dear, will not education be of help to the Western woman?” queried Helen, almost in despair.
“Sure it will,” answered Dale, promptly. “What the West needs is women who can raise an’ teach children. But you don’t understand me. You don’t get under your skin. I reckon I can’t make you see my argument as I feel it. You take my word for this, though. Sooner or later you WILL wake up an’ forget yourself. Remember.”
“Nell, I’ll bet you do, too,” said Bo, seriously for her. “It may seem strange to you, but I understand Dale. I feel what he means. It’s a sort of shock. Nell, we’re not what we seem. We’re not what we fondly imagine we are. We’ve lived too long with people — too far away from the earth. You know the Bible says something like this: ‘Dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return.’ Where DO we come from?”
CHAPTER XII
Days passed.
EVERY MORNING HELEN awoke with a wondering question as to what this day would bring forth, especially with regard to possible news from her uncle. It must come sometime and she was anxious for it. Something about this simple, wild camp life had begun to grip her. She found herself shirking daily attention to the clothes she had brought West. They needed it, but she had begun to see how superficial they really were. On the other hand, camp-fire tasks had come to be a pleasure. She had learned a great deal more about them than had Bo. Worry and dread were always impinging upon the fringe of her thoughts — always vaguely present, though seldom annoying. They were like shadows in dreams. She wanted to get to her uncle’s ranch, to take up the duties of her new life. But she was not prepared to believe she would not regret this wild experience. She must get away from that in order to see it clearly, and she began to have doubts of herself.
Meanwhile the active and restful outdoor life went on. Bo leaned more and more toward utter reconciliation to it. Her eyes had a wonderful flash, like blue lightning; her cheeks were gold and brown; her hands tanned dark as an Indian’s.
She could vault upon the gray mustang, or, for that matter, clear over his back. She learned to shoot a rifle accurately enough to win Dale’s praise, and vowed she would like to draw a bead upon a grizzly bear or upon Snake Anson.
“Bo, if you met that grizzly Dale said has been prowling round camp lately you’d run right up a tree,” declared Helen, one morning, when Bo seemed particularly boastful.
“Don’t fool yourself,” retorted Bo.
“But I’ve seen you run from a mouse!”
“Sister, couldn’t I be afraid of a mouse and not a bear?”
“I don’t see how.”
“Well, bears, lions, outlaws, and other wild beasts are to be met with here in the West, and my mind’s made up,” said Bo, in slow-nodding deliberation.
They argued as they had always argued, Helen for reason and common sense and restraint, Bo on the principle that if she must fight it was better to get in the first blow.
The morning on which this argument took place Dale was a long time in catching the horses. When he did come in he shook his head seriously.
“Some varmint’s been chasin’ the horses,” he said, as he reached for his saddle. “Did you hear them snortin’ an’ runnin’ last night?”
Neither of the girls had been awakened.
“I missed one of the colts,” went on Dale, “an’ I’m goin’ to ride across the park.”
Dale’s movements were quick and stern. It was significant that he chose his heavier rifle, and, mounting, with a sharp call to Pedro, he rode off without another word to the girls.
Bo watched him for a moment and then began to saddle the mustang.
“You won’t follow him?” asked Helen, quickly.
“I sure will,” replied Bo. “He didn’t forbid it.”
“But he certainly did not want us.”
“He might not want you, but I’ll bet he wouldn’t object to me, whatever’s up,” said Bo, shortly.
“Oh! So you think—” exclaimed Helen, keenly hurt. She bit her tongue to keep back a hot reply. And it was certain that a bursting gush of anger flooded over her. Was she, then, such a coward? Did Dale think this slip of a sister, so wild and wilful, was a stronger woman than she? A moment’s silent strife convinced her that no doubt he thought so and no doubt he was right. Then the anger centered upon herself, and Helen neither understood nor trusted herself.
The outcome proved an uncontrollable impulse. Helen began to saddle her horse. She had the task half accomplished when Bo’s call made her look up.
“Listen!”
Helen heard a ringing, wild bay of the hound.
“That’s Pedro,” she said, with a thrill.
“Sure. He’s running. We never heard him bay like that before.”
“Where’s Dale?”
“He rode out of sight across there,” replied Bo, pointing. “And Pedro’s running toward us along that slope. He must be a mile — two miles from Dale.”
“But Dale will follow.”
“Sure. But he’d need wings to get near that hound now. Pedro couldn’t have gone across there with him... just listen.”
The wild note of the hound manifestly stirred Bo to irrepressible action. Snatching up Dale’s lighter rifle, she shoved it into her saddle-sheath, and, leaping on the mustang, she ran him over brush and brook, straight down the park toward the place Pedro was climbing. For an instant Helen stood amazed beyond speech. When Bo sailed over a big log, like a steeple-chaser, then Helen answered to further unconsidered impulse by frantically getting her saddle fastened. Without coat or hat she mounted. The nervous horse bolted almost before she got into the saddle. A strange, trenchant trembling coursed through all her veins. She wanted to scream for Bo to wait. Bo was out of sight, but the deep, muddy tracks in wet places and the path through the long grass afforded Helen an easy trail to follow. In fact, her horse needed no guiding. He ran in and out of the straggling spruces along the edge of the park, and suddenly wheeled around a corner of trees to come upon the gray mustang standing still. Bo was looking up and listening.
“There he is!” cried Bo, as the hound bayed ringingly, closer to them this time, and she spurred away.
Helen’s horse followed without urging. He was excited. His ears were up. Something was in the wind. Helen had never ridden along this broken end of the park, and Bo was not easy to keep up with. She led across bogs, brooks, swales, rocky little ridges, through stretches of timber and groves of aspen so thick Helen could scarcely squeeze through. Then Bo came out into a large open offshoot of the park, right under the mountain slope, and here she sat, her horse watching and listening. Helen rode up to her, imagining once that she had heard the hound.
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“Look! Look!” Bo’s scream made her mustang stand almost straight up.
Helen gazed up to see a big brown bear with a frosted coat go lumbering across an opening on the slope.
“It’s a grizzly! He’ll kill Pedro! Oh, where is Dale!” cried Bo, with intense excitement.
“Bo! That bear is running down! We — we must get — out of his road,” panted Helen, in breathless alarm.
“Dale hasn’t had time to be close.... Oh, I wish he’d come! I don’t know what to do.”
“Ride back. At least wait for him.”
Just then Pedro spoke differently, in savage barks, and following that came a loud growl and crashings in the brush. These sounds appeared to be not far up the slope.
“Nell! Do you hear? Pedro’s fighting the bear,” burst out Bo. Her face paled, her eyes flashed like blue steel. “The bear ‘ll kill him!”
“Oh, that would be dreadful!” replied Helen, in distress. “But what on earth can we do?”
“HEL-LO, DALE!” called Bo, at the highest pitch of her piercing voice.
No answer came. A heavy crash of brush, a rolling of stones, another growl from the slope told Helen that the hound had brought the bear to bay.
“Nell, I’m going up,” said Bo, deliberately.
“No-no! Are you mad?” returned Helen.
“The bear will kill Pedro.”
