Books: The Man of the Forest
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Zane Grey >> The Man of the Forest
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Helen's eye was attracted by moving objects near at hand.
Then simultaneously with Bo's cry of delight Helen saw a
beautiful doe approaching under the trees. Dale walked
beside it.
"You sure had a long sleep," was the hunter's greeting. "I
reckon you both look better."
"Good morning. Or is it afternoon? We're just able to move
about," said Helen.
"I could ride," declared Bo, stoutly. "Oh, Nell, look at the
deer! It's coming to me."
The doe had hung back a little as Dale reached the
camp-fire. It was a gray, slender creature, smooth as silk,
with great dark eyes. It stood a moment, long ears erect,
and then with a graceful little trot came up to Bo and
reached a slim nose for her outstretched hand. All about it,
except the beautiful soft eyes, seemed wild, and yet it was
as tame as a kitten. Then, suddenly, as Bo fondled the long
ears, it gave a start and, breaking away, ran back out of
sight under the pines.
"What frightened it?" asked Bo.
Dale pointed up at the wall under the shelving roof of rock.
There, twenty feet from the ground, curled up on a ledge,
lay a huge tawny animal with a face like that of a cat.
"She's afraid of Tom," replied Dale. "Recognizes him as a
hereditary foe, I guess. I can't make friends of them."
"Oh! So that's Tom -- the pet lion!" exclaimed Bo. "Ugh! No
wonder that deer ran off!"
"How long has he been up there?" queried Helen, gazing
fascinated at Dale's famous pet.
"I couldn't say. Tom comes an' goes," replied Dale. "But I
sent him up there last night."
"And he was there -- perfectly free -- right over us --
while we slept!" burst out Bo.
"Yes. An' I reckon you slept the safer for that."
"Of all things! Nell, isn't he a monster? But he doesn't
look like a lion -- an African lion. He's a panther. I saw
his like at the circus once."
"He's a cougar," said Dale. "The panther is long and slim.
Tom is not only long, but thick an' round. I've had him four
years. An' he was a kitten no bigger 'n my fist when I got
him."
"Is he perfectly tame -- safe?" asked Helen, anxiously.
"I've never told anybody that Tom was safe, but he is,"
replied Dale. "You can absolutely believe it. A wild cougar
wouldn't attack a man unless cornered or starved. An' Tom is
like a big kitten."
The beast raised his great catlike face, with its sleepy,
half-shut eyes, and looked down upon them.
"Shall I call him down?" inquired Dale.
For once Bo did not find her voice.
"Let us -- get a little more used to him -- at a distance,"
replied Helen, with a little laugh.
"If he comes to you, just rub his head an' you'll see how
tame he is," said Dale. "Reckon you're both hungry?"
"Not so very," returned Helen, aware of his penetrating gray
gaze upon her.
"Well, I am," vouchsafed Bo.
"Soon as the turkey's done we'll eat. My camp is round
between the rocks. I'll call you."
Not until his broad back was turned did Helen notice that
the hunter looked different. Then she saw he wore a lighter,
cleaner suit of buckskin, with no coat, and instead of the
high-heeled horseman's boots he wore moccasins and leggings.
The change made him appear more lithe.
"Nell, I don't know what you think, but _I_ call him
handsome," declared Bo.
Helen had no idea what she thought.
"Let's try to walk some," she suggested.
So they essayed that painful task and got as far as a pine
log some few rods from their camp. This point was close to
the edge of the park, from which there was an unobstructed
view.
"My! What a place!" exclaimed Bo, with eyes wide and round.
"Oh, beautiful!" breathed Helen.
An unexpected blaze of color drew her gaze first. Out of the
black spruce slopes shone patches of aspens, gloriously red
and gold, and low down along the edge of timber troops of
aspens ran out into the park, not yet so blazing as those
above, but purple and yellow and white in the sunshine.
Masses of silver spruce, like trees in moonlight, bordered
the park, sending out here and there an isolated tree, sharp
as a spear, with under-branches close to the ground. Long
golden-green grass, resembling half-ripe wheat, covered the
entire floor of the park, gently waving to the wind. Above
sheered the black, gold-patched slopes, steep and
unscalable, rising to buttresses of dark, iron-hued rock.
