Books: The Man of the Forest
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Zane Grey >> The Man of the Forest
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"An' he was here when I arrived," concluded Dale, smiling.
"I never wanted to get rid of him after that. He's turned
out to be the finest dog I ever knew. He knows what I say.
He can almost talk. An' I swear he can cry. He does whenever
I start off without him."
"How perfectly wonderful!" exclaimed Bo. "Aren't animals
great? . . . But I love horses best."
It seemed to Helen that Pedro understood they were talking
about him, for he looked ashamed, and swallowed hard, and
dropped his gaze. She knew something of the truth about the
love of dogs for their owners. This story of Dale's,
however, was stranger than any she had ever heard.
Tom, the cougar, put in an appearance then, and there was
scarcely love in the tawny eyes he bent upon Pedro. But the
hound did not deign to notice him. Tom sidled up to Bo, who
sat on the farther side of the tarpaulin table-cloth, and
manifestly wanted part of her breakfast.
"Gee! I love the look of him," she said. "But when he's
close he makes my flesh creep."
"Beasts are as queer as people," observed Dale. "They take
likes an' dislikes. I believe Tom has taken a shine to you
an' Pedro begins to be interested in your sister. I can
tell."
"Where's Bud?" inquired Bo.
"He's asleep or around somewhere. Now, soon as I get the
work done, what would you girls like to do?"
"Ride!" declared Bo, eagerly.
"Aren't you sore an' stiff?"
"I am that. But I don't care. Besides, when I used to go out
to my uncle's farm near Saint Joe I always found riding to
be a cure for aches."
"Sure is, if you can stand it. An' what will your sister
like to do?" returned Dale, turning to Helen.
"Oh, I'll rest, and watch you folks -- and dream," replied
Helen.
"But after you've rested you must be active," said Dale,
seriously. "You must do things. It doesn't matter what, just
as long as you don't sit idle."
"Why?" queried Helen, in surprise. "Why not be idle here in
this beautiful, wild place? just to dream away the hours --
the days! I could do it."
"But you mustn't. It took me years to learn how bad that was
for me. An' right now I would love nothin' more than to
forget my work, my horses an' pets -- everythin', an' just
lay around, seein' an' feelin'."
"Seeing and feeling? Yes, that must be what I mean. But why
-- what is it? There are the beauty and color -- the wild,
shaggy slopes -- the gray cliffs -- the singing wind -- the
lulling water -- the clouds -- the sky. And the silence,
loneliness, sweetness of it all."
"It's a driftin' back. What I love to do an' yet fear most.
It's what makes a lone hunter of a man. An' it can grow so
strong that it binds a man to the wilds."
"How strange!" murmured Helen. "But that could never bind
ME. Why, I must live and fulfil my mission, my work in the
civilized world."
It seemed to Helen that Dale almost imperceptibly shrank at
her earnest words.
"The ways of Nature are strange," he said. "I look at it
different. Nature's just as keen to wean you back to a
savage state as you are to be civilized. An' if Nature won,
you would carry out her design all the better."
This hunter's talk shocked Helen and yet stimulated her
mind.
"Me -- a savage? Oh no!" she exclaimed. "But, if that were
possible, what would Nature's design be?"
"You spoke of your mission in life," he replied. "A woman's
mission is to have children. The female of any species has
only one mission -- to reproduce its kind. An' Nature has
only one mission -- toward greater strength, virility,
efficiency -- absolute perfection, which is unattainable."
"What of mental and spiritual development of man and woman?"
asked Helen.
"Both are direct obstacles to the design of Nature. Nature
is physical. To create for limitless endurance for eternal
life. That must be Nature's inscrutable design. An' why she
must fail."
"But the soul!" whispered Helen.
"Ah! When you speak of the soul an' I speak of life we mean
the same. You an' I will have some talks while you're here.
I must brush up my thoughts."
"So must I, it seems," said Helen, with a slow smile. She
had been rendered grave and thoughtful. "But I guess I'll
risk dreaming under the pines."
Bo had been watching them with her keen blue eyes.
"Nell, it'd take a thousand years to make a savage of you,"
she said. "But a week will do for me."
"Bo, you were one before you left Saint Joe," replied Helen.
"Don't you remember that school-teacher Barnes who said you
were a wildcat and an Indian mixed? He spanked you with a
ruler."
"Never! He missed me," retorted Bo, with red in her cheeks.
"Nell, I wish you'd not tell things about me when I was a
kid."
"That was only two years ago," expostulated Helen, in mild
surprise.
