Books: The Man of the Forest
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Zane Grey >> The Man of the Forest
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"Bad mornin' for ducks, but good for us," he called.
"Howdy, Roy!" greeted Dale, and his gladness was
unmistakable. "I was lookin' for you."
Roy appeared to slide off the mustang without effort, and
his swift hands slapped the straps as he unsaddled. Buckskin
was wet with sweat and foam mixed with rain. He heaved. And
steam rose from him.
"Must have rode hard," observed Dale.
"I shore did," replied Roy. Then he espied Helen, who had
sat up, with hands to her hair, and eyes staring at him.
"Mornin', miss. It's good news."
"Thank Heaven!" murmured Helen, and then she shook Bo. That
young lady awoke, but was loath to give up slumber. "Bo! Bo!
Wake up! Mr. Roy is back."
Whereupon Bo sat up, disheveled and sleepy-eyed.
"Oh-h, but I ache!" she moaned. But her eyes took in the
camp scene to the effect that she added, "Is breakfast
ready?"
"Almost. An' flapjacks this mornin'," replied Dale.
Bo manifested active symptoms of health in the manner with
which she laced her boots. Helen got their traveling-bag,
and with this they repaired to a flat stone beside the
spring, not, however, out of earshot of the men.
"How long are you goin' to hang around camp before tellin'
me?" inquired Dale.
"Jest as I figgered, Milt," replied Roy. "Thet rider who
passed you was a messenger to Anson. He an' his gang got on
our trail quick. About ten o'clock I seen them comin'. Then
I lit out for the woods. I stayed off in the woods close
enough to see where they come in. An' shore they lost your
trail. Then they spread through the woods, workin' off to
the south, thinkin', of course, thet you would circle round
to Pine on the south side of Old Baldy. There ain't a
hoss-tracker in Snake Anson's gang, thet's shore. Wal, I
follered them for an hour till they'd rustled some miles off
our trail. Then I went back to where you struck into the
woods. An' I waited there all afternoon till dark, expectin'
mebbe they'd back-trail. But they didn't. I rode on a ways
an' camped in the woods till jest before daylight."
"So far so good," declared Dale.
"Shore. There's rough country south of Baldy an' along the
two or three trails Anson an' his outfit will camp, you
bet."
"It ain't to be thought of," muttered Dale, at some idea
that had struck him.
"What ain't?"
"Goin' round the north side of Baldy."
"It shore ain't," rejoined Roy, bluntly.
"Then I've got to hide tracks certain -- rustle to my camp
an' stay there till you say it's safe to risk takin' the
girls to Pine."
"Milt, you're talkin' the wisdom of the prophets."
"I ain't so sure we can hide tracks altogether. If Anson had
any eyes for the woods he'd not have lost me so soon.
"No. But, you see, he's figgerin' to cross your trail."
"If I could get fifteen or twenty mile farther on an' hide
tracks certain, I'd feel safe from pursuit, anyway," said
the hunter, reflectively.
"Shore an' easy," responded Roy, quickly. "I jest met up
with some greaser sheep-herders drivin' a big flock. They've
come up from the south an' are goin' to fatten up at Turkey
Senacas. Then they'll drive back south an' go on to Phenix.
Wal, it's muddy weather. Now you break camp quick an' make a
plain trail out to thet sheep trail, as if you was travelin'
south. But, instead, you ride round ahead of thet flock of
sheep. They'll keep to the open parks an' the trails through
them necks of woods out here. An', passin' over your tracks,
they'll hide 'em."
"But supposin' Anson circles an' hits this camp? He'll track
me easy out to that sheep trail. What then?"
"Jest what you want. Goin' south thet sheep trail is
downhill an' muddy. It's goin' to rain hard. Your tracks
would get washed out even if you did go south. An' Anson
would keep on thet way till he was clear off the scent.
Leave it to me, Milt. You're a hunter. But I'm a
hoss-tracker."
"All right. We'll rustle."
Then he called the girls to hurry.