And to the east circled the rows of cliff-bench, gray and
old and fringed, splitting at the top in the notch where the
lacy, slumberous waterfall, like white smoke, fell and
vanished, to reappear in wider sheet of lace, only to fall
and vanish again in the green depths.
It was a verdant valley, deep-set in the mountain walls,
wild and sad and lonesome. The waterfall dominated the
spirit of the place, dreamy and sleepy and tranquil; it
murmured sweetly on one breath of wind, and lulled with
another, and sometimes died out altogether, only to come
again in soft, strange roar.
"Paradise Park!" whispered Bo to herself.
A call from Dale disturbed their raptures. Turning, they
hobbled with eager but painful steps in the direction of a
larger camp-fire, situated to the right of the great rock
that sheltered their lean-to. No hut or house showed there
and none was needed. Hiding-places and homes for a hundred
hunters were there in the sections of caverned cliffs, split
off in bygone ages from the mountain wall above. A few
stately pines stood out from the rocks, and a clump of
silver spruce ran down to a brown brook. This camp was only
a step from the lean-to, round the corner of a huge rock,
yet it had been out of sight. Here indeed was evidence of a
hunter's home -- pelts and skins and antlers, a neat pile of
split fire-wood, a long ledge of rock, well sheltered, and
loaded with bags like a huge pantry-shelf, packs and ropes
and saddles, tools and weapons, and a platform of dry brush
as shelter for a fire around which hung on poles a various
assortment of utensils for camp.
"Hyar -- you git!" shouted Dale, and he threw a stick at
something. A bear cub scampered away in haste. He was small
and woolly and brown, and he grunted as he ran. Soon he
halted.
"That's Bud," said Dale, as the girls came up. "Guess he
near starved in my absence. An' now he wants everythin',
especially the sugar. We don't have sugar often up here."
"Isn't he dear? Oh, I love him!" cried Bo. "Come back, Bud.
Come, Buddie."
The cub, however, kept his distance, watching Dale with
bright little eyes.
"Where's Mr. Roy?" asked Helen.
"Roy's gone. He was sorry not to say good-by. But it's
important he gets down in the pines on Anson's trail. He'll
hang to Anson, an' in case they get near Pine he'll ride in
to see where your uncle is."
"What do you expect?" questioned Helen, gravely.
"'Most anythin'," he replied. "Al, I reckon, knows now.
Maybe he's rustlin' into the mountains by this time. If he
meets up with Anson, well an' good, for Roy won't be far
off. An' sure if he runs across Roy, why they'll soon be
here. But if I were you I wouldn't count on seein' your
uncle very soon. I'm sorry. I've done my best. It sure is a
bad deal."
"Don't think me ungracious," replied Helen, hastily. How
plainly he had intimated that it must be privation and
annoyance for her to be compelled to accept his hospitality!
"You are good -- kind. I owe you much. I'll be eternally
grateful."
Dale straightened as he looked at her. His glance was
intent, piercing. He seemed to be receiving a strange or
unusual portent. No need for him to say he had never before
been spoken to like that!
"You may have to stay here with me -- for weeks -- maybe
months -- if we've the bad luck to get snowed in," he said,
slowly, as if startled at this deduction. "You're safe here.
No sheep-thief could ever find this camp. I'll take risks to
get you safe into Al's hands. But I'm goin' to be pretty
sure about what I'm doin'. . . . So -- there's plenty to eat
an' it's a pretty place."
"Pretty! Why, it's grand!" exclaimed Bo. "I've called it
Paradise Park."
"Paradise Park," he repeated, weighing the words. "You've
named it an' also the creek. Paradise Creek! I've been here
twelve years with no fit name for my home till you said
that."
"Oh, that pleases me!" returned Bo, with shining eyes.
"Eat now," said Dale. "An' I reckon you'll like that
turkey."
There was a clean tarpaulin upon which were spread steaming,
fragrant pans -- roast turkey, hot biscuits and gravy,
mashed potatoes as white as if prepared at home, stewed
dried apples, and butter and coffee. This bounteous repast
surprised and delighted the girls; when they had once tasted
the roast wild turkey, then Milt Dale had occasion to blush
at their encomiums.