"Suppose it was. I was a kid all right. I'll bet you -" Bo
broke up abruptly, and, tossing her head, she gave Tom a pat
and then ran away around the corner of cliff wall.
Helen followed leisurely.
"Say, Nell," said Bo, when Helen arrived at their little
green ledge-pole hut, "do you know that hunter fellow will
upset some of your theories?"
"Maybe. I'll admit he amazes me -- and affronts me, too, I'm
afraid," replied Helen. "What surprises me is that in spite
of his evident lack of schooling he's not raw or crude. He's
elemental."
"Sister dear, wake up. The man's wonderful. You can learn
more from him than you ever learned in your life. So can I.
I always hated books, anyway."
When, a little later, Dale approached carrying some bridles,
the hound Pedro trotted at his heels.
"I reckon you'd better ride the horse you had," he said to
Bo.
"Whatever you say. But I hope you let me ride them all, by
and by."
"Sure. I've a mustang out there you'll like. But he pitches
a little," he rejoined, and turned away toward the park. The
hound looked after him and then at Helen.
"Come, Pedro. Stay with me," called Helen.
Dale, hearing her, motioned the hound back. Obediently Pedro
trotted to her, still shy and soberly watchful, as if not
sure of her intentions, but with something of friendliness
about him now. Helen found a soft, restful seat in the sun
facing the park, and there composed herself for what she
felt would be slow, sweet, idle hours. Pedro curled down
beside her. The tall form of Dale stalked across the park,
out toward the straggling horses. Again she saw a deer
grazing among them. How erect and motionless it stood
watching Dale! Presently it bounded away toward the edge of
the forest. Some of the horses whistled and ran, kicking
heels high in the air. The shrill whistles rang clear in the
stillness.
"Gee! Look at them go!" exclaimed Bo, gleefully, coming up
to where Helen sat. Bo threw herself down upon the fragrant
pine-needles and stretched herself languorously, like a lazy
kitten. There was something feline in her lithe, graceful
outline. She lay flat and looked up through the pines.
"Wouldn't it be great, now," she murmured, dreamily, half to
herself, "if that Las Vegas cowboy would happen somehow to
come, and then an earthquake would shut us up here in this
Paradise valley so we'd never get out?"
"Bo! What would mother say to such talk as that?" gasped
Helen.
"But, Nell, wouldn't it be great?"
"It would be terrible."
"Oh, there never was any romance in you, Nell Rayner,"
replied Bo. "That very thing has actually happened out here
in this wonderful country of wild places. You need not tell
me! Sure it's happened. With the cliff-dwellers and the
Indians and then white people. Every place I look makes me
feel that. Nell, you'd have to see people in the moon
through a telescope before you'd believe that."
"I'm practical and sensible, thank goodness!"
"But, for the sake of argument," protested Bo, with flashing
eyes, "suppose it MIGHT happen. Just to please me, suppose
we DID get shut up here with Dale and that cowboy we saw
from the train. Shut in without any hope of ever climbing
out. . . . What would you do? Would you give up and pine
away and die? Or would you fight for life and whatever joy
it might mean?"
"Self-preservation is the first instinct," replied Helen,
surprised at a strange, deep thrill in the depths of her.
"I'd fight for life, of course."
"Yes. Well, really, when I think seriously I don't want
anything like that to happen. But, just the same, if it DID
happen I would glory in it."
While they were talking Dale returned with the horses.
"Can you bridle an' saddle your own horse?" he asked.
"No. I'm ashamed to say I can't," replied Bo.
"Time to learn then. Come on. Watch me first when I saddle
mine."
Bo was all eyes while Dale slipped off the bridle from his
horse and then with slow, plain action readjusted it. Next
he smoothed the back of the horse, shook out the blanket,
and, folding it half over, he threw it in place, being
careful to explain to Bo just the right position. He lifted
his saddle in a certain way and put that in place, and then
he tightened the cinches.
"Now you try," he said.
According to Helen's judgment Bo might have been a Western
girl all her days. But Dale shook his head and made her do
it over.
"That was better. Of course, the saddle is too heavy for you
to sling it up. You can learn that with a light one. Now put
the bridle on again. Don't be afraid of your hands. He won't
bite. Slip the bit in sideways. . . . There. Now let's see
you mount."
When Bo got into the saddle Dale continued: "You went up
quick an' light, but the wrong way. Watch me."
Bo had to mount several times before Dale was satisfied.
