The sun was going down on the Carquinez Woods. The few shafts of
sunlight that had pierced their pillared gloom were lost in unfathomable
depths, or splintered their ineffectual lances on the enormous trunks
of the redwoods. For a time the dull red of their vast columns, and the
dull red of their cast-off bark which matted the echoless aisles, still
seemed to hold a faint glow of the dying day. But even this soon passed.
Light and color fled upwards. The dark interlaced treetops, that had all
day made an impenetrable shade, broke into fire here and there; their
lost spires glittered, faded, and went utterly out. A weird twilight
that did not come from the outer world, but seemed born of the wood
itself, slowly filled and possessed the aisles. The straight, tall,
colossal trunks rose dimly like columns of upward smoke. The few fallen
trees stretched their huge length into obscurity, and seemed to lie on
shadowy trestles. The strange breath that filled these mysterious vaults
had neither coldness nor moisture; a dry, fragrant dust arose from the
noiseless foot that trod their bark-strewn floor; the aisles might have
been tombs, the fallen trees enormous mummies; the silence the solitude
of a forgotten past.
And yet this silence was presently broken by a recurring sound like
breathing, interrupted occasionally by inarticulate and stertorous
gasps. It was not the quick, panting, listening breath of some stealthy
feline or canine animal, but indicated a larger, slower, and more
powerful organization, whose progress was less watchful and guarded, or
as if a fragment of one of the fallen monsters had become animate.
At times this life seemed to take visible form, but as vaguely, as
misshapenly, as the phantom of a nightmare. Now it was a square object
moving sideways, endways, with neither head nor tail and scarcely
visible feet; then an arched bulk rolling against the trunks of the
trees and recoiling again, or an upright cylindrical mass, but always
oscillating and unsteady, and striking the trees on either hand. The
frequent occurrence of the movement suggested the figures of some weird
rhythmic dance to music heard by the shape alone. Suddenly it either
became motionless or faded away.
There was the frightened neighing of a horse, the sudden jingling of
spurs, a shout and outcry, and the swift apparition of three dancing
torches in one of the dark aisles; but so intense was the obscurity
that they shed no light on surrounding objects, and seemed to advance
of their own volition without human guidance, until they disappeared
suddenly behind the interposing bulk of one of the largest trees. Beyond
its eighty feet of circumference the light could not reach, and the
gloom remained inscrutable. But the voices and jingling spurs were heard
distinctly.
“Blast the mare! She’s shied off that cursed trail again.”
“Ye ain’t lost it again, hev ye?” growled a second voice.
“That’s jist what I hev. And these blasted pine-knots don’t give light
an inch beyond ‘em. D--d if I don’t think they make this cursed hole
blacker.”
There was a laugh--a woman’s laugh--hysterical, bitter, sarcastic,
exasperating. The second speaker, without heeding it, went on:--
“What in thunder skeert the hosses? Did you see or hear anything?”
“Nothin’. The wood is like a graveyard.”
The woman’s voice again broke into a hoarse, contemptuous laugh. The man
resumed angrily:--
“If you know anything, why in h-ll don’t you say so, instead of cackling
like a d--d squaw there? P’raps you reckon you ken find the trail too.”
“Take this rope off my wrist,” said the woman’s voice, “untie my hands,
let me down, and I’ll find it.” She spoke quickly and with a Spanish
accent.
It was the men’s turn to laugh. “And give you a show to snatch that
six-shooter and blow a hole through me, as you did to the Sheriff of
Calaveras, eh? Not if this court understands itself,” said the first
speaker dryly.
“Go to the devil, then,” she said curtly.
“Not before a lady,” responded the other. There was another laugh from
the men, the spurs jingled again, the three torches reappeared from
behind the tree, and then passed away in the darkness.
For a time silence and immutability possessed the woods; the great
trunks loomed upwards, their fallen brothers stretched their slow length
into obscurity. The sound of breathing again became audible; the shape
reappeared in the aisle, and recommenced its mystic dance. Presently
it was lost in the shadow of the largest tree, and to the sound of
breathing succeeded a grating and scratching of bark. Suddenly, as if
riven by lightning, a flash broke from the center of the tree-trunk,
lit up the woods, and a sharp report rang through it. After a pause
the jingling of spurs and the dancing of torches were revived from the
distance.
