Books: The Man of the Forest

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"Bo, will you listen to me -- if I swear to speak the truth
-- as I know it?"

"Why, certainly," replied Bo, with the color coming swiftly
to her face.

"Roy doesn't want me to know because he wants to meet thet
fellar himself. An' I want to know because I want to stop
him before he can do more dirt to us or our friends. Thet's
Roy's reason an' mine. An' I'm askin' YOU to tell me."

"But, Tom -- I oughtn't," replied Bo, haltingly.

"Did you promise Roy not to tell?"

"No."

"Or your sister?"

"No. I didn't promise either."

"Wal, then you tell me. I want you to trust me in this here
matter. But not because I love you an' once had a wild dream
you might care a little for me --"

"Oh -- Tom!" faltered Bo.

"Listen. I want you to trust me because I'm the one who
knows what's best. I wouldn't lie an' I wouldn't say so if I
didn't know shore. I swear Dale will back me up. But he
can't be here for some days. An' thet gang has got to be
bluffed. You ought to see this. I reckon you've been quick
in savvyin' Western ways. I couldn't pay you no higher
compliment, Bo Rayner. . . . Now will you tell me?"

"Yes, I will," replied Bo, with the blaze leaping to her
eyes.

"Oh, Bo -- please don't -- please don't. Wait!" implored
Helen.

"Bo -- it's between you an' me," said Carmichael.

"Tom, I'll tell you," whispered Bo. "It was a lowdown,
cowardly trick. . . . Roy was surrounded -- and shot from
behind Beasley -- by that four-flush Riggs!"

CHAPTER XIX

The memory of a woman had ruined Milt Dale's peace, had
confounded his philosophy of self-sufficient, lonely
happiness in the solitude of the wilds, had forced him to
come face to face with his soul and the fatal significance
of life.

When he realized his defeat, that things were not as they
seemed, that there was no joy for him in the coming of
spring, that he had been blind in his free, sensorial,
Indian relation to existence, he fell into an inexplicably
strange state, a despondency, a gloom as deep as the silence
of his home. Dale reflected that the stronger an animal, the
keener its nerves, the higher its intelligence, the greater
must be its suffering under restraint or injury. He thought
of himself as a high order of animal whose great physical
need was action, and now the incentive to action seemed
dead. He grew lax. He did not want to move. He performed his
diminishing duties under compulsion.

He watched for spring as a liberation, but not that he could
leave the valley. He hated the cold, he grew weary of wind
and snow; he imagined the warm sun, the park once more green
with grass and bright with daisies, the return of birds and
squirrels and deer to heir old haunts, would be the means
whereby he could break this spell upon him. Then he might
gradually return to past contentment, though it would never
be the same.

But spring, coming early to Paradise Park, brought a fever
to Dale's blood -- a fire of unutterable longing. It was
good, perhaps, that this was so, because he seemed driven to
work, climb, tramp, and keep ceaselessly on the move from
dawn till dark. Action strengthened his lax muscles and kept
him from those motionless, senseless hours of brooding. He
at least need not be ashamed of longing for that which could
never be his -- the sweetness of a woman -- a home full of
light, joy, hope, the meaning and beauty of children. But
those dark moods were sinkings into a pit of hell.

Dale had not kept track of days and weeks. He did not know
when the snow melted off three slopes of Paradise Park. All
he knew was that an age had dragged over his head and that
spring had come. During his restless waking hours, and even
when he was asleep, there seemed always in the back of his
mind a growing consciousness that soon he would emerge from
this trial, a changed man, ready to sacrifice his chosen
lot, to give up his lonely life of selfish indulgence in
lazy affinity with nature, and to go wherever his strong
hands might perform some real service to people.
Nevertheless, he wanted to linger in this mountain fastness
until his ordeal was over -- until he could meet her, and
the world, knowing himself more of a man than ever before.

One bright morning, while he was at his camp-fire, the tame
cougar gave a low, growling warning. Dale was startled. Tom
did not act like that because of a prowling grizzly or a
straying stag. Presently Dale espied a horseman riding
slowly out of the straggling spruces. And with that sight
Dale's heart gave a leap, recalling to him a divination of
his future relation to his kind. Never had he been so glad
to see a man!

This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the
way he sat his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to
be John.

At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot,
soon reaching the pines and the camp.

"Howdy, there, you ole b'ar-hunter!" called John, waving his
hand.

For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like
response from Dale. The horse was mud to his flanks and John
was mud to his knees, wet, bedraggled, worn, and white. This
hue of his face meant more than fatigue.

