With a dull ache in his bones, Wayland crept out to the fire and set to work fanning the coals with his hat, as he had seen the Supervisor do. He worked desperately till one of the embers began to angrily sparkle and to smoke. Then slipping away out of earshot he broke an armful of dry fir branches to heap above the wet, charred logs. Soon these twigs broke into flame, and Berrie, awakened by the crackle of the pine branches, called out: “Is it daylight?”
“Yes, but it’s a very dark daylight. Don’t leave your warm bed for the dampness and cold out here; stay where you are; I’ll get breakfast.”
“How are you this morning? Did you sleep?”
“Fine!”
“I’m afraid you had a bad night,” she insisted, in a tone which indicated her knowledge of his suffering.
“Camp life has its disadvantages,” he admitted, as he put the coffee-pot on the fire. “But I’m feeling better now. I never fried a bird in my life, but I’m going to try it this morning. I have some water heating for your bath.” He put the soap, towel, and basin of hot water just inside the tent flap. “Here it is. I’m going to bathe in the lake. I must show my hardihood.”
He heard her protesting as he went off down the bank, but his heart was resolute. “I’m not dead yet,” he said, grimly. “An invalid who can spend two such nights as these, and still face a cold wind, has some vitality in his bones after all.”
When he returned he found the girl full dressed, alert, and glowing; but she greeted him with a touch of shyness and self-consciousness new to her, and her eyes veiled themselves before his glance.
“Now, where do you suppose the Supervisor is?” he asked.
“I hope he’s at home,” she replied, quite seriously. “I’d hate to think of him camped in the high country without bedding or tent.”
“Oughtn’t I to take a turn up the trail and see? I feel guilty somehow—I must do something!”
“You can’t help matters any by hoofing about in the mud. No, we’ll just hold the fort till he comes, that’s what he’ll expect us to do.”
He submitted once more to the force of her argument, and they ate breakfast in such intimacy and good cheer that the night’s discomforts and anxieties counted for little. As the sun broke through the clouds Berrie hung out the bedding in order that its dampness might be warmed away.
“We may have to camp here again to-night,” she explained, demurely.
“Worse things could happen than that,” he gallantly answered. “I wouldn’t mind a month of it, only I shouldn’t want it to rain or snow all the time.”
“Poor boy! You did suffer, didn’t you? I was afraid you would. Did you sleep at all?” she asked, tenderly.
“Oh yes, after I came inside; but, of course, I was more or less restless expecting your father to ride up, and then it’s all rather exciting business to a novice. I could hear all sorts of birds and beasts stepping and fluttering about. I was scared in spite of my best resolution.”
“That’s funny; I never feel that way. I slept like a log after I knew you were comfortable. You must have a better bed and more blankets. It’s always cold up here.”
The sunlight was short-lived. The clouds settled over the peaks, and ragged wisps of gray vapor dropped down the timbered slopes of the prodigious amphitheater in which the lake lay. Again Berrie made everything snug while her young woodsman toiled at bringing logs for the fire.
In truth, he was more elated than he had been since leaving school, for he was not only doing a man’s work in the world, he was serving a woman in the immemorial way of the hewer of wood and the carrier of water. His fatigue and the chill of the morning wore away, and he took vast pride in dragging long poles down the hillside, forcing Berrie to acknowledge that he was astonishingly strong. “But don’t overdo it,” she warned.
At last fully provided for, they sat contentedly side by side under the awning and watched the falling rain as it splashed and sizzled on the sturdy fire. “It’s a little like being shipwrecked on a desert island, isn’t it?” he said. “As if our boats had drifted away.”
At noon she again prepared an elaborate meal. She served potatoes and grouse, hot biscuit with sugar syrup, and canned peaches, and coffee done to just the right color and aroma. He declared it wonderful, and they ate with repeated wishes that the Supervisor might turn up in time to share their feast; but he did not. Then Berrie said, firmly: “Now you must take a snooze, you look tired.”