“Hallo?”
No answer.
“Who fired that shot?”
But there was no reply. A slight veil of smoke passed away to the right,
there was the spice of gunpowder in the air, but nothing more.
The torches came forward again, but this time it could be seen they were
held in the hands of two men and a woman. The woman’s hands were tied
at the wrist to the horse-hair reins of her mule, while a riata, passed
around her waist and under the mule’s girth, was held by one of the men,
who were both armed with rifles and revolvers. Their frightened horses
curveted, and it was with difficulty they could be made to advance.
“Ho! stranger, what are you shooting at?”
The woman laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Look yonder at the roots
of the tree. You’re a d--d smart man for a sheriff, ain’t you?”
The man uttered an exclamation and spurred his horse forward, but the
animal reared in terror. He then sprang to the ground and approached the
tree. The shape lay there, a scarcely distinguishable bulk.
“A grizzly, by the living Jingo! Shot through the heart.”
It was true. The strange shape lit up by the flaring torches seemed more
vague, unearthly, and awkward in its dying throes, yet the small shut
eyes, the feeble nose, the ponderous shoulders, and half-human foot
armed with powerful claws were unmistakable. The men turned by a common
impulse and peered into the remote recesses of the wood again.
“Hi, Mister! come and pick up your game. Hallo there!”
The challenge fell unheeded on the empty woods.
“And yet,” said he whom the woman had called the sheriff, “he can’t be
far off. It was a close shot, and the bear hez dropped in his tracks.
Why, wot’s this sticking in his claws?”
The two men bent over the animal. “Why, it’s sugar, brown sugar--look!”
There was no mistake. The huge beast’s fore paws and muzzle were
streaked with the unromantic household provision, and heightened the
absurd contrast of its incongruous members. The woman, apparently
indifferent, had taken that opportunity to partly free one of her
wrists.
“If we hadn’t been cavorting round this yer spot for the last half
hour, I’d swear there was a shanty not a hundred yards away,” said the
sheriff.
The other man, without replying, remounted his horse instantly.
“If there is, and it’s inhabited by a gentleman that kin make centre
shots like that in the dark, and don’t care to explain how, I reckon I
won’t disturb him.”
The sheriff was apparently of the same opinion, for he followed his
companion’s example, and once more led the way. The spurs tinkled, the
torches danced, and the cavalcade slowly reentered the gloom. In another
moment it had disappeared.
The wood sank again into repose, this time disturbed by neither shape
nor sound. What lower forms of life might have crept close to its
roots were hidden in the ferns, or passed with deadened tread over the
bark-strewn floor. Towards morning a coolness like dew fell from above,
with here and there a dropping twig or nut, or the crepitant awakening
and stretching-out of cramped and weary branches. Later a dull, lurid
dawn, not unlike the last evening’s sunset, filled the aisles. This
faded again, and a clear gray light, in which every object stood out in
sharp distinctness, took its place. Morning was waiting outside in all
its brilliant, youthful coloring, but only entered as the matured and
sobered day.
Seen in that stronger light, the monstrous tree near which the dead bear
lay revealed its age in its denuded and scarred trunk, and showed in
its base a deep cavity, a foot or two from the ground, partly hidden by
hanging strips of bark which had fallen across it. Suddenly one of these
strips was pushed aside, and a young man leaped lightly down.
But for the rifle he carried and some modern peculiarities of dress, he
was of a grace so unusual and unconventional that he might have passed
for a faun who was quitting his ancestral home. He stepped to the side
of the bear with a light elastic movement that was as unlike customary
progression as his face and figure were unlike the ordinary types
of humanity. Even as he leaned upon his rifle, looking down at the
prostrate animal, he unconsciously fell into an attitude that in any
other mortal would have been a pose, but with him was the picturesque
and unstudied relaxation of perfect symmetry.