"Howdy, John?" replied Dale.

They shook hands. John wearily swung his leg over the
pommel, but did not at once dismount. His clear gray eyes
were wonderingly riveted upon the hunter.

"Milt -- what 'n hell's wrong?" he queried.

"Why?"

"Bust me if you ain't changed so I hardly knowed you. You've
been sick -- all alone here!"

"Do I look sick?"

"Wal, I should smile. Thin an' pale an' down in the mouth!
Milt, what ails you?"

"I've gone to seed."

"You've gone off your head, jest as Roy said, livin' alone
here. You overdid it, Milt. An' you look sick."

"John, my sickness is here," replied Dale, soberly, as he
laid a hand on his heart.

"Lung trouble!" ejaculated John. "With thet chest, an' up in
this air? . . . Get out!"

"No -- not lung trouble," said Dale.

"I savvy. Had a hunch from Roy, anyhow."

"What kind of a hunch?"

"Easy now, Dale, ole man. . . . Don't you reckon I'm ridin'
in on you pretty early? Look at thet hoss!" John slid off
and waved a hand at the drooping beast, then began to
unsaddle him. "Wal, he done great. We bogged some comin'
over. An' I climbed the pass at night on the frozen snow."

"You're welcome as the flowers in May. John, what month is
it?"

"By spades! are you as bad as thet? . . . Let's see. It's
the twenty-third of March."

"March! Well, I'm beat. I've lost my reckonin' -- an' a lot
more, maybe."

"Thar!" declared John, slapping the mustang. "You can jest
hang up here till my next trip. Milt, how 're your hosses?"

"Wintered fine."

"Wal, thet's good. We'll need two big, strong hosses right
off."

"What for?" queried Dale, sharply. He dropped a stick of
wood and straightened up from the camp-fire.

"You're goin' to ride down to Pine with me -- thet's what
for."

Familiarly then came back to Dale the quiet, intent
suggestiveness of the Beemans in moments foreboding trial.

At this certain assurance of John's, too significant to be
doubted, Dale's though of Pine gave slow birth to a strange
sensation, as if he had been dead and was vibrating back to
life.

"Tell what you got to tell!" he broke out.

Quick as a flash the Mormon replied: "Roy's been shot. But
he won't die. He sent for you. Bad deal's afoot. Beasley
means to force Helen Rayner out an' steal her ranch."

A tremor ran all through Dale. It seemed another painful yet
thrilling connection between his past and this vaguely
calling future. His emotions had been broodings dreams,
longings. This thing his friend said had the sting of real
life.

"Then old Al's dead?" he asked.

"Long ago -- I reckon around the middle of February. The
property went to Helen. She's been doin' fine. An' many
folks say it's a pity she'll lose it."

"She won't lose it," declared Dale. How strange his voice
sounded to his own ears! It was hoarse and unreal, as if
from disuse.

"Wal, we-all have our idees. I say she will. My father says
so. Carmichael says so."

"Who's he?"

"Reckon you remember thet cow-puncher who came up with Roy
an' Auchincloss after the girls -- last fall?"

"Yes. They called him Las -- Las Vegas. I liked his looks."

"Humph! You'll like him a heap when you know him. He's kept
the ranch goin' for Miss Helen all along. But the deal's
comin' to a head. Beasley's got thick with thet Riggs. You
remember him?"

"Yes."

"Wal, he's been hangin' out at Pine all winter, watchin' for
some chance to get at Miss Helen or Bo. Everybody's seen
thet. An' jest lately he chased Bo on hossback -- gave the
kid a nasty fall. Roy says Riggs was after Miss Helen. But I
think one or t'other of the girls would do thet varmint.
Wal, thet sorta started goin's-on. Carmichael beat Riggs an'
drove him out of town. But he come back. Beasley called on
Miss Helen an' offered to marry her so's not to take the
ranch from her, he said."

Dale awoke with a thundering curse.

"Shore!" exclaimed John. "I'd say the same -- only I'm
religious. Don't thet beady-eyed greaser's gall make you
want to spit all over yourself? My Gawd! but Roy was mad!
Roy's powerful fond of Miss Helen an' Bo. . . . Wal, then,
Roy, first chance he got, braced Beasley an' give him some
straight talk. Beasley was foamin' at the mouth, Roy said.
It was then Riggs shot Roy. Shot him from behind Beasley
when Roy wasn't lookin'! An' Riggs brags of bein' a
gun-fighter. Mebbe thet wasn't a bad shot for him!"