"I hope -- Uncle Al -- doesn't come for a month," declared
Bo, as she tried to get her breath. There was a brown spot
on her nose and one on each cheek, suspiciously close to her
mouth.
Dale laughed. It was pleasant to hear him, for his laugh
seemed unused and deep, as if it came from tranquil depths.
"Won't you eat with us?" asked Helen.
"Reckon I will," he said. "it'll save time, an' hot grub
tastes better."
Quite an interval of silence ensued, which presently was
broken by Dale.
"Here comes Tom."
Helen observed with a thrill that the cougar was
magnificent, seen erect on all-fours, approaching with slow,
sinuous grace. His color was tawny, with spots of whitish
gray. He had bow-legs, big and round and furry, and a huge
head with great tawny eyes. No matter how tame he was said
to be, he looked wild. Like a dog he walked right up, and it
so happened that he was directly behind Bo, within reach of
her when she turned.
"Oh, Lord!" cried Bo, and up went both of her hands, in one
of which was a huge piece of turkey. Tom took it, not
viciously, but nevertheless with a snap that made Helen
jump. As if by magic the turkey vanished. And Tom took a
closer step toward Bo. Her expression of fright changed to
consternation.
"He stole my turkey!"
"Tom, come here," ordered Dale, sharply. The cougar glided
round rather sheepishly. "Now lie down an' behave."
Tom crouched on all-fours, his head resting on his paws,
with his beautiful tawny eyes, light and piercing, fixed
upon the hunter.
"Don't grab," said Dale, holding out a piece of turkey.
Whereupon Tom took it less voraciously.
As it happened, the little bear cub saw this transaction,
and he plainly indicated his opinion of the preference shown
to Tom.
"Oh, the dear!" exclaimed Bo. "He means it's not fair. . . .
Come, Bud -- come on."
But Bud would not approach the group until called by Dale.
Then he scrambled to them with every manifestation of
delight. Bo almost forgot her own needs in feeding him and
getting acquainted with him. Tom plainly showed his jealousy
of Bud, and Bud likewise showed his fear of the great cat.
Helen could not believe the evidence of her eyes -- that she
was in the woods calmly and hungrily partaking of sweet,
wild-flavored meat -- that a full-grown mountain lion lay on
one side of her and a baby brown bear sat on the other --
that a strange hunter, a man of the forest, there in his
lonely and isolated fastness, appealed to the romance in her
and interested her as no one else she had ever met.
When the wonderful meal was at last finished Bo enticed the
bear cub around to the camp of the girls, and there soon
became great comrades with him. Helen, watching Bo play, was
inclined to envy her. No matter where Bo was placed, she
always got something out of it. She adapted herself. She,
who could have a good time with almost any one or anything,
would find the hours sweet and fleeting in this beautiful
park of wild wonders.
But merely objective actions -- merely physical movements,
had never yet contented Helen. She could run and climb and
ride and play with hearty and healthy abandon, but those
things would not suffice long for her, and her mind needed
food. Helen was a thinker. One reason she had desired to
make her home in the West was that by taking up a life of
the open, of action, she might think and dream and brood
less. And here she was in the wild West, after the three
most strenuously active days of her career, and still the
same old giant revolved her mind and turned it upon herself
and upon all she saw.
"What can I do?" she asked Bo, almost helplessly.
"Why, rest, you silly!" retorted Bo. "You walk like an old,
crippled woman with only one leg."
Helen hoped the comparison was undeserved, but the advice
was sound. The blankets spread out on the grass looked
inviting and they felt comfortably warm in the sunshine. The
breeze was slow, languorous, fragrant, and it brought the
low hum of the murmuring waterfall, like a melody of bees.
Helen made a pillow and lay down to rest. The green
pine-needles, so thin and fine in their crisscross network,
showed clearly against the blue sky. She looked in vain for
birds. Then her gaze went. wonderingly to the lofty fringed
rim of the great amphitheater, and as she studied it she
began to grasp its remoteness, how far away it was in the
rarefied atmosphere. A black eagle, sweeping along, looked
of tiny size, and yet he was far under the heights above.
How pleasant she fancied it to be up there! And drowsy fancy
lulled her to sleep.
Helen slept all afternoon, and upon awakening, toward
sunset, found Bo curled beside her. Dale had thoughtfully
covered them with a blanket; also he had built a camp-fire.