“Hallo, Mister!”
He raised his head so carelessly and listlessly that he did not
otherwise change his attitude. Stepping from behind the tree, the woman
of the preceding night stood before him. Her hands were free except for
a thong of the riata, which was still knotted around one wrist, the end
of the thong having been torn or burnt away. Her eyes were bloodshot,
and her hair hung over her shoulders in one long black braid.
“I reckoned all along it was YOU who shot the bear,” she said; “at least
some one hiding yer,” and she indicated the hollow tree with her hand.
“It wasn’t no chance shot.” Observing that the young man, either from
misconception or indifference, did not seem to comprehend her, she
added, “We came by here, last night, a minute after you fired.”
“Oh, that was YOU kicked up such a row, was it?” said the young man,
with a shade of interest.
“I reckon,” said the woman, nodding her head, “and them that was with
me.”
“And who are they?”
“Sheriff Dunn, of Yolo, and his deputy.”
“And where are they now?”
“The deputy--in h-ll, I reckon; I don’t know about the sheriff.”
“I see,” said the young man quietly; “and you?”
“I--got away,” she said savagely. But she was taken with a sudden
nervous shiver, which she at once repressed by tightly dragging her
shawl over her shoulders and elbows, and folding her arms defiantly.
“And you’re going?”
“To follow the deputy, may be,” she said gloomily. “But come, I say,
ain’t you going to treat? It’s cursed cold here.”
“Wait a moment.” The young man was looking at her, with his arched brows
slightly knit and a half smile of curiosity. “Ain’t you Teresa?”
She was prepared for the question, but evidently was not certain whether
she would reply defiantly or confidently. After an exhaustive scrutiny
of his face she chose the latter, and said, “You can bet your life on
it, Johnny.”
“I don’t bet, and my name isn’t Johnny. Then you’re the woman who
stabbed Dick Curson over at Lagrange’s?”
She became defiant again.
“That’s me, all the time. What are you going to do about it?”
“Nothing. And you used to dance at the Alhambra?” She whisked the shawl
from her shoulders, held it up like a scarf, and made one or two steps
of the sembicuacua. There was not the least gayety, recklessness, or
spontaneity in the action; it was simply mechanical bravado. It was so
ineffective, even upon her own feelings, that her arms presently dropped
to her side, and she coughed embarrassedly. “Where’s that whiskey,
pardner?” she asked.
The young man turned toward the tree he had just quitted, and
without further words assisted her to mount to the cavity. It was an
irregular-shaped vaulted chamber, pierced fifty feet above by a shaft or
cylindrical opening in the decayed trunk, which was blackened by smoke,
as if it had served the purpose of a chimney. In one corner lay a
bearskin and blanket; at the side were two alcoves or indentations, one
of which was evidently used as a table, and the other as a cupboard.
In another hollow, near the entrance, lay a few small sacks of flour,
coffee, and sugar, the sticky contents of the latter still strewing
the floor. From this storehouse the young man drew a wicker flask of
whiskey, and handed it, with a tin cup of water, to the woman. She waved
the cup aside, placed the flask to her lips, and drank the undiluted
spirit. Yet even this was evidently bravado, for the water started
to her eyes, and she could not restrain the paroxysm of coughing that
followed.
“I reckon that’s the kind that kills at forty rods,” she said, with a
hysterical laugh. “But I say, pardner, you look as if you were fixed
here to stay,” and she stared ostentatiously around the chamber. But she
had already taken in its minutest details, even to observing that the
hanging strips of bark could be disposed so as to completely hide the
entrance.
“Well, yes,” he replied; “it wouldn’t be very easy to pull up the stakes
and move the shanty further on.”
Seeing that either from indifference or caution he had not accepted her
meaning, she looked at him fixedly, and said,--
“What is your little game?”
“Eh?”
“What are you hiding for--here, in this tree?”
“But I’m not hiding.”
“Then why didn’t you come out when they hailed you last night?”
“Because I didn’t care to.”