He was, in truth, not only drowsy but lame and tired. Therefore, he yielded to her suggestion.
She covered him with blankets and put him away like a child. “Now you have a good sleep,” she said, tenderly. “I’ll call you when daddy comes.”
With a delicious sense of her protecting care he lay for a few moments listening to the drip of the water on the tent, then drifted away into peace and silence.
When he woke the ground was again covered with snow, and the girl was feeding the fire with wood which her own hands had supplied.
Hearing him stir, she turned and fixed her eyes upon him with clear, soft gaze. “How do you feel by now?” she asked.
“Quite made over,” he replied, rising alertly.
His cheer, however, was only pretense. He was greatly worried. “Something has happened to your father,” he said. “His horse has thrown him, or he has slipped and fallen.” His peace and exultation were gone. “How far is it down to the ranger station?”
“About twelve miles.”
“Don’t you think we’d better close camp and go down there? It is now three o’clock; we can walk it in five hours.”
She shook her head. “No, I think we’d better stay right here. It’s a long, hard walk, and the trail is muddy.”
“But, dear girl,” he began, desperately, “it won’t do for us to camp here—alone—in this way another night. What will Cliff say?”
She flamed red, then whitened. “I don’t care what Cliff thinks—I’m done with him—and no one that I really care about would blame us.” She was fully aware of his anxiety now. “It isn’t our fault.”
“It will be my fault if I keep you here longer!” he answered. “We must reach a telephone and send word out. Something may have happened to your father.”
“I’m not worried a bit about him. It may be that there’s been a big snowfall up above us—or else a windstorm. The trail may be blocked; but don’t worry. He may have to go round by Lost Lake pass.” She pondered a moment. “I reckon you’re right. We’d better pack up and rack down the trail to the ranger’s cabin. Not on my account, but on yours. I’m afraid you’ve taken cold.”
“I’m all right, except I’m very lame; but I am anxious to go on. By the way, is this ranger Settle married?”
“No, his station is one of the lonesomest cabins on the forest. No woman will stay there.”
This made Wayland ponder. “Nevertheless,” he decided, “we’ll go. After all, the man is a forest officer, and you are the Supervisor’s daughter.”
She made no further protest, but busied herself closing the panniers and putting away the camp utensils. She seemed to recognize that his judgment was sound.
It was after three when they left the tent and started down the trail, carrying nothing but a few toilet articles.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing. “Should we have left a note for the Supervisor?”
She pointed to their footprints. “There’s all the writing he needs,” she assured him, leading the way at a pace which made him ache. She plashed plumply into the first puddle in the path. “No use dodging ’em,” she called over her shoulder, and he soon saw that she was right.
The trees were dripping, the willows heavy with water, and the mud ankle-deep—in places—but she pushed on steadily, and he, following in her tracks, could only marvel at her strength and sturdy self-reliance. The swing of her shoulders, the poise of her head, and the lithe movement of her waist, made his own body seem a poor thing.
For two hours they zigzagged down a narrow cañ
on heavily timbered with fir and spruce—a dark, stern avenue, crossed by roaring streams, and filled with frequent boggy meadows whereon the water lay mid-leg deep.
“We’ll get out of this very soon,” she called, cheerily.
By degrees the gorge widened, grew more open, more genial. Aspen thickets of pale-gold flashed upon their eyes like sunlight, and grassy bunches afforded firmer footing, but on the slopes their feet slipped and slid painfully. Still Berea kept her stride. “We must get to the middle fork before dark,” she stopped to explain, “for I don’t know the trail down there, and there’s a lot of down timber just above the station. Now that we’re cut loose from our camp I feel nervous. As long as I have a tent I am all right; but now we are in the open I worry. How are you standing it?” She studied him with keen and anxious glance, her hand upon his arm.
“Fine as a fiddle,” he replied, assuming a spirit he did not possess, “but you are marvelous. I thought cowgirls couldn’t walk?”
