III
Mr. Kenly Lounsbury, addressed affectionately as Uncle by his nephew'sfiancee, was in ill humor as he devoured his lunch. In the first placehe hadn't been getting the attention that he had expected. He was usedto being treated with a certain deference, an abject humility was asfitting to a man of wealth and position. These northern people,however, didn't seem to know how to fawn. They were courteous enough,gave good service, but were inclined to speak to him as man toman,--an inference of equality that he regarded with great displeasure.His nephew's penniless fiancee, instead of himself, received all theattentions. Even the burly ruffian who was to guide them looked at heras if she were an angel.
The girl's voice rang over the table. "What's worrying you now, Uncle?"she asked.
Lounsbury looked up angrily. "What's worrying me now is--that I wassuch a fool as to come up into this country at the approach of winter.I don't like the place, and I don't like the people, and I abominate theservice! Fancy eating on these great, thick plates for a month! Idon't trust that big outlaw who is going to take us into the woods,either. Virginia, I have a distinct premonition of disaster."
"I rather think--that we'll be glad enough to have any china plates atall before we get back. And Mr. Bronson----"
"By the way, don't call him _Mr._ Bronson. You must learn to teachthese beggars their places. Call him just Bronson. You'll get twicethe service."
"Yes, Uncle. I was just going to say that he seemed very trustworthy.And it's hardly--well, the sporting thing to become discouraged sosoon."
All through the journey so far this had been Lounsbury's onesatisfaction--that he was doing the sporting thing. He knew perfectlythat many of his business associates, many of his city's great whomhe would have been flattered to know, came up into these gloomyforests every year in pursuit of big game; and he had heard ofenduring hardships in a "sporting" way. But the term was alreadythreadbare,--and the journey only commenced. The reason went back tothe simple fact that Lounsbury was not a sportsman and never could be,that the red corpuscle content in his blood was wholly within the law.
Yes, Virginia felt at a disadvantage. This man's money had financed thetrip; the fortune her own father had left had been almost depleted fromreverses resulting from the war, and only the most meager sort of anincome--according to her standards--was left. An orphan, she hadalways looked up to her fiance's uncle as her guardian and adviser; tosee signs of discouragement in him now was a serious blow to her.
She had been somewhat surprised, in the first place, at his willingnessto undertake the journey. He usually did not care to go so far from theWhite Way of his native city. The years had taught her to look forselfish motives behind his every action; certainly, she told herself, hewas not of the unselfish mold of his nephew, Harold Lounsbury, thesweetheart of her youth, but in this particular case the expeditionseemed entirely altruistic. She wondered now whether, after all herdreams, she would be forced to turn back before her purpose wasaccomplished.
They pushed back their chairs and started to leave the dining room. Butit was not written that Kenly Lounsbury should reach the door withoutfurther annoyance. The waiter came shouting after them.
"Excuse me, Mister," he said kindly, holding out a quarter, "you leftsome money on the table."
Virginia laughed with delight and pocketed the coin herself, butLounsbury's face became purple. These northern fools did not even knowthe meaning of a tip.
A few minutes later the pack train emerged through the little alley atthe side of the hotel and halted in front. Bill Bronson led his ownbay, Mulvaney, and the pack horses were tailed,--the halter rope ofeach tied to the tail of the horse in front, like elephants on parade.The idea was simply to keep them in formation till they were launchedforth upon the trail. Vosper, the cook, led three horses with ridingsaddles at the end of the line.
Virginia had changed to outing clothes when she emerged into the street,leaving her tailored suit in charge of the innkeeper. Bill beamed ather appearance. "Miss Tremont," he began, doing the honors, "this isMr. Vosper, who will cook the beans."
Both nodded, the girl smiling rather impersonally, and Bill noticed ahorrifying omission. Vosper actually lacked the intelligence to removehis hat! The first instinct of the woodsman was to march toward him andinflict physical violence for such an insult to his queen, but he caughthimself in time. Vosper, damaged in the encounter, would likely refuseto make the trip, upsetting all their plans.
But at that instant Bill forgot all about it. He suddenly noticed hisemployers' clothes. And he gazed in open-mouthed astonishment.
Both Virginia and Lounsbury were well gotten up according to their ideaof proper garb for outdoor people. The man wore knickerbockers withgold stockings, riding habit and stock, the girl a beautifully tailored,fine-textured lady's riding habit. Both were immediately conscious ofthe guide's stare, and Virginia was aware of a distinct embarrassment.Something, somewhere, had evidently gone wrong. Lounsbury took refugein hauteur.
"Well?" he demanded icily.