Teresa whistled incredulously. “All right--then if you’re not hiding,
I’m going to.” As he did not reply, she went on: “If I can keep out of
sight for a couple of weeks, this thing will blow over here, and I can
get across into Yolo. I could get a fair show there, where the boys
know me. Just now the trails are all watched, but no one would think of
lookin’ here.”
“Then how did you come to think of it?” he asked carelessly.
“Because I knew that bear hadn’t gone far for that sugar; because I know
he hadn’t stole it from a cache--it was too fresh, and we’d have seen
the torn-up earth; because we had passed no camp; and because I knew
there was no shanty here. And, besides,” she added in a low voice,
“maybe I was huntin’ a hole myself to die in--and spotted it by
instinct.”
There was something in this suggestion of a hunted animal that, unlike
anything she had previously said or suggested, was not exaggerated, and
caused the young man to look at her again. She was standing under the
chimney-like opening, and the light from above illuminated her head and
shoulders. The pupils of her eyes had lost their feverish prominence,
and were slightly suffused and softened as she gazed abstractedly before
her. The only vestige of her previous excitement was in her left-hand
fingers, which were incessantly twisting and turning a diamond ring upon
her right hand, but without imparting the least animation to her rigid
attitude. Suddenly, as if conscious of his scrutiny, she stepped aside
out of the revealing light and by a swift feminine instinct raised her
hand to her head as if to adjust her straggling hair. It was only for
a moment, however, for, as if aware of the weakness, she struggled to
resume her aggressive pose.
“Well,” she said. “Speak up. Am I goin’ to stop here, or have I got to
get up and get?”
“You can stay,” said the young man quietly; “but as I’ve got my
provisions and ammunition here, and haven’t any other place to go to
just now, I suppose we’ll have to share it together.”
She glanced at him under her eyelids, and a half-bitter,
half-contemptuous smile passed across her face. “All right, old man,”
she said, holding out her hand, “it’s a go. We’ll start in housekeeping
at once, if you like.”
“I’ll have to come here once or twice a day,” he said, quite composedly,
“to look after my things, and get something to eat; but I’ll be away
most of the time, and what with camping out under the trees every night
I reckon my share won’t incommode you.”
She opened her black eyes upon him, at this original proposition. Then
she looked down at her torn dress. “I suppose this style of thing ain’t
very fancy, is it?” she said, with a forced laugh.
“I think I know where to beg or borrow a change for you, if you can’t
get any,” he replied simply.
She stared at him again. “Are you a family man?”
“No.”
She was silent for a moment. “Well,” she said, “you can tell your girl
I’m not particular about its being in the latest fashion.”
There was a slight flush on his forehead as he turned toward the little
cupboard, but no tremor in his voice as he went on: “You’ll find tea
and coffee here, and, if you’re bored, there’s a book or two. You read,
don’t you--I mean English?”
She nodded, but cast a look of undisguised contempt upon the two worn,
coverless novels he held out to her. “You haven’t got last week’s
‘Sacramento Union,’ have you? I hear they have my case all in; only them
lying reporters made it out against me all the time.”
“I don’t see the papers,” he replied curtly.
“They say there’s a picture of me in the ‘Police Gazette,’ taken in the
act,” and she laughed.
He looked a little abstracted, and turned as if to go. “I think you’ll
do well to rest a while just now, and keep as close hid as possible
until afternoon. The trail is a mile away at the nearest point, but
some one might miss it and stray over here. You’re quite safe if you’re
careful, and stand by the tree. You can build a fire here,” he stepped
under the chimney-like opening, “without its being noticed. Even the
smoke is lost and cannot be seen so high.”
The light from above was falling on his head and shoulders, as it had on
hers. She looked at him intently.
“You travel a good deal on your figure, pardner, don’t you?” she said,
with a certain admiration that was quite sexless in its quality; “but
I don’t see how you pick up a living by it in the Carquinez Woods. So
you’re going, are you? You might be more sociable. Good-by.”
“Good-by!” He leaped from the opening.
“I say pardner!”
He turned a little impatiently. She had knelt down at the entrance, so
as to be nearer his level, and was holding out her hand. But he did not
notice it, and she quietly withdrew it.