The air was growing keen and cold.
Later, when they had put their coats on and made comfortable
seats beside the fire, Dale came over, apparently to visit
them.
"I reckon you can't sleep all the time," he said. "An' bein'
city girls, you'll get lonesome."
"Lonesome!" echoed Helen. The idea of her being lonesome
here had not occurred to her.
"I've thought that all out," went on Dale, as he sat down,
Indian fashion, before the blaze. "It's natural you'd find
time drag up here, bein' used to lots of people an'
goin's-on, an' work, an' all girls like."
"I'd never be lonesome here," replied Helen, with her direct
force.
Dale did not betray surprise, but he showed that his mistake
was something to ponder over.
"Excuse me," he said, presently, as his gray eyes held hers.
"That's how I had it. As I remember girls -- an' it doesn't
seem long since I left home -- most of them would die of
lonesomeness up here." Then he addressed himself to Bo. "How
about you? You see, I figured you'd be the one that liked
it, an' your sister the one who wouldn't."
"I won't get lonesome very soon," replied Bo.
"I'm glad. It worried me some -- not ever havin' girls as
company before. An' in a day or so, when you're rested, I'll
help you pass the time."
Bo's eyes were full of flashing interest, and Helen asked
him, "How?"
It was a sincere expression of her curiosity and not
doubtful or ironic challenge of an educated woman to a man
of the forest. But as a challenge he took it.
"How!" he repeated, and a strange smile flitted across his
face. "Why, by givin' you rides an' climbs to beautiful
places. An' then, if you're interested,' to show you how
little so-called civilized people know of nature."
Helen realized then that whatever his calling, hunter or
wanderer or hermit, he was not uneducated, even if he
appeared illiterate.
"I'll be happy to learn from you," she said.
"Me, too!" chimed in Bo. "You can't tell too much to any one
from Missouri."
He smiled, and that warmed Helen to him, for then he seemed
less removed from other people. About this hunter there
began to be something of the very nature of which he spoke
-- a stillness, aloofness, an unbreakable tranquillity, a
cold, clear spirit like that in the mountain air, a physical
something not unlike the tamed wildness of his pets or the
strength of the pines.
"I'll bet I can tell you more 'n you'll ever remember," he
said.
"What 'll you bet?" retorted Bo.
"Well, more roast turkey against -- say somethin' nice when
you're safe an' home to your uncle Al's, runnin' his ranch."
"Agreed. Nell, you hear?"
Helen nodded her head.
"All right. We'll leave it to Nell," began Dale, half
seriously. "Now I'll tell you, first, for the fun of passin'
time we'll ride an' race my horses out in the park. An'
we'll fish in the brooks an' hunt in the woods. There's an
old silvertip around that you can see me kill. An' we'll
climb to the peaks an' see wonderful sights. . . . So much
for that. Now, if you really want to learn -- or if you only
want me to tell you -- well, that's no matter. Only I'll win
the bet! . . . You'll see how this park lies in the crater
of a volcano an' was once full of water -- an' how the snow
blows in on one side in winter, a hundred feet deep, when
there's none on the other. An' the trees -- how they grow
an' live an' fight one another an' depend on one another,
an' protect the forest from storm-winds. An' how they hold
the water that is the fountains of the great rivers. An' how
the creatures an' things that live in them or on them are
good for them, an' neither could live without the other. An'
then I'll show you my pets tame an' untamed, an' tell you
how it's man that makes any creature wild -- how easy they
are to tame -- an' how they learn to love you. An' there's
the life of the forest, the strife of it -- how the bear
lives, an' the cats, an' the wolves, an' the deer. You'll
see how cruel nature is how savage an' wild the wolf or
cougar tears down the deer -- how a wolf loves fresh, hot
blood, an' how a cougar unrolls the skin of a deer back from
his neck. An' you'll see that this cruelty of nature -- this
work of the wolf an' cougar -- is what makes the deer so
beautiful an' healthy an' swift an' sensitive. Without his
deadly foes the deer would deteriorate an' die out. An'
you'll see how this principle works out among all creatures
of the forest. Strife! It's the meanin' of all creation, an'
the salvation. If you're quick to see, you'll learn that the
nature here in the wilds is the same as that of men -- only
men are no longer cannibals. Trees fight to live -- birds
fight -- animals fight -- men fight. They all live off one
another. An' it's this fightin' that brings them all closer
an' closer to bein' perfect. But nothin' will ever be
perfect."