"Excuse me," Bill replied. "But those aren't--are those the clothesyou're going to wear on the trip?"
"We're not parading for any one's benefit, I hope," was the sarcasticanswer. "These are our rough clothes. Have you any objections to 'em?"
The guide's eyes puckered about the corners. "No, sir--not anyobjections--and they'd be all right for a day or two--until badweather. But they are hardly the togs for the North. What you want isa good pair of slicker pants, both of you, and plenty of wool inside.Also a rubber coat of some kind, over sheepskin. In the first good snowthose clothes would just melt away. If you'll come with me, I'll helpyou lay in some--and I'll pack 'em right on one of the horses for thetime of need. There's a store adjoining the hotel----"
Virginia's confusion had departed, giving way to mirth, but Lounsburywas swollen and purple with wrath. "You--you----" he began. His facegrew crafty. "I suppose you get a commission on every garment yousell."
Bill turned rather quiet eyes on the man; and for one little instant thecraven that dwelt under Lounsbury's skin told him he had said onesentence too many; but he took heart when Bill looked away. "I'll keepwhat I've got on," he announced. "I'm not used to being told what kindof clothes to wear. Virginia, we'll start on."
"Wait just a minute, Uncle," the girl replied coolly. She turned toBill. "You say these won't do at all?"
"They'll be torn off of you in the brush, Miss Tremont. And they won'tturn the cold and the snow, either. This is the North, you know."
"Then I, for one, am going to take your advice. Please help me pick outthe things, Bronson."
They left Lounsbury fuming in the road, and they had a rather enjoyableten minutes searching through Fargo's stock for suitable garb. Heselected a pair of slicker pants to wear over riding trousers, a coatlined with sheepskin, boy's size, and an awkwardly made but effectiverubber coat for outside wear when the snow lay on the branches. It wasnot, Virginia decided, quite like choosing gowns at her modiste's; yetshe was bright-eyed and laughing at the end.
Bill unhitched a pack, inserted the bundle of clothes, then bracing hisboots against the horse's side pulled and tugged until the pack wasright again. "You'll be glad you've got these things before the trip isdone," he prophesied. He pointed to the North, an unlooked for sobrietyupon his face.
Far against the horizon the clouds were beginning to spread, dark andgray and strange, over the northern hills. These were not the clouds ofsummer rains. They were the first banners of an enemy--a grim anddreadful foe who had his ramparts in the wilds, and his ambush laid forsuch feeble creatures as would dare to brave his fastness.
* * * * *
Bill Bronson gave his last directions, tightened the last cinch, andslipped his rifle into the saddle scabbard. "There's just one thingmore--the choice of horses," he said. "Miss Tremont, of course youcan take your pick." His tone was trustful. "Of course that will beall right with the other gentlemen--f
or you to have the best andsafest horse."
Strangely, neither of the two men seemed to greet this suggestion withespecial enthusiasm. "I want a good and a safe horse," Lounsbury saidevenly. "Of course you must provide Miss Tremont with the same."
The woodsman sighed, ever so softly. He returned to Vosper, but if thelatter had any suggestions to offer, the hard eyes of the guide causedhim to think better of them. "I'm sorry to say that good horses--andsafe horses--aren't to be found in the same animal up here," Billexplained. "If you have a good horse--one that'll take the mud andswim the river and stand up under the day's march--he'll likely havetoo much sense and spirit to be safe. He'll more than likely prancearound when you get on and buck you off if he thinks he can get awaywith it. If you've got a safe horse, one that's scared to death of you,he won't be a good horse--a yellow cuss that has to be dragged throughevery mud-puddle. These are all Indian ponies, the best that can be gotup here, but they're not old ladies' driving mares. Miss Tremont, thebest horse in this bunch is my bay, Mulvaney--but nobody can ride himbut me. I'd love to let you ride him if you could, and after a day ortwo I'd be willing for you to try it. But he doesn't know what fear is,and he doesn't know when to give up."
The man spoke soberly. It was wholly plain that Mulvaney was very dearto his heart. Men do not ride over the caribou trails withoutengendering strong feelings toward their mounts. Sometimes it is love.And not unusually it is detestation.
"That little black there--Buster, we call him--is the next best bet.It's an important choice you're making, and I'll tell you about him. Hethrew a man off once, and when I got him he was supposed to be the mostvicious animal in the Northwest. The truth is, he hasn't got a vicioushair on his head. But he will try to get away, and he will dance a bitwhen you first get on and wheel in circles, and he's hard to catch inthe morning. But he's sure-footed and courageous and strong; he'll takeyou up hills where the others can't go. The other two horses--Coltand Scotty--maybe seem safer, but they haven't got the life Busterhas, nor the sense."