“If anybody dropped in and asked for you, what name will they say?”
He smiled. “Don’t wait to hear.”
“But suppose I wanted to sing out for you, what will I call you?”
He hesitated. “Call me--Lo.”
“Lo, the poor Indian?” *
“Exactly.”
* The first word of Pope’s familiar apostrophe is humorously
used in the Far West as a distinguishing title for the
Indian.
It suddenly occurred to the woman, Teresa, that in the young man’s
height, supple, yet erect carriage, color, and singular gravity of
demeanor there was a refined, aboriginal suggestion. He did not look
like any Indian she had ever seen, but rather as a youthful chief might
have looked. There was a further suggestion in his fringed buckskin
shirt and moccasins; but before she could utter the half-sarcastic
comment that rose to her lips he had glided noiselessly away, even as an
Indian might have done.
She readjusted the slips of hanging bark with feminine ingenuity,
dispersing them so as to completely hide the entrance. Yet this did not
darken the chamber, which seemed to draw a purer and more vigorous light
through the soaring shaft that pierced the roof than that which came
from the dim woodland aisles below. Nevertheless, she shivered, and
drawing her shawl closely around her began to collect some half-burnt
fragments of wood in the chimney to make a fire. But the preoccupation
of her thoughts rendered this a tedious process, as she would from time
to time stop in the middle of an action and fall into an attitude of
rapt abstraction, with far-off eyes and rigid mouth. When she had at
last succeeded in kindling a fire and raising a film of pale blue smoke,
that seemed to fade and dissipate entirely before it reached the top of
the chimney shaft, she crouched beside it, fixed her eyes on the darkest
corner of the cavern, and became motionless.
What did she see through that shadow?
Nothing at first but a confused medley of figures and incidents of the
preceding night; things to be put away and forgotten; things that
would not have happened but for another thing--the thing before which
everything faded! A ball-room; the sounds of music; the one man she
had cared for insulting her with the flaunting ostentation of his
unfaithfulness; herself despised, put aside, laughed at, or worse,
jilted. And then the moment of delirium, when the light danced; the one
wild act that lifted her, the despised one, above them all--made her
the supreme figure, to be glanced at by frightened women, stared at by
half-startled, half-admiring men! “Yes,” she laughed; but struck by the
sound of her own voice, moved twice round the cavern nervously, and then
dropped again into her old position.
As they carried him away he had laughed at her--like a hound that he
was; he who had praised her for her spirit, and incited her revenge
against others; he who had taught her to strike when she was insulted;
and it was only fit he should reap what he had sown. She was what he,
what other men, had made her. And what was she now? What had she been
once?
She tried to recall her childhood: the man and woman who might have
been her father and mother; who fought and wrangled over her precocious
little life; abused or caressed her as she sided with either; and then
left her with a circus troupe, where she first tasted the power of her
courage, her beauty, and her recklessness. She remembered those flashes
of triumph that left a fever in her veins--a fever that when it failed
must be stimulated by dissipation, by anything, by everything that would
keep her name a wonder in men’s mouths, an envious fear to women. She
recalled her transfer to the strolling players; her cheap pleasures, and
cheaper rivalries and hatred--but always Teresa! the daring Teresa! the
reckless Teresa! audacious as a woman, invincible as a boy; dancing,
flirting, fencing, shooting, swearing, drinking, smoking, fighting
Teresa! “Oh, yes; she had been loved, perhaps--who knows?--but always
feared. Why should she change now? Ha, he should see.”
She had lashed herself in a frenzy, as was her wont, with gestures,
ejaculations, oaths, adjurations, and passionate apostrophes, but with
this strange and unexpected result. Heretofore she had always been
sustained and kept up by an audience of some kind or quality, if only
perhaps a humble companion; there had always been some one she could
fascinate or horrify, and she could read her power mirrored in their
eyes. Even the half-abstracted indifference of her strange host had been
something. But she was alone now. Her words fell on apathetic solitude;
she was acting to viewless space. She rushed to the opening, dashed the
hanging bark aside, and leaped to the ground.