"But how about religion?" interrupted Helen, earnestly.
"Nature has a religion, an' it's to live -- to grow -- to
reproduce, each of its kind."
"But that is not God or the immortality of the soul,"
declared Helen.
"Well, it's as close to God an' immortality as nature ever
gets."
"Oh, you would rob me of my religion!"
"No, I just talk as I see life," replied Dale, reflectively,
as he poked a stick into the red embers of the fire. "Maybe
I have a religion. I don't know. But it's not the kind you
have -- not the Bible kind. That kind doesn't keep the men
in Pine an' Snowdrop an' all over -- sheepmen an' ranchers
an' farmers an' travelers, such as I've known -- the
religion they profess doesn't keep them from lyin',
cheatin', stealin', an' killin'. I reckon no man who lives
as I do -- which perhaps is my religion -- will lie or cheat
or steal or kill, unless it's to kill in self-defense or
like I'd do if Snake Anson would ride up here now. My
religion, maybe, is love of life -- wild life as it was in
the beginnin' -- an' the wind that blows secrets from
everywhere, an' the water that sings all day an' night, an'
the stars that shine constant, an' the trees that speak
somehow, an' the rocks that aren't dead. I'm never alone
here or on the trails. There's somethin' unseen, but always
with me. An' that's It! Call it God if you like. But what
stalls me is -- where was that Spirit when this earth was a
ball of fiery gas? Where will that Spirit be when all life
is frozen out or burned out on this globe an' it hangs dead
in space like the moon? That time will come. There's no
waste in nature. Not the littlest atom is destroyed. It
changes, that's all, as you see this pine wood go up in
smoke an' feel somethin' that's heat come out of it. Where
does that go? It's not lost. Nothin' is lost. So, the
beautiful an' savin' thought is, maybe all rock an' wood,
water an' blood an' flesh, are resolved back into the
elements, to come to life somewhere again sometime."
"Oh, what you say is wonderful, but it's terrible!"
exclaimed Helen. He had struck deep into her soul.
"Terrible? I reckon," he replied, sadly.
Then ensued a little interval of silence.
"Milt Dale, I lose the bet," declared Bo, with earnestness
behind her frivolity.
"I'd forgotten that. Reckon I talked a lot," he said,
apologetically. "You see, I don't get much chance to talk,
except to myself or Tom. Years ago, when I found the habit
of silence settlin' down on me, I took to thinkin' out loud
an' talkin' to anythin'."
"I could listen to you all night," returned Bo, dreamily.
"Do you read -- do you have books?" inquired Helen,
suddenly.
"Yes, I read tolerable well; a good deal better than I talk
or write," he replied. "I went to school till I was fifteen.
Always hated study, but liked to read. Years ago an old
friend of mine down here at Pine -- Widow Cass -- she gave
me a lot of old books. An' I packed them up here. Winter's
the time I read."
Conversation lagged after that, except for desultory
remarks, and presently Dale bade the girls good night and
left them. Helen watched his tall form vanish in the gloom
under the pines, and after he had disappeared she still
stared.
"Nell!" called Bo, shrilly. "I've called you three times. I
want to go to bed."
"Oh! I -- I was thinking," rejoined Helen, half embarrassed,
half wondering at herself. "I didn't hear you."
"I should smile you didn't," retorted Bo. "Wish you could
just have seen your eyes. Nell, do you want me to tell you
something?
"Why -- yes," said Helen, rather feebly. She did not at all,
when Bo talked like that.
"You're going to fall in love with that wild hunter,"
declared Bo in a voice that rang like a bell.
Helen was not only amazed, but enraged. She caught her
breath preparatory to giving this incorrigible sister a
piece of her mind. Bo went calmly on.
"I can feel it in my bones."
"Bo, you're a little fool -- a sentimental, romancing, gushy
little fool!" retorted Helen. "All you seem to hold in your
head is some rot about love. To hear you talk one would
think there's nothing else in the world but love."