CHAPTER VIII
Once astride the horse again, Helen had to congratulate
herself upon not being so crippled as she had imagined.
Indeed, Bo made all the audible complaints.
Both girls had long water-proof coats, brand-new, and of
which they were considerably proud. New clothes had not been
a common event in their lives.
"Reckon I'll have to slit these," Dale had said, whipping
out a huge knife.
"What for?" had been Bo's feeble protest.
"They wasn't made for ridin'. An' you'll get wet enough even
if I do cut them. An' if I don't, you'll get soaked."
"Go ahead," had been Helen's reluctant permission.
So their long new coats were slit half-way up the back. The
exigency of the case was manifest to Helen, when she saw how
they came down over the cantles of the saddles and to their
boot-tops.
The morning was gray and cold. A fine, misty rain fell and
the trees dripped steadily. Helen was surprised to see the
open country again and that apparently they were to leave
the forest behind for a while. The country was wide and flat
on the right, and to the left it rolled and heaved along a
black, scalloped timber-line. Above this bordering of the
forest low, drifting clouds obscured the mountains. The wind
was at Helen's back and seemed to be growing stronger. Dale
and Roy were ahead, traveling at a good trot, with the
pack-animals bunched before them. Helen and Bo had enough to
do to keep up.
The first hour's ride brought little change in weather or
scenery, but it gave Helen an inkling of what she must
endure if they kept that up all day. She began to welcome
the places where the horses walked, but she disliked the
levels. As for the descents, she hated those. Ranger would
not go down slowly and the shake-up she received was
unpleasant. Moreover, the spirited black horse insisted on
jumping the ditches and washes. He sailed over them like a
bird. Helen could not acquire the knack of sitting the
saddle properly, and so, not only was her person bruised on
these occasions, but her feelings were hurt. Helen had never
before been conscious of vanity. Still, she had never
rejoiced in looking at a disadvantage, and her exhibitions
here must have been frightful. Bo always would forge to the
front, and she seldom looked back, for which Helen was
grateful.
Before long they struck into a broad, muddy belt, full of
innumerable small hoof tracks. This, then, was the sheep
trail Roy had advised following. They rode on it for three
or four miles, and at length, coming to a gray-green valley,
they saw a huge flock of sheep. Soon the air was full of
bleats and baas as well as the odor of sheep, and a low,
soft roar of pattering hoofs. The flock held a compact
formation, covering several acres, and grazed along rapidly.
There were three herders on horses and. several pack-burros.
Dale engaged one of the Mexicans in conversation, and passed
something to him, then pointed northward and down along the
trail. The Mexican grinned from ear to ear, and Helen caught
the quick "SI, SENYOR! GRACIAS, SENYOR!" It was a pretty
sight, that flock of sheep, as it rolled along like a
rounded woolly stream of grays and browns and here and there
a black. They were keeping to a trail over the flats. Dale
headed into this trail and, if anything, trotted a little
faster.
Presently the clouds lifted and broke, showing blue sky and
one streak of sunshine. But the augury was without warrant.
The wind increased. A huge black pall bore down from the
mountains and it brought rain that could be seen falling in
sheets from above and approaching like a swiftly moving
wall. Soon it enveloped the fugitives.
With head bowed, Helen rode along for what seemed ages in a
cold, gray rain that blew almost on a level. Finally the
heavy downpour passed, leaving a fine mist. The clouds
scurried low and dark, hiding the mountains altogether and
making the gray, wet plain a dreary sight. Helen's feet and
knees were as wet as if she had waded in water. And they
were cold. Her gloves, too, had not been intended for rain,
and they were wet through. The cold bit at her fingers so
that she had to beat her hands together. Ranger
misunderstood this to mean that he was to trot faster, which
event was worse for Helen than freezing.
She saw another black, scudding mass of clouds bearing down
with its trailing sheets of rain, and this one appeared
streaked with white. Snow! The wind was now piercingly cold.