She ran forward wildly a few steps, and stopped.
“Hallo!” she cried. “Look, ‘tis I, Teresa!”
The profound silence remained unbroken. Her shrillest tones were lost
in an echoless space, even as the smoke of her fire had faded into pure
ether. She stretched out her clenched fists as if to defy the pillared
austerities of the vaults around her.
“Come and take me if you dare!”
The challenge was unheeded. If she had thrown herself violently against
the nearest tree-trunk, she could not have been stricken more breathless
than she was by the compact, embattled solitude that encompassed her.
The hopelessness of impressing these cold and passive vaults with
her selfish passion filled her with a vague fear. In her rage of the
previous night she had not seen the wood in its profound immobility.
Left alone with the majesty of those enormous columns, she trembled and
turned faint. The silence of the hollow tree she had just quitted seemed
to her less awful than the crushing presence of these mute and monstrous
witnesses of her weakness. Like a wounded quail with lowered crest and
trailing wing, she crept back to her hiding place.
Even then the influence of the wood was still upon her. She picked up
the novel she had contemptuously thrown aside, only to let it fall again
in utter weariness. For a moment her feminine curiosity was excited
by the discovery of an old book, in whose blank leaves were pressed a
variety of flowers and woodland grasses. As she could not conceive
that these had been kept for any but a sentimental purpose, she was
disappointed to find that underneath each was a sentence in an unknown
tongue, that even to her untutored eye did not appear to be the language
of passion. Finally she rearranged the couch of skins and blankets, and,
imparting to it in three clever shakes an entirely different character,
lay down to pursue her reveries. But nature asserted herself, and ere
she knew it she was asleep.
So intense and prolonged had been her previous excitement that, the
tension once relieved, she passed into a slumber of exhaustion so deep
that she seemed scarce to breathe. High noon succeeded morning, the
central shaft received a single ray of upper sunlight, the afternoon
came and went, the shadows gathered below, the sunset fires began to eat
their way through the groined roof, and she still slept. She slept even
when the bark hangings of the chamber were put aside, and the young man
reentered.
He laid down a bundle he was carrying and softly approached the sleeper.
For a moment he was startled from his indifference; she lay so still and
motionless. But this was not all that struck him; the face before him
was no longer the passionate, haggard visage that confronted him that
morning; the feverish air, the burning color, the strained muscles of
mouth and brow, and the staring eyes were gone; wiped away, perhaps, by
the tears that still left their traces on cheek and dark eyelash. It
was the face of a handsome woman of thirty, with even a suggestion of
softness in the contour of the cheek and arching of her upper lip, no
longer rigidly drawn down in anger, but relaxed by sleep on her white
teeth.
With the lithe, soft tread that was habitual to him, the young man moved
about, examining the condition of the little chamber and its stock
of provisions and necessaries, and withdrew presently, to reappear as
noiselessly with a tin bucket of water. This done, he replenished the
little pile of fuel with an armful of bark and pine cones, cast an
approving glance about him, which included the sleeper, and silently
departed.
It was night when she awoke. She was surrounded by a profound darkness,
except where the shaft-like opening made a nebulous mist in the corner
of her wooden cavern. Providentially she struggled back to consciousness
slowly, so that the solitude and silence came upon her gradually, with
a growing realization of the events of the past twenty-four hours, but
without a shock. She was alone here, but safe still, and every hour
added to her chances of ultimate escape. She remembered to have seen a
candle among the articles on the shelf, and she began to grope her way
towards the matches. Suddenly she stopped. What was that panting?