"I reckon," replied Dale, as he swallowed hard. "Now, just
what was Roy's message to me?"

"Wal, I can't remember all Roy said," answered John,
dubiously. "But Roy shore was excited an' dead in earnest.
He says: 'Tell Milt what's happened. Tell him Helen Rayner's
in more danger than she was last fall. Tell him I've seen
her look away acrost the mountains toward Paradise Park with
her heart in her eyes. Tell him she needs him most of all!'"

Dale shook all over as with an attack of ague. He was seized
by a whirlwind of passionate, terrible sweetness of
sensation, when what he wildly wanted was to curse Roy and
John for their simple-minded conclusions.

"Roy's -- crazy!" panted Dale.

"Wal, now, Milt -- thet's downright surprisin' of you. Roy's
the level-headest of any fellars I know."

"Man! if he MADE me believe him -- an' it turned out untrue
-- I'd -- I'd kill him," replied Dale.

"Untrue! Do you think Roy Beeman would lie?"

"But, John -- you fellows can't see my case. Nell Rayner
wants me -- needs me! . . . It can't be true!"

"Wal, my love-sick pard -- it jest IS true!" exclaimed John,
feelingly. "Thet's the hell of life -- never knowin'. But
here it's joy for you. You can believe Roy Beeman about
women as quick as you'd trust him to track your lost hoss.
Roy's married three girls. I reckon he'll marry some more.
Roy's only twenty-eight an' he has two big farms. He said
he'd seen Nell Rayner's heart in her eyes, lookin' for you
-- an' you can jest bet your life thet's true. An' he said
it because he means you to rustle down there an' fight for
thet girl."

"I'll -- go," said Dale, in a shaky whisper, as he sat down
on a pine log near the fire. He stared unseeingly at the
bluebells in the grass by his feet while storm after storm
possessed his breast. They were fierce and brief because
driven by his will. In those few moments of contending
strife Dale was immeasurably removed from that dark gulf of
self which had made his winter a nightmare. And when he
stood erect again it seemed that the old earth had a
stirring, electrifying impetus for his feet. Something
black, bitter, melancholy, and morbid, always unreal to him,
had passed away forever. The great moment had been forced
upon him. He did not believe Roy Beeman's preposterous hint
regarding Helen; but he had gone back or soared onward, as
if by magic, to his old true self.

Mounted on Dale's strongest horses, with only a light pack,
an ax, and their weapons, the two men had reached the
snow-line on the pass by noon that day. Tom, the tame
cougar, trotted along in the rear.

The crust of the snow, now half thawed by the sun, would not
hold the weight of a horse, though it upheld the men on
foot. They walked, leading the horses. Travel was not
difficult until the snow began to deepen; then progress
slackened materially. John had not been able to pick out the
line of the trail, so Dale did not follow his tracks. An old
blaze on the trees enabled Dale to keep fairly well to the
trail; and at length the height of the pass was reached,
where the snow was deep. Here the horses labored, plowing
through foot by foot. When, finally, they sank to their
flanks, they had to be dragged and goaded on, and helped by
thick flat bunches of spruce boughs placed under their
hoofs. It took three hours of breaking toil to do the few
hundred yards of deep snow on the height of the pass. The
cougar did not have great difficulty in following, though it
was evident he did not like such traveling.

That behind them, the horses gathered heart and worked on to
the edge of the steep descent, where they had all they could
do to hold back from sliding and rolling. Fast time was made
on this slope, at the bottom of which began a dense forest
with snow still deep in places and windfalls hard to locate.
The men here performed Herculean labors, but they got
through to a park where the snow was gone. The ground,
however, soft and boggy, in places was more treacherous than
the snow; and the travelers had to skirt the edge of the
park to a point opposite, and then go on through the forest.
When they reached bare and solid ground, just before dark
that night, it was high time, for the horses were ready to
drop, and the men likewise.

Camp was made in an open wood. Darkness fell and the men
were resting on bough beds, feet to the fire, with Tom
curled up close by, and the horses still drooping where they
had been unsaddled. Morning, however, discovered them
grazing on the long, bleached grass. John shook his head
when he looked at them.

"You reckoned to make Pine by nightfall. How far is it --
the way you'll go?"

"Fifty mile or thereabouts," replied Dale.

"Wal, we can't ride it on them critters."

"John, we'd do more than that if we had to."