Helen's body kept warm, but her extremities and ears began
to suffer exceedingly. She gazed ahead grimly. There was no
help; she had to go on. Dale and Roy were hunched down in
their saddles, probably wet through, for they wore no
rain-proof coats. Bo kept close behind them, and plain it
was that she felt the cold.
This second storm was not so bad as the first, because there
was less rain. Still, the icy keenness of the wind bit into
the marrow. It lasted for an hour, during which the horses
trotted on, trotted on. Again the gray torrent roared away,
the fine mist blew, the clouds lifted and separated, and,
closing again, darkened for another onslaught. This one
brought sleet. The driving pellets stung Helen's neck and
cheeks, and for a while they fell so thick and so hard upon
her back that she was afraid she could not hold up under
them. The bare places on the ground showed a sparkling
coverlet of marbles of ice.
Thus, storm after storm rolled over Helen's head. Her feet
grew numb and ceased to hurt. But her fingers, because of
her ceaseless efforts to keep up the circulation, retained
the stinging pain. And now the wind pierced right through
her. She marveled at her endurance, and there were many
times that she believed she could not ride farther. Yet she
kept on. All the winters she had ever lived had not brought
such a day as this. Hard and cold, wet and windy, at an
increasing elevation -- that was the explanation. The air
did not have sufficient oxygen for her blood.
Still, during all those interminable hours, Helen watched
where she was traveling, and if she ever returned over that
trail she would recognize it. The afternoon appeared far
advanced when Dale and Roy led down into an immense basin
where a reedy lake spread over the flats. They rode along
its margin, splashing up to the knees of the horses. Cranes
and herons flew on with lumbering motion; flocks of ducks
winged swift flight from one side to the other. Beyond this
depression the land sloped rather abruptly; outcroppings of
rock circled along the edge of the highest ground, and again
a dark fringe of trees appeared.
How many miles! wondered Helen. They seemed as many and as
long as the hours. But at last, just as another hard rain
came, the pines were reached. They proved to be widely
scattered and afforded little protection from the storm.
Helen sat her saddle, a dead weight. Whenever Ranger
quickened his gait or crossed a ditch she held on to the
pommel to keep from falling off. Her mind harbored only
sensations of misery, and a persistent thought -- why did
she ever leave home for the West? Her solicitude for Bo had
been forgotten. Nevertheless, any marked change in the
topography of the country was registered, perhaps
photographed on her memory by the torturing vividness of her
experience.
The forest grew more level and denser. Shadows of twilight
or gloom lay under the trees. Presently Dale and Roy,
disappeared, going downhill, and likewise Bo. Then Helen's
ears suddenly filled with a roar of rapid water. Ranger
trotted faster. Soon Helen came to the edge of a great
valley, black and gray, so full of obscurity that she could
not see across or down into it. But she knew there was a
rushing river at the bottom. The sound was deep, continuous,
a heavy, murmuring roar, singularly musical. The trail was
steep. Helen had not lost all feeling, as she had believed
and hoped. Her poor, mistreated body still responded
excruciatingly to concussions, jars, wrenches, and all the
other horrible movements making up a horse-trot.
For long Helen did not look up. When she did so there lay a
green, willow-bordered, treeless space at the bottom of the
valley, through which a brown-white stream rushed with
steady, ear-filling roar.
Dale and Roy drove the pack-animals across the stream, and
followed, going deep to the flanks of their horses. Bo rode
into the foaming water as if she had been used to it all her
days. A slip, a fall, would have meant that Bo must drown in
that mountain torrent.
Ranger trotted straight to the edge, and there, obedient to
Helen's clutch on the bridle, he halted. The stream was
fifty feet wide, shallow on the near side, deep on the
opposite, with fast current and big waves. Helen was simply
too frightened to follow.
"Let him come!" yelled Dale. "Stick on now! . . . Ranger!"
The big black plunged in, making the water fly. That stream
was nothing for him, though it seemed impassable to Helen.