“I can do anything when I have to,” she replied. “We’ve got three hours more of it.” And she warningly exclaimed: “Look back there!”
They had reached a point from which the range could be seen, and behold it was covered deep with a seamless robe of new snow.
“That’s why dad didn’t get back last night. He’s probably wallowing along up there this minute.” And she set off again with resolute stride. Wayland’s pale face and labored breath alarmed her. She was filled with love and pity, but she pressed forward desperately.
As he grew tired, Wayland’s boots, loaded with mud, became fetters, and every slope greasy with mire seemed an almost insurmountable barricade. He fell several times, but made no outcry. “I will not add to her anxiety,” he said to himself.
At last they came to the valley floor, over which a devastating fire had run some years before, and which was still covered with fallen trees in desolate confusion. Here the girl made her first mistake. She kept on toward the river, although Wayland called attention to a trail leading to the right up over the low grassy hills. For a mile the path was clear, but she soon found herself confronted by an endless maze of blackened tree-trunks, and at last the path ended abruptly.
Dismayed and halting, she said: “We’ve got to go back to that trail which branched off to the right. I reckon that was the highland trail which Settle made to keep out of the swamp. I thought it was a trail from Cameron Peak, but it wasn’t. Back we go.”
She was suffering keenly now, not on her own account, but on his, for she could see that he was very tired, and to climb up that hill again was like punishing him a second time.
When she picked up the blazed trail it was so dark that she could scarcely follow it; but she felt her way onward, turning often to be sure that he was following. Once she saw him fall, and cried out: “It’s a shame to make you climb this hill again. It’s all my fault. I ought to have known that that lower road led down into the timber.”
Standing close beside him in the darkness, knowing that he was weary, wet, and ill, she permitted herself the expression of her love and pity. Putting her arm about him, she drew his cheek against her own, saying: “Poor boy, your hands are cold as ice.” She took them in her own warm clasp. “Oh, I wish we had never left the camp! What does it matter what people say?” Then she broke down and wailed. “I shall never forgive myself if you—” Her voice failed her.
SHE FOUND HERSELF CONFRONTED BY AN ENDLESS MAZE OF BLACKENED TREE-TRUNKS
He bravely reassured her: “I’m not defeated, I’m just tired. That’s all. I can go on.”
“But you are shaking.”
“That is merely a nervous chill. I’m good for another hour. It’s better to keep moving, anyhow.”
She thrust her hand under his coat and laid it over his heart. “You are tired out,” she said, and there was anguish in her voice. “Your heart is pounding terribly. You mustn’t do any more climbing. And, hark, there’s a wolf!”
He listened. “I hear him; but we are both armed. There’s no danger from wild animals.”
“Come!” she said, instantly recovering her natural resolution. “We can’t stand here. The station can’t be far away. We must go on.”
* * *
VIII
THE OTHER GIRL
The girl’s voice stirred the benumbed youth into action again, and he followed her mechanically. His slender stock of physical strength was almost gone, but his will remained unbroken. At every rough place she came back to him to support him, to hearten him, and so he crept on through the darkness, falling often, stumbling against the trees, slipping and sliding, till at last his guide, pitching down a sharp slope, came directly upon a wire fence.
“Glory be!” she called. “Here is a fence, and the cabin should be near, although I see no light. Hello! Tony!”
No voice replied, and, keeping Wayland’s hand, she felt her way along the fence till it revealed a gate; then she turned toward the roaring of the stream, which grew louder as they advanced. “The cabin is near the falls, that much I know,” she assured him. Then a moment later she joyfully cried out: “Here it is!”
Out of the darkness a blacker, sharper shadow rose. Again she called, but no one answered. “The ranger is away,” she exclaimed, in a voice of indignant alarm. “I do hope he left the door unlocked.”
