From the hour in which she had listened to the story of old MacDonald a
change seemed to have come over Joanne. It was as if she had risen out of
herself, out of whatever fear or grief she might have possessed in her own
heart. John Aldous knew that there was some deep significance in her visit
to the grave under the Saw Tooth Mountain, and that from the beginning she
had been fighting under a tremendous mental and physical strain. He had
expected this day would be a terrible day for her; he had seen her efforts
to strengthen herself for the approaching crisis that morning. He believed
that as they drew nearer to their journey's end her suspense and
uneasiness, the fear which she was trying to keep from him, would, in spite
of her, become more and more evident. For these reasons the change which he
saw in her was not only delightfully unexpected but deeply puzzling. She
seemed to be under the influence of some new and absorbing excitement. Her
cheeks were flushed. There was a different poise to her head; in her voice,
too, there was a note which he had not noticed before.
It struck him, all at once, that this was a new Joanne--a Joanne who, at
least for a brief spell, had broken the bondage of oppression and fear that
had fettered her. In the narrow trail up the mountain he rode behind her,
and in this he found a pleasure even greater than when he rode at her
side. Only when her face was turned from him did he dare surrender himself
at all to the emotions which had transformed his soul. From behind he could
look at her, and worship without fear of discovery. Every movement of her
slender, graceful body gave him a new and exquisite thrill; every dancing
light and every darkening shadow in her shimmering hair added to the joy
that no fear or apprehension could overwhelm within him now. Only in those
wonderful moments, when her presence was so near, and yet her eyes did not
see him, could he submerge himself completely in the thought of what she
had become to him and of what she meant to him.
During the first hour of their climb over the break that led into the
valley beyond they had but little opportunity for conversation. The trail
was an abandoned Indian path, narrow, and in places extremely steep. Twice
Aldous helped Joanne from her horse that she might travel afoot over places
which he considered dangerous. When he assisted her in the saddle again,
after a stiff ascent of a hundred yards, she was panting from her exertion,
and he felt the sweet thrill of her breath in his face. For a space his
happiness obliterated all thoughts of other things. It was MacDonald who
brought them back.
They had reached the summit of the break, and through his long brass
telescope the old mountaineer was scanning the valley out of which they had
come. Under them lay Tête Jaune, gleaming in the morning sun, and it dawned
suddenly upon Aldous that this was the spot from which MacDonald had spied
upon his enemies. He looked at Joanne. She was breathing quickly as she
looked upon the wonder of the scene below them. Suddenly she turned, and
encountered his eyes.
"They might--follow?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"No danger of that," he assured her.
MacDonald had dismounted, and now he lay crouched behind a rock, with his
telescope resting over the top of it. He had leaned his long rifle against
the boulder; his huge forty-four, a relic of the old Indian days, hung at
his hip. Joanne saw these omens of preparedness, and her eyes shifted again
to Aldous. His .303 swung from his saddle. At his waist was the heavy
automatic. She smiled. In her eyes was understanding, and something like a
challenge. She did not question him again, but under her gaze Aldous
flushed.
A moment later MacDonald closed his telescope and without a word mounted
his horse. Where the descent into the second valley began he paused again.
To the north through the haze of the morning sun gleamed the snow-capped
peaks of the Saw Tooth Range. Apparently not more than an hour's ride
distant rose a huge red sandstone giant which seemed to shut in the end of
the valley MacDonald stretched forth a long arm in its direction.
"What we're seekin' is behind that mountain," he said. "It's ten miles from
here." He turned to the girl. "Are you gettin' lame, Mis' Joanne?"
Aldous saw her lips tighten.
"No. Let us go on, please."
She was staring fixedly at the sombre red mass of the mountain. Her eyes
did not take in the magnificent sweep of the valley below. They saw
nothing of the snow-capped peaks beyond. There was something wild and
unnatural in their steady gaze. Aldous dropped behind her as they began the
gradual descent from the crest of the break and his own heart began to beat
more apprehensively; the old question flashed back upon him, and he felt
again the oppression that once before had held him in its grip. His eyes
did not leave Joanne. And always she was staring at the mountain behind
which lay the thing they were seeking! It was not Joanne herself that set
his blood throbbing. Her face had not paled. Its colour was like the hectic
flush of a fever. Her eyes alone betrayed her; their strange intensity--the
almost painful steadiness with which they hung to the distant mountain, and
a dread of what was to come seized upon him. Again he found himself asking
himself questions which he could not answer. Why had Joanne not confided
more fully in him? What was the deeper significance of this visit to the
grave, and of her mission in the mountains?
Down the narrow Indian trail they passed into the thick spruce timber. Half
an hour later they came out into the grassy creek bottom of the valley.
During that time Joanne did not look behind her, and John Aldous did not
speak. MacDonald turned north, and the sandstone mountain was straight
ahead of them. It was not like the other mountains. There was something
sinister and sullen about it. It was ugly and broken. No vegetation grew
upon it, and through the haze of sunlight its barren sides and battlemented
crags gleamed a dark and humid red after the morning mists, as if freshly
stained with blood. Aldous guessed its effect upon Joanne, and he
determined to put an end to it. Again he rode up close beside her.
"I want you to get better acquainted with old Donald," he said. "We're sort
of leaving him out in the cold, Ladygray. Do you mind if I tell him to come
back and ride with you for a while?"
"I've been wanting to talk with him," she replied. "If you don't mind----"
"I don't," he broke in quickly. "You'll love old Donald, Ladygray. And, if
you can, I'd like to have you tell him all that you know about--Jane. Let
him know that I told you."
She nodded. Her lips trembled in a smile.
"I will," she said.
A moment later Aldous was telling MacDonald that Joanne wanted him. The old
mountaineer stared. He drew his pipe from his mouth, beat out its
half-burned contents, and thrust it into its accustomed pocket.
"She wants to see me?" he asked. "God bless her soul--what for?"
"Because she thinks you're lonesome up here alone, Mac. And look
here"--Aldous leaned over to MacDonald--"her nerves are ready to snap. I
know it. There's a mighty good reason why I can't relieve the strain she is
under. But you can. She's thinking every minute of that mountain up there
and the grave behind it. You go back, and talk. Tell her about the first
time you ever came up through these valleys--you and Jane. Will you, Mac?
Will you tell her that?"
MacDonald did