They were saddled and on the move before sunrise, leaving
snow and bog behind. Level parks and level forests led one
after another to long slopes and steep descents, all growing
sunnier and greener as the altitude diminished. Squirrels
and grouse, turkeys and deer, and less tame denizens of the
forest grew more abundant as the travel advanced. In this
game zone, however, Dale had trouble with Tom. The cougar
had to be watched and called often to keep him off of
trails.

"Tom doesn't like a long trip," said Dale. "But I'm goin' to
take him. Some way or other he may come in handy."

"Sic him onto Beasley's gang," replied John. "Some men are
powerful scared of cougars. But I never was."

"Nor me. Though I've had cougars give me a darn uncanny
feelin'."

The men talked but little. Dale led the way, with Tom
trotting noiselessly beside his horse. John followed close
behind. They loped the horses across parks, trotted through
the forests, walked slow up what few inclines they met, and
slid down the soft, wet, pine-matted descents. So they
averaged from six to eight miles an hour. The horses held up
well under that steady travel, and this without any rest at
noon.

Dale seemed to feel himself in an emotional trance. Yet,
despite this, the same old sensorial perceptions crowded
thick and fast upon him, strangely sweet and vivid after the
past dead months when neither sun nor wind nor cloud nor
scent of pine nor anything in nature could stir him. His
mind, his heart, his soul seemed steeped in an intoxicating
wine of expectation, while his eyes and ears and nose had
never been keener to register the facts of the forest-land.
He saw the black thing far ahead that resembled a burned
stump, but he knew was a bear before it vanished; he saw
gray flash of deer and wolf and coyote, and the red of fox,
and the small, wary heads of old gobblers just sticking
above the grass; and he saw deep tracks of game as well as
the slow-rising blades of bluebells where some soft-footed
beast had just trod. And he heard the melancholy notes of
birds, the twitter of grouse, the sough of the wind, the
light dropping of pine-cones, the near and distant bark of
squirrels, the deep gobble of a turkey close at hand and the
challenge from a rival far away, the cracking of twigs in
the thickets, the murmur of running water, the scream of an
eagle and the shrill cry of a hawk, and always the soft,
dull, steady pads of the hoofs of the horses.

The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring,
warm and pleasant -- the odor of the clean, fresh earth
cutting its way through that thick, strong fragrance of
pine, the smell of logs rotting in the sun, and of fresh new
grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.

"I smell smoke," said Dale, suddenly, as he reined in, and
turned for corroboration from his companion.

John sniffed the warm air.

"Wal, you're more of an Injun than me," he replied, shaking
his head.

They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the
last slope. A long league of green slanted below them,
breaking up into straggling lines of trees and groves that
joined the cedars, and these in turn stretched on and down
in gray-black patches to the desert, that glittering and
bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity of
distance.

The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the
edge of the great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny
white dots set in green.

"Look there," said Dale, pointing.

Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped
out of the slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin,
pale column of smoke curled upward to be lost from sight as
soon as it had no background of green.

"Thet's your smoke, shore enough," replied John,
thoughtfully. "Now, I jest wonder who's campin' there. No
water near or grass for hosses."

"John, that point's been used for smoke signals many a
time."

"Was jest thinkin' of thet same. Shall we ride around there
an' take a peek?"

"No. But we'll remember that. If Beasley's got his deep
scheme goin', he'll have Snake Anson's gang somewhere
close."

"Roy said thet same. Wal, it's some three hours till
sundown. The hosses keep up. I reckon I'm fooled, for we'll
make Pine all right. But old Tom there, he's tired or lazy."

The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut
eyes were on Dale.

"Tom's only lazy an' fat. He could travel at this gait for a
week. But let's rest a half-hour an' watch that smoke before
movin' on. We can make Pine before sundown."

When travel had been resumed, half-way down the slope Dale's
sharp eyes caught a broad track where shod horses had
passed, climbing in a long slant toward the promontory. He
dismounted to examine it, and John, coming up, proceeded
with alacrity to get off and do likewise. Dale made his
deductions, after which he stood in a brown study beside his
horse, waiting for John.

"Wal, what 'd you make of these here tracks?" asked that
worthy.

"Some horses an' a pony went along here yesterday, an'
to-day a single horse made, that fresh track."

"Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain't so bad at hoss tracks,"
observed John, "But how many hosses went yesterday ?"

"I couldn't make out -- several -- maybe four or five."

"Six hosses an' a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be
strict-correct. Wal, supposin' they did. What 's it mean to
us?"