Was it her own breathing, quickened with a sudden nameless terror? or
was there something outside? Her heart seemed to stop beating while
she listened. Yes! it was a panting outside--a panting now increased,
multiplied, redoubled, mixed with the sounds of rustling, tearing,
craunching, and occasionally a quick, impatient snarl. She crept on
her hands and knees to the opening and looked out. At first the ground
seemed to be undulating between her and the opposite tree. But a second
glance showed her the black and gray, bristling, tossing backs of
tumbling beasts of prey, charging the carcass of the bear that lay at
its roots, or contesting for the prize with gluttonous, choked breath,
sidelong snarls, arched spines, and recurved tails. One of the boldest
had leaped upon a buttressing root of her tree within a foot of the
opening. The excitement, awe, and terror she had undergone culminated in
one wild, maddened scream, that seemed to pierce even the cold depths of
the forest, as she dropped on her face, with her hands clasped over her
eyes in an agony of fear.
Her scream was answered, after a pause, by a sudden volley of firebrands
and sparks into the midst of the panting, crowding pack; a few smothered
howls and snaps, and a sudden dispersion of the concourse. In another
moment the young man, with a blazing brand in either hand, leaped upon
the body of the bear.
Teresa raised her head, uttered a hysterical cry, slid down the tree,
flew wildly to his side, caught convulsively at his sleeve, and fell on
her knees beside him.
“Save me! save me!” she gasped, in a voice broken by terror. “Save me
from those hideous creatures. No, no!” she implored, as he endeavored
to lift her to her feet. “No--let me stay here close beside you. So,”
clutching the fringe of his leather hunting-shirt, and dragging herself
on her knees nearer him--“so--don’t leave me, for God’s sake!”
“They are gone,” he replied, gazing down curiously at her, as she wound
the fringe around her hand to strengthen her hold; “they’re only a lot
of cowardly coyotes and wolves, that dare not attack anything that lives
and can move.”
The young woman responded with a nervous shudder. “Yes, that’s it,” she
whispered, in a broken voice; “it’s only the dead they want. Promise
me--swear to me, if I’m caught, or hung, or shot, you won’t let me be
left here to be torn and--ah! my God! what’s that?”
She had thrown her arms around his knees, completely pinioning him to
her frantic breast. Something like a smile of disdain passed across his
face as he answered, “It’s nothing. They will not return. Get up!”
Even in her terror she saw the change in his face. “I know, I know!”
she cried. “I’m frightened--but I cannot bear it any longer. Hear me!
Listen! Listen--but don’t move! I didn’t mean to kill Curson--no! I
swear to God, no! I didn’t mean to kill the sheriff--and I didn’t. I was
only bragging--do you hear? I lied! I lied--don’t move, I swear to God I
lied. I’ve made myself out worse than I was. I have. Only don’t leave
me now--and if I die--and it’s not far off, may be--get me away from
here--and from THEM. Swear it!”
“All right,” said the young man, with a scarcely concealed movement of
irritation. “But get up now, and go back to the cabin.”
“No; not THERE alone.” Nevertheless, he quietly but firmly released
himself.
“I will stay here,” he replied. “I would have been nearer to you, but
I thought it better for your safety that my camp-fire should be further
off. But I can build it here, and that will keep the coyotes off.”
“Let me stay with you--beside you,” she said imploringly.
She looked so broken, crushed, and spiritless, so unlike the woman of
the morning that, albeit with an ill grace, he tacitly consented, and
turned away to bring his blankets. But in the next moment she was at his
side, following him like a dog, silent and wistful, and even offering
to carry his burden. When he had built the fire, for which she had
collected the pine-cones and broken branches near them, he sat down,
folded his arms, and leaned back against the tree in reserved and
deliberate silence.
Humble and submissive, she did not attempt to break in upon a reverie
she could not help but feel had little kindliness to herself. As the
fire snapped and sparkled, she pillowed her head upon a root, and lay
still to watch it.
It rose and fell, and dying away at times to a mere lurid glow, and
again, agitated by some breath scarcely perceptible to them, quickening
into a roaring flame. When only the embers remained, a dead silence
filled the wood. Then the first breath of morning moved the tangled
canopy above, and a dozen tiny sprays and needles detached from the
interlocked boughs winged their soft way noiselessly to the earth. A few
fell upon the prostrate woman like a gentle benediction, and she slept.
But even then, the young man, looking down, saw that the slender fingers
were still aimlessly but rigidly twisted in the leather fringe of his
hunting-shirt.