She had not the strength left to lift her stirrups and the
water surged over them. Ranger, in two more plunges,
surmounted the bank, and then, trotting across the green to
where the other horses stood steaming under some pines, he
gave a great heave and halted.
Roy reached up to help her off.
"Thirty miles, Miss Helen," he said, and the way he spoke
was a compliment.
He had to lift her off and help her to the tree where Bo
leaned. Dale had ripped off a saddle and was spreading
saddle-blankets on the ground under the pine.
"Nell -- you swore -- you loved me!" was Bo's mournful
greeting. The girl was pale, drawn, blue-lipped, and she
could not stand up.
"Bo, I never did -- or I'd never have brought you to this --
wretch that I am!" cried Helen. "Oh, what a horrible ride!"
Rain was falling, the trees were dripping, the sky was
lowering. All the ground was soaking wet, with pools and
puddles everywhere. Helen could imagine nothing but a
heartless, dreary, cold prospect. Just then home was vivid
and poignant in her thoughts. Indeed, so utterly miserable
was she that the exquisite relief of sitting down, of a
cessation of movement, of a release from that infernal
perpetual-trotting horse, seemed only a mockery. It could
not be true that the time had come for rest.
Evidently this place had been a camp site for hunters or
sheep-herders, for there were remains of a fire. Dale lifted
the burnt end of a log and brought it down hard upon the
ground, splitting off pieces. Several times he did this. It
was amazing to see his strength, his facility, as he split
off handfuls of splinters. He collected a bundle of them,
and, laying them down, he bent over them. Roy wielded the ax
on another log, and each stroke split off a long strip. Then
a tiny column of smoke drifted up over Dale's shoulder as he
leaned, bareheaded, sheltering the splinters with his hat. A
blaze leaped up. Roy came with an armful of strips all white
and dry, out of the inside of a log. Crosswise these were
laid over the blaze, and it began to roar. Then piece by
piece the men built up a frame upon which they added heavier
woods, branches and stumps and logs, erecting a pyramid
through which flames and smoke roared upward. It had not
taken two minutes. Already Helen felt the warmth on her icy
face. She held up her bare, numb hands.
Both Dale and Roy were wet through to the skin, yet they did
not tarry beside the fire. They relieved the horses. A lasso
went up between two pines, and a tarpaulin over it, V-shaped
and pegged down at the four ends. The packs containing the
baggage of the girls and the supplies and bedding were
placed under this shelter.
Helen thought this might have taken five minutes more. In
this short space of time the fire had leaped and flamed
until it was huge and hot. Rain was falling steadily all
around, but over and near that roaring blaze, ten feet high,
no water fell. It evaporated. The ground began to steam and
to dry. Helen suffered at first while the heat was driving
out the cold. But presently the pain ceased.
"Nell, I never knew before how good a fire could feel,"
declared Bo.
And therein lay more food for Helen's reflection.
In ten minutes Helen was dry and hot. Darkness came down
upon the dreary, sodden forest, but that great camp-fire
made it a different world from the one Helen had
anticipated. It blazed and roared, cracked like a pistol,
hissed and sputtered, shot sparks everywhere, and sent aloft
a dense, yellow, whirling column of smoke. It began to have
a heart of gold.
Dale took a long pole and raked out a pile of red embers
upon which the coffee-pot and oven soon began to steam.
"Roy, I promised the girls turkey to-night," said the
hunter.
"Mebbe to-morrow, if the wind shifts. This 's turkey
country."
"Roy, a potato will do me!" exclaimed Bo.
"Never again will I ask for cake and pie! I never
appreciated good things to eat. And I've been a little pig,
always. I never -- never knew what it was to be hungry --
until now."
Dale glanced up quickly.
"Lass, it's worth learnin'," he said.
Helen's thought was too deep for words. In such brief space
had she been transformed from misery to comfort!
The rain kept on falling, though it appeared to grow softer
as night settled down black. The wind died away and the
forest was still, except for the steady roar of the stream.