"I don't know as I'd thought anythin' unusual, if it hadn't
been for that smoke we saw off the rim, an' then this here
fresh track made along to-day. Looks queer to me."

"Wish Roy was here," replied John, scratching his head.
"Milt, I've a hunch, if he was, he'd foller them tracks."

"Maybe. But we haven't time for that. We can backtrail them,
though, if they keep clear as they are here. An' we'll not
lose any time, either."

That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge
of the cedars, where, amid some jagged rocks, evidences
showed that men had camped there for days. Here it ended as
a broad trail. But from the north came the single fresh
track made that very day, and from the east, more in a line
with Pine, came two tracks made the day before. And these
were imprints of big and little hoofs. Manifestly these
interested John more than they did Dale, who had to wait for
his companion.

"Milt, it ain't a colt's -- thet little track," avowed John.

"Why not -- an' what if it isn't?" queried Dale.

"Wal, it ain't, because a colt always straggles back, an'
from one side to t'other. This little track keeps close to
the big one. An', by George! it was made by a led mustang."

John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping, intent
fire in his gray eyes. Dale's reply was to spur his horse
into a trot and call sharply to the lagging cougar.

When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that
was the only thoroughfare of Pine the sun was setting red
and gold behind the mountains. The horses were too tired for
any more than a walk. Natives of the village, catching sight
of Dale and Beeman, and the huge gray cat following like a
dog, called excitedly to one another. A group of men in
front of Turner's gazed intently down the road, and soon
manifested signs of excitement. Dale and his comrade
dismounted in front of Widow Cass's cottage. And Dale called
as he strode up the little path. Mrs. Cass came out. She was
white and shaking, but appeared calm. At sight of her John
Beeman drew a sharp breath.

"Wal, now --" he began, hoarsely, and left off.

"How's Roy?" queried Dale.

"Lord knows I'm glad to see you, boys! Milt, you're thin an'
strange-lookin'. Roy's had a little setback. He got a shock
to-day an' it throwed him off. Fever -- an' now he's out of
his head. It won't do no good for you to waste time seein'
him. Take my word for it he's all right. But there's others
as -- For the land's sakes, Milt Dale, you fetched thet
cougar back! Don't let him near me!"

"Tom won't hurt you, mother," said Dale, as the cougar came
padding up the path. "You were sayin' somethin' -- about
others. Is Miss Helen safe? Hurry!"

"Ride up to see her -- an' waste no more time here."

Dale was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the
horses had to be severely punished to force them even to a
trot. And that was a lagging trot, which now did not leave
Torn behind.

The ride up to Auchincloss's ranch-house seemed endless to
Dale. Natives came out in the road to watch after he had
passed. Stern as Dale was in dominating his feelings, he
could not wholly subordinate his mounting joy to a waiting
terrible anticipation of catastrophe. But no matter what
awaited -- nor what fateful events might hinge upon this
nameless circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful
and glorious fact of the present was that in a moment he
would see Helen Rayner.

There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders. A
Mexican boy sat on the porch bench, in the seat where Dale
remembered he had encountered Al Auchincloss. The door of
the big sitting-room was open. The scent of flowers, the
murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came vaguely to Dale.
His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out of his
saddle, seemed far below him. He stepped upon the porch. His
sight suddenly cleared. A tight fullness at his throat made
incoherent the words he said to the Mexican boy. But they
were understood, as the boy ran back around the house. Dale
knocked sharply and stepped over the threshold.

Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in
that moment of suspense, about the faithful, exhausted
horses. As he unsaddled them he talked: "Fer soft an' fat
hosses, winterin' high up, wal, you've done somethin'!"

Then Dale heard a voice in another room, a step, a creak of
the door. It opened. A woman in white appeared. He
recognized Helen. But instead of the rich brown bloom and
dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on his memory, he saw
a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in anguish,
and eyes that pierced his heart. He could not speak.

"Oh! my friend -- you've come!" she whispered.

Dale put out a shaking hand. But she did not see it. She
clutched his shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was
real, and then her arms went up round his neck.

"Oh, thank God! I knew you would come!" she said, and her
head sank to his shoulder.

Dale divined what he had suspected. Helen's sister had been
carried off. Yet, while his quick mind grasped Helen's
broken spirit -- the unbalance that was reason for this
marvelous and glorious act -- he did not take other meaning
of the embrace to himself. He just stood there, transported,
charged like a tree struck by lightning, making sure with
all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever, how she
was clinging round his neck, her face over his bursting
heart, her quivering form close pressed to his.

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