Then he told her to ride off a little distance. When Bo had
gotten out of earshot Dale said to Helen: "She'll take to a
horse like a duck takes to water." Then, mounting, he rode
out after her.
Helen watched them trotting and galloping and running the
horses round the grassy park, and rather regretted she had
not gone with them. Eventually Bo rode back, to dismount and
fling herself down, red-cheeked and radiant, with disheveled
hair, and curls damp on her temples. How alive she seemed!
Helen's senses thrilled with the grace and charm and
vitality of this surprising sister, and she was aware of a
sheer physical joy in her presence. Bo rested, but she did
not rest long. She was soon off to play with Bud. Then she
coaxed the tame doe to eat out of her hand. She dragged
Helen off for wild flowers, curious and thoughtless by
turns. And at length she fell asleep, quickly, in a way that
reminded Helen of the childhood now gone forever.
Dale called them to dinner about four o'clock, as the sun
was reddening the western rampart of the park. Helen
wondered where the day had gone. The hours had flown
swiftly, serenely, bringing her scarcely a thought of her
uncle or dread of her forced detention there or possible
discovery by those outlaws supposed to be hunting for her.
After she realized the passing of those hours she had an
intangible and indescribable feeling of what Dale had meant
about dreaming the hours away. The nature of Paradise Park
was inimical to the kind of thought that had habitually been
hers, She found the new thought absorbing, yet when she
tried to name it she found that, after all, she had only
felt. At the meal hour she was more than usually quiet. She
saw that Dale noticed it and was trying to interest her or
distract her attention. He succeeded, but she did not choose
to let him see that. She strolled away alone to her seat
under the pine. Bo passed her once, and cried,
tantalizingly:
"My, Nell, but you're growing romantic!"
Never before in Helen's life had the beauty of the evening
star seemed so exquisite or the twilight so moving and
shadowy or the darkness so charged with loneliness. It was
their environment -- the accompaniment of wild wolf-mourn,
of the murmuring waterfall, of this strange man of the
forest and the unfamiliar elements among which he made his home.
Next morning, her energy having returned, Helen shared Bo's
lesson in bridling and saddling her horse, and in riding.
Bo, however, rode so fast and so hard that for Helen to
share her company was impossible. And Dale, interested and
amused, yet anxious, spent most of his time with Bo. It was
thus that Helen rode all over the park alone. She was
astonished at its size, when from almost any point it looked
so small. The atmosphere deceived her. How clearly she could
see! And she began to judge distance by the size of familiar
things. A horse, looked at across the longest length of the
park, seemed very small indeed. Here and there she rode upon
dark, swift, little brooks, exquisitely clear and
amber-colored and almost hidden from sight by the long
grass. These all ran one way, and united to form a deeper
brook that apparently wound under the cliffs at the west
end, and plunged to an outlet in narrow clefts. When Dale
and Bo came to her once she made inquiry, and she was
surprised to learn from Dale that this brook disappeared in
a hole in the rocks and had an outlet on the other side of
the mountain. Sometime he would take them to the lake it
formed.
"Over the mountain?" asked Helen, again remembering that she
must regard herself as a fugitive. "Will it be safe to leave
our hiding-place? I forget so often why we are here."
"We would be better hidden over there than here," replied
Dale. "The valley on that side is accessible only from that
ridge. An' don't worry about bein' found. I told you Roy
Beeman is watchin' Anson an' his gang. Roy will keep between
them an' us."
Helen was reassured, yet there must always linger in the
background of her mind a sense of dread. In spite of this,
she determined to make the most of her opportunity. Bo was a
stimulus. And so Helen spent the rest of that day riding and
tagging after her sister.
The next day was less hard on Helen. Activity, rest, eating,
and sleeping took on a wonderful new meaning to her. She had
really never known them as strange joys. She rode, she
walked, she climbed a little, she dozed under her pine-tree,
she worked helping Dale at camp-fire tasks, and when night
came she said she did not know herself. That fact haunted
her in vague, deep dreams. Upon awakening she forgot her
resolve to study herself. That day passed. And then several
more went swiftly before she adapted herself to a situation
she had reason to believe might last for weeks and even months.
It was afternoon that Helen loved best of all the time of
the day. The sunrise was fresh, beautiful; the morning was
windy, fragrant; the sunset was rosy, glorious; the twilight
was sad, changing; and night seemed infinitely sweet with
its stars and silence and sleep. But the afternoon, when
nothing changed, when all was serene, when time seemed to
halt, that was her choice, and her solace.
One afternoon she had camp all to herself. Bo was riding.