A folded tarpaulin was laid between the pine and the fire,
well in the light and warmth, and upon it the men set
steaming pots and plates and cups, the fragrance from which
was strong and inviting.
"Fetch the saddle-blanket an' set with your backs to the
fire," said Roy.
Later, when the girls were tucked away snugly in their
blankets and sheltered from the rain, Helen remained awake
after Bo had fallen asleep. The big blaze made the
improvised tent as bright as day. She could see the smoke,
the trunk of the big pine towering aloft, and a blank space
of sky. The stream hummed a song, seemingly musical at
times, and then discordant and dull, now low, now roaring,
and always rushing, gurgling, babbling, flowing, chafing in
its hurry.
Presently the hunter and his friend returned from hobbling
the horses, and beside the fire they conversed in low tones.
"Wal, thet trail we made to-day will be hid, I reckon," said
Roy, with satisfaction.
"What wasn't sheeped over would be washed out. We've had
luck. An' now I ain't worryin'," returned Dale.
"Worryin'? Then it's the first I ever knowed you to do."
"Man, I never had a job like this," protested the hunter.
"Wal, thet's so."
"Now, Roy, when old Al Auchincloss finds out about this
deal, as he's bound to when you or the boys get back to
Pine, he's goin' to roar."
"Do you reckon folks will side with him against Beasley?"
"Some of them. But Al, like as not, will tell folks to go
where it's hot. He'll bunch his men an' strike for the
mountains to find his nieces."
"Wal, all you've got to do is to keep the girls hid till I
can guide him up to your camp. Or, failin' thet, till you
can slip the girls down to Pine."
"No one but you an' your brothers ever seen my senaca. But
it could be found easy enough."
"Anson might blunder on it. But thet ain't likely."
"Why ain't it?"
"Because I'll stick to thet sheep-thief's tracks like a wolf
after a bleedin' deer. An' if he ever gets near your camp
I'll ride in ahead of him."
"Good!" declared Dale. "I was calculatin' you'd go down to
Pine, sooner or later."
"Not unless Anson goes. I told John thet in case there was
no fight on the stage to make a bee-line back to Pine. He
was to tell Al an' offer his services along with Joe an'
Hal."
"One way or another, then, there's bound to be blood spilled
over this."
"Shore! An' high time. I jest hope I get a look down my old
'forty-four' at thet Beasley."
"In that case I hope you hold straighter than times I've
seen you."
"Milt Dale, I'm a good shot," declared Roy, stoutly.
"You're no good on movin' targets."
"Wal, mebbe so. But I'm not lookin' for a movin' target when
I meet up with Beasley. I'm a hossman, not a hunter. You're
used to shootin' flies off deer's horns, jest for practice."
"Roy, can we make my camp by to-morrow night?" queried Dale,
more seriously.
"We will, if each of us has to carry one of the girls. But
they'll do it or die. Dale, did you ever see a gamer girl
than thet kid Bo?"
"Me! Where'd I ever see any girls?" ejaculated Dale. "I
remember some when I was a boy, but I was only fourteen
then. Never had much use for girls."
"I'd like to have a wife like that Bo," declared Roy,
fervidly.
There ensued a moment's silence.
"Roy, you're a Mormon an' you already got a wife," was
Dale's reply.
"Now, Milt, have you lived so long in the woods thet you
never heard of a Mormon with two wives?" returned Roy, and
then he laughed heartily.
"I never could stomach what I did hear pertainin' to more
than one wife for a man."
"Wal, my friend, you go an' get yourself ONE. An' see then
if you wouldn't like to have TWO."
"I reckon one 'd be more than enough for Milt Dale."
"Milt, old man, let me tell you thet I always envied you
your freedom," said Roy, earnestly. "But it ain't life."
"You mean life is love of a woman?"
"No. Thet's only part. I mean a son -- a boy thet's like you
-- thet you feel will go on with your life after you're
gone."