Bo's eyes were bright, shrewd, affectionate, and laughing as
she bent their steady gaze upon Helen.
"Nell, that's just it. There IS nothing else!"
CHAPTER X
The night of sleep was so short that it was difficult for
Helen to believe that hours had passed. Bo appeared livelier
this morning, with less complaint of aches.
"Nell, you've got color!" exclaimed Bo. "And your eyes are
bright. Isn't the morning perfectly lovely? . . . Couldn't
you get drunk on that air? I smell flowers. And oh! I'm
hungry!"
"Bo, our host will soon have need of his hunting abilities
if your appetite holds," said Helen, as she tried to keep
her hair out of her eyes while she laced her boots.
"Look! there's a big dog -- a hound."
Helen looked as Bo directed, and saw a hound of unusually
large proportions, black and tan in color, with long,
drooping ears. Curiously he trotted nearer to the door of
their hut and then stopped to gaze at them. His head was
noble, his eyes shone dark and sad. He seemed neither
friendly nor unfriendly.
"Hello, doggie! Come right in -- we won't hurt you," called
Bo, but without enthusiasm.
This made Helen laugh. "Bo, you're simply delicious," she
said. "You're afraid of that dog."
"Sure. Wonder if he's Dale's. Of course he must be."
Presently the hound trotted away out of sight. When the
girls presented themselves at the camp-fire they espied
their curious canine visitor lying down. His ears were so
long that half of them lay on the ground.
"I sent Pedro over to wake you girls up," said Dale, after
greeting them. "Did he scare you?"
"Pedro. So that's his name. No, he didn't exactly scare me.
He did Nell, though. She's an awful tenderfoot," replied Bo.
"He's a splendid-looking dog," said Helen, ignoring her
sister's sally. "I love dogs. Will he make friends?"
"He's shy an' wild. You see, when I leave camp he won't hang
around. He an' Tom are jealous of each other. I had a pack
of hounds an' lost all but Pedro on account of Tom. I think
you can make friends with Pedro. Try it."
Whereupon Helen made overtures to Pedro, and not wholly in
vain. The dog was matured, of almost stern aloofness, and
manifestly not used to people. His deep, wine-dark eyes
seemed to search Helen's soul. They were honest and wise,
with a strange sadness.
"He looks intelligent," observed Helen, as she smoothed the
long, dark ears.
"That hound is nigh human," responded Dale. "Come, an' while
you eat I'll tell you about Pedro."
Dale had gotten the hound as a pup from a Mexican
sheep-herder who claimed he was part California bloodhound.
He grew up, becoming attached to Dale. In his younger days
he did not get along well with Dale's other pets and Dale
gave him to a rancher down in the valley. Pedro was back in
Dale's camp next day. From that day Dale began to care more
for the hound, but he did not want to keep him, for various
reasons, chief of which was the fact that Pedro was too fine
a dog to be left alone half the time to shift for himself.
That fall Dale had need to go to the farthest village,
Snowdrop, where he left Pedro with a friend. Then Dale rode
to Show Down and Pine, and the camp of the Beemans' and with
them he trailed some wild horses for a hundred miles, over
into New Mexico. The snow was flying when Dale got back to
his camp in the mountains. And there was Pedro, gaunt and
worn, overjoyed to welcome him home. Roy Beeman visited Dale
that October and told that Dale's friend in Snowdrop had not
been able to keep Pedro. He broke a chain and scaled a
ten-foot fence to escape. He trailed Dale to Show Down,
where one of Dale's friends, recognizing the hound, caught
him, and meant to keep him until Dale's return. But Pedro
refused to eat. It happened that a freighter was going out
to the Beeman camp, and Dale's friend boxed Pedro up and put
him on the wagon. Pedro broke out of the box, returned to
Show Down, took up Dale's trail to Pine, and then on to the
Beeman camp. That was as far as Roy could trace the
movements of the hound. But he believed, and so did Dale,
that Pedro had trailed them out on the wild-horse hunt. The
following spring Dale learned more from the herder of a
sheepman at whose camp he and the Beemans; had rested on the
way into New Mexico. It appeared that after Dale had left
this camp Pedro had arrived, and another Mexican herder had
stolen the hound. But Pedro got away.
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