Dale had climbed the mountain to see if he could find any
trace of tracks or see any smoke from camp-fire. Bud was
nowhere to be seen, nor any of the other pets. Tom had gone
off to some sunny ledge where he could bask in the sun,
after the habit of the wilder brothers of his species. Pedro
had not been seen for a night and a day, a fact that Helen
had noted with concern. However, she had forgotten him, and
therefore was the more surprised to see him coming limping
into camp on three legs.
"Why, Pedro! You have been fighting. Come here," she called.
The hound did not look guilty. He limped to her and held up
his right fore paw. The action was unmistakable. Helen
examined the injured member and presently found a piece of
what looked like mussel-shell embedded deeply between the
toes. The wound was swollen, bloody, and evidently very
painful. Pedro whined. Helen had to exert all the strength
of her fingers to pull it out. Then Pedro howled. But
immediately he showed his gratitude by licking her hand.
Helen bathed his paw and bound it up.
When Dale returned she related the incident and, showing the
piece of shell, she asked: "Where did that come from ? Are
there shells in the mountains?"
"Once this country was under the sea," replied Dale. "I've
found things that 'd make you wonder."
"Under the sea!" ejaculated Helen. It was one thing to have
read of such a strange fact, but a vastly different one to
realize it here among these lofty peaks. Dale was always
showing her something or telling her something that
astounded her.
"Look here," he said one day. "What do you make of that
little bunch of aspens?"
They were on the farther side of the park and were resting
under a pine-tree. The forest here encroached upon the park
with its straggling lines of spruce and groves of aspen. The
little clump of aspens did not differ from hundreds Helen
had seen.
"I don't make anything particularly of it," replied Helen,
dubiously. "Just a tiny grove of aspens -- some very small,
some larger, but none very big. But it's pretty with its
green and yellow leaves fluttering and quivering."
"It doesn't make you think of a fight?"
"Fight? No, it certainly does not," replied Helen.
"Well, it's as good an example of fight, of strife, of
selfishness, as you will find in the forest," he said. "Now
come over, you an' Bo, an' let me show you what I mean."
"Come on, Nell," cried Bo, with enthusiasm. "He'll open our
eyes some more."
Nothing loath, Helen went with them to the little clump of
aspens.
"About a hundred altogether," said Dale. "They're pretty
well shaded by the spruces, but they get the sunlight from
east an' south. These little trees all came from the same
seedlings. They're all the same age. Four of them stand,
say, ten feet or more high an' they're as large around as my
wrist. Here's one that's largest. See how full-foliaged he
is -- how he stands over most of the others, but not so much
over these four next to him. They all stand close together,
very close, you see. Most of them are no larger than my
thumb. Look how few branches they have, an' none low down.
Look at how few leaves. Do you see how all the branches
stand out toward the east an' south -- how the leaves, of
course, face the same way? See how one branch of one tree
bends aside one from another tree. That's a fight for the
sunlight. Here are one -- two -- three dead trees. Look, I
can snap them off . An' now look down under them. Here are
little trees five feet high -- four feet high -- down to
these only a foot high. Look how pale, delicate, fragile,
unhealthy! They get so little sunshine. They were born with
the other trees, but did not get an equal start. Position
gives the advantage, perhaps."
Dale led the girls around the little grove, illustrating his
words by action. He seemed deeply in earnest.
"You understand it's a fight for water an' sun. But mostly
sun, because, if the leaves can absorb the sun, the tree an'
roots will grow to grasp the needed moisture. Shade is death
-- slow death to the life of trees. These little aspens are
fightin' for place in the sunlight. It is a merciless
battle. They push an' bend one another's branches aside an'
choke them. Only perhaps half of these aspens will survive,
to make one of the larger clumps, such as that one of
full-grown trees over there. One season will give advantage
to this saplin' an' next year to that one. A few seasons'
advantage to one assures its dominance over the others. But
it is never sure of holdin' that dominance. An 'if wind or
storm or a strong-growin' rival does not overthrow it, then
sooner or later old age will. For there is absolute and
continual fight. What is true of these aspens is true of all
the trees in the forest an' of all plant life in the forest.
What is most wonderful to me is the tenacity of life."
And next day Dale showed them an even more striking example
of this mystery of nature.
He guided them on horseback up one of the thick,
verdant-wooded slopes, calling their attention at various
times to the different growths, until they emerged on the
summit of the ridge where the timber grew scant and dwarfed.