Bill reached to pet the black Buster, and the animal shied nervously.Virginia walked up to him and seized his bridle rein. In an instant shehad vaulted into the saddle.
He wheeled and plunged at first, but soon she quieted him. In none toogood humor, Lounsbury made his selection, and Vosper took what was left.Bill led his animal to Virginia's side.
"And are there any special instructions--before we start?" he asked.
"I can give you some special instructions," Lounsbury interrupted. "Ididn't come up here to risk my life on a wild mustang in the mountains.I want you to pick easy trails--you can if you've just got energyenough to try."
A half-smile lingered a moment at the woodsman's lips. There was nochoice of trails into Clearwater. He might have told Lounsbury thatonce they were out of sight of the roofs of the town they were venturinginto the Unknown, a land where the caribou and the moose made trailsthrough the forest but where men came not, a land of beasts rather thanmen, of primeval grandeur but savage might. "Have you any orders togive?" he asked the girl again.
"None. All I can do is tell you what I have already done--and thenlet you do the best you can. As you know, he left six years ago."
"I know. I saw him when he came through."
His eyes were fast upon her, and he saw her start. Her face seemed toflame. Stranger as he was to the hearts of women, Bill couldunderstand. It was word of her lover, a message from the dead, and itmoved her to the depths. But he couldn't understand the curious weightof depression that descended upon him.
"You did?" she answered quickly. "Was he all right--then?"
"All right, but that was just after he came to the North. I was campingon this side of Grizzly River, and he stayed to eat with me. He saidhis name was Lounsbury. I've never heard of him since."
The surface lights died in her eyes. "Then that doesn't help us much,except to know that he got that far, at least," she went on. "I'll tellyou the whole thing, simply; maybe it will help you in deciding where tolook for him. He was twenty-seven then--and he'd spent the fortunehis father left him. He had to have more, and he came up here--tolook for gold.
"Like many other men--before him," Bill interrupted gravely.
"He had some sort of definite plan--a vacation place to go--but henever told me what it was. He told me he was going into Clearwater. Hehad to have money--he was in debt and besides, he was engaged to marryme. The last word I ever heard of him was a note he wrote fromBradleyburg. I was just a girl then--and I've waited ever since.His friends, his aunt, sometimes even his uncle thought that he wasdead. I've always felt, just as sure as I am here, that he was stillalive--and in some trouble--and he couldn't come back. Mr. Lounsburyhas hired detectives, but none of them have ever made a real search.He's financing this trip now--I've been able to persuade him at last tomake one great try to find him. What's what we've hired you to do."
"It's a big order," Bill spoke softly. "There's just one thing we cando--to look into the country where he's gone and try to trace him.Every man who goes through Clearwater leaves his mark--there's not somany of them that their trails get crossed. My plan would be to watchfor the camps he made--there'd be some sign of 'em yet--the trees hecut and the trails he blazed--and trace him clear to the Valley of theYuga."
"And what is there?"
Bill's ears, trained to the silences of the woodland, caught the almostimperceptible tremor in her voice. "There are a few Indians who havetheir tents there--trappers and fishers--and I know how to getthings out of 'em. If he's passed that way, they'd know about it. Ifhe hasn't--something has happened to him--somewhere between here andthere. He couldn't have remained out of sight so long."
"I want you to make every try. I can't bear--to give up."
Even this woodsman, knowing men to the heart but stranger to the worldof women, knew that she meant what she said. She wasn't of the moldthat gives up quickly. For all her cool exterior, her impersonal voice,the grace and breeding that went clear to her finger tips, he had somemeasure of understanding of an ardor and an intensity that might havebeen native to his own wilderness. Not often has girlhood love stoodsuch a test as this,--six years of silence. He could not doubt itsreality; no small or half-felt emotion could have propelled her forthinto these desolate wastes. Her love had gone deep and it lived.
He answered very gravely and humbly, perhaps a even a little sadly:"I'll do everything I can to find him for you, Miss. I'll get yoursweetheart for you if it can be done."
To Vosper and Lounsbury the two little sentences were just theassurances of a hired employee, half-felt and forgotten soon. ButVirginia heard more clearly. She had a vague feeling that she was awitness to a vow. It seemed to her that there was the fire of a zealotin his dark eyes, and by token of some mystery she did not understand,this strong man had seen fit to give her his oath. She only knew thathe spoke true, that by a secret law that only strong men know he wouldbe as faithful to this promise as if he had given bond.
The Snowshoe Trail Page 3