Too numb with fatigue, and too dazed by the darkness to offer any aid, Wayland waited—swaying unsteadily on his feet—while she tried the door. It was bolted, and with but a moment’s hesitation, she said: “It looks like a case of breaking and entering. I’ll try a window.” The windows, too, were securely fastened. After trying them all, she came back to where Wayland stood. “Tony didn’t intend to have anybody pushing in,” she decided. “But if the windows will not raise they will smash.”
A crash of glass followed, and with a feeling that it was all part of a dream, Wayland waited while the girl made way through the broken sash into the dark interior. Her next utterance was a cry of joy: “Oh, but it’s nice and warm in here! I can’t open the door. You’ll have to come in the same way I did.”
He was too weak and too irresolute to respond immediately, and, reaching out, she took him by the arms and dragged him across the sill. Her strength seemed prodigious. A delicious warmth, a grateful dryness, a sense of shelter enfolded him like a garment. The place smelled deliciously of food, of fire, of tobacco.
Leading him toward the middle of the room, Berrie said: “Stand here till I strike a light.”
As her match flamed up Norcross found himself in a rough-walled cabin, in which stood a square cook-stove, a rude table littered with dishes, and three stools made of slabs. It was all very rude; but it had all the value of a palace at the moment.
The girl’s quick eye saw much else. She located an oil-lamp, some pine-wood, and a corner cupboard. In a few moments the lamp was lit, the stove refilled with fuel, and she was stripping Wayland’s wet coat from his back, cheerily discoursing as she did so. “Here’s one of Tony’s old jackets, put that on while I see if I can’t find some dry stockings for you. Sit right down here by the stove; put your feet in the oven. I’ll have a fire in a jiffy. There, that’s right. Now I’ll start the coffee-pot.” She soon found the coffee, but it was unground. “Wonder, where he keeps his coffee-mill.” She rummaged about for a few minutes, then gave up the search. “Well, no matter, here’s the coffee, and here’s a hammer. One of the laws of the trail is this: If you can’t do a thing one way, do it another.”
She poured the coffee beans into an empty tomato-can and began to pound them with the end of the hammer handle, laughing at Wayland’s look of wonder and admiration. “Necessity sure is the mother of invention out here. How do you feel by now? Isn’t it nice to own a roof and four walls? I’m going to close up that window as soon as I get the coffee started. Are you warming up?”
“Oh yes, I’m all right now,” he replied; but he didn’t look it, and her own cheer was rather forced. He was in the grasp of a nervous chill, and she was de
eply apprehensive of what the result of his exposure might be. It seemed as if the coffee would never come to a boil.
“I depend on that to brace you up,” she said.
After hanging a blanket over the broken window, she set out some cold meat and a half dozen baking-powder biscuits, which she found in the cupboard, and as soon as the coffee was ready she poured it for him; but she would not let him leave the fire. She brought his supper to him and sat beside him while he ate and drank.
“You must go right to bed,” she urged, as she studied his weary eyes. “You ought to sleep for twenty-four hours.”
The hot, strong coffee revived him physically and brought back a little of his courage, and he said: “I’m ashamed to be such a weakling.”
“Now hush,” she commanded. “It’s not your fault that you are weak. Now, while I am eating my supper you slip off your wet clothes and creep into Tony’s bunk, and I’ll fill one of these syrup-cans with hot water to put at your feet.”
It was of no use for him to protest against her further care. She insisted, and while she ate he meekly carried out her instructions, and from the delicious warmth and security of his bed watched her moving about the stove till the shadows of the room became one with the dusky figures of his sleep.
A moment later something falling on the floor woke him with a start, and, looking up, he found the sun shining, and Berrie confronting him with anxious face. “Did I waken you?” she asked. “I’m awfully sorry. I’m trying to be extra quiet. I dropped a pan. How do you feel this morning?”
He pondered this question a moment. “Is it to-morrow or the next week?”
She laughed happily. “It’s only the next day. Just keep where you are till the sun gets a little higher.” She drew near and put a hand on his brow. “You don’t feel feverish. Oh, I hope this trip hasn’t set you back.”
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