"I've thought of that -- thought it all out, watchin' the
birds an' animals mate in the woods. . . . If I have no son
I'll never live hereafter."
"Wal," replied Roy, hesitatingly, "I don't go in so deep as
thet. I mean a son goes on with your blood an' your work."
"Exactly. . . An', Roy, I envy you what you ve got, because
it's out of all bounds for Milt Dale."
Those words, sad and deep, ended the conversation. Again the
rumbling, rushing stream dominated the forest. An owl hooted
dismally. A horse trod thuddingly near by and from that
direction came a cutting tear of teeth on grass.
A voice pierced Helen's deep dreams and, awaking, she found
Bo shaking and calling her.
"Are you dead?" came the gay voice.
"Almost. Oh, my back's broken," replied Helen. The desire to
move seemed clamped in a vise, and even if that came she
believed the effort would be impossible.
"Roy called us," said Bo. "He said hurry. I thought I'd die
just sitting up, and I'd give you a million dollars to lace
my boots. Wait, sister, till you try to pull on one of those
stiff boots!"
With heroic and violent spirit Helen sat up to find that in
the act her aches and pains appeared beyond number. Reaching
for her boots, she found them cold and stiff. Helen unlaced
one and, opening it wide, essayed to get her sore foot down
into it. But her foot appeared swollen and the boot appeared
shrunken. She could not get it half on, though she expended
what little strength seemed left in her aching arms. She
groaned.
Bo laughed wickedly. Her hair was tousled, her eyes dancing,
her cheeks red.
"Be game!" she said. "Stand up like a real Western girl and
PULL your boot on."
Whether Bo's scorn or advice made the task easier did not
occur to Helen, but the fact was that she got into her
boots. Walking and moving a little appeared to loosen the
stiff joints and ease that tired feeling. The water of the
stream where the girls washed was colder than any ice Helen
had ever felt. It almost paralyzed her hands. Bo mumbled,
and blew like a porpoise. They had to run to the fire before
being able to comb their hair. The air was wonderfully keen.
The dawn was clear, bright, with a red glow in the east
where the sun was about to rise.
"All ready, girls," called Roy. "Reckon you can help
yourselves. Milt ain't comin' in very fast with the hosses.
I'll rustle off to help him. We've got a hard day before us.
Yesterday wasn't nowhere to what to-day 'll be."
"But the sun's going to shine?" implored Bo.
"Wal, you bet," rejoined Roy, as he strode off.
Helen and Bo ate breakfast and had the camp to themselves
for perhaps half an hour; then the horses came thudding
down, with Dale and Roy riding bareback.
By the time all was in readiness to start the sun was up,
melting the frost and ice, so that a dazzling, bright mist,
full of rainbows, shone under the trees.
Dale looked Ranger over, and tried the cinches of Bo's
horse.
"What's your choice -- a long ride behind the packs with me
-- or a short cut over the hills with Roy?" he asked.
"I choose the lesser of two rides," replied Helen, smiling.
"Reckon that 'll be easier, but you'll know you've had a
ride," said Dale, significantly.
"What was that we had yesterday?" asked Bo, archly.
"Only thirty miles, but cold an' wet. To-day will be fine
for ridin'."
"Milt, I'll take a blanket an' some grub in case you don't
meet us to-night," said Roy. "An' I reckon we'll split up
here where I'll have to strike out on thet short cut."
Bo mounted without a helping hand, but Helen's limbs were so
stiff that she could not get astride the high Ranger without
assistance. The hunter headed up the slope of the canuon,
which on that side was not steep. It was brown pine forest,
with here and there a clump of dark, silver-pointed
evergreens that Roy called spruce. By the time this slope
was surmounted Helen's aches were not so bad. The saddle
appeared to fit her better, and the gait of the horse was
not so unfamiliar. She reflected, however, that she always
had done pretty well uphill. Here it was beautiful
forest-land, uneven and wilder. They rode for a time along
the rim, with the white rushing stream in plain sight far
below, with its melodious roar ever thrumming in the ear.
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