At the edge of timber-line he showed a gnarled and knotted
spruce-tree, twisted out of all semblance to a beautiful
spruce, bent and storm-blasted, with almost bare branches,
all reaching one' way. The tree was a specter. It stood
alone. It had little green upon it. There seemed something
tragic about its contortions. But it was alive and strong.
It had no rivals to take sun or moisture. Its enemies were
the snow and wind and cold of the heights.
Helen felt, as the realization came to her, the knowledge
Dale wished to impart, that it was as sad as wonderful, and
as mysterious as it was inspiring. At that moment there were
both the sting and sweetness of life -- the pain and the joy
-- in Helen's heart. These strange facts were going to teach
her -- to transform her. And even if they hurt, she welcomed
them.
CHAPTER XI
"I'll ride you if it breaks -- my neck!" panted Bo,
passionately, shaking her gloved fist at the gray pony.
Dale stood near with a broad smile on his face. Helen was
within earshot, watching from the edge of the park, and she
felt so fascinated and frightened that she could not call
out for Bo to stop. The little gray mustang was a beauty,
clean-limbed and racy, with long black mane and tail, and a
fine, spirited head. There was a blanket strapped on his
back, but no saddle. Bo held the short halter that had been
fastened in a hackamore knot round his nose. She wore no
coat; her blouse was covered with grass and seeds, and it
was open at the neck; her hair hung loose and disheveled;
one side of her face bore a stain of grass and dirt and a
suspicion of blood; the other was red and white; her eyes
blazed; beads of sweat stood out on her brow and wet places
shone on her cheeks. As she began to strain on the halter,
pulling herself closer to the fiery pony, the outline of her
slender shape stood out lithe and strong.
Bo had been defeated in her cherished and determined
ambition to ride Dale's mustang, and she was furious. The
mustang did not appear to be vicious or mean. But he was
spirited, tricky, mischievous, and he had thrown her six
times. The scene of Bo's defeat was at the edge of the park,
where thick moss and grass afforded soft places for her to
fall. It also afforded poor foothold for the gray mustang,
obviously placing him at a disadvantage. Dale did not bridle
him, because he had not been broken to a bridle; and though
it was harder for Bo to try to ride him bareback, there was
less risk of her being hurt. Bo had begun in all eagerness
and enthusiasm, loving and petting the mustang, which she
named "Pony." She had evidently anticipated an adventure,
but her smiling, resolute face had denoted confidence. Pony
had stood fairly well to be mounted, and then had pitched
and tossed until Bo had slid off or been upset or thrown.
After each fall Bo bounced up with less of a smile, and more
of spirit, until now the Western passion to master a horse
had suddenly leaped to life within her. It was no longer
fun, no more a daring circus trick to scare Helen and rouse
Dale's admiration. The issue now lay between Bo and the
mustang.
Pony reared, snorting, tossing his head, and pawing with
front feet.
"Pull him down!" yelled Dale.
Bo did not have much weight, but she had strength, an she
hauled with all her might, finally bringing him down.
"Now hold hard an' take up rope an' get in to him," called
Dale. "Good! You're sure not afraid of him. He sees that.
Now hold him, talk to him, tell him you're goin' to ride
him. Pet him a little. An' when he quits shakin', grab his
mane an' jump up an' slide a leg over him. Then hook your
feet under him, hard as you can, an' stick on."
If Helen had not been so frightened for Bo she would have
been able to enjoy her other sensations. Creeping, cold
thrills chased over her as Bo, supple and quick, slid an arm
and a leg over Pony and straightened up on him with a
defiant cry. Pony jerked his head down, brought his feet
together in one jump, and began to bounce. Bo got the swing
of him this time and stayed on.
"You're ridin' him," yelled Dale. "Now squeeze hard with
your knees. Crack him over the head with your rope. . . .
That's the way. Hang on now an' you'll have him beat."
The mustang pitched all over the space adjacent to Dale and
Helen, tearing up the moss and grass. Several times he
tossed Bo high, but she slid back to grip him again with her
legs, and he could not throw her. Suddenly he raised his
head and bolted. Dale answered Bo's triumphant cry. But Pony
had not run fifty feet before he tripped and fell, throwing
Bo far over his head. As luck would have it -- good luck,
Dale afterward said -- she landed in a boggy place and the
force of her momentum was such that she slid several yards,
face down, in wet moss and black ooze.
Helen uttered a scream and ran forward. Bo was getting to
her knees when Dale reached her. He helped her up and half
led, half carried her out of the boggy place. Bo was not
recognizable. From head to foot she was dripping black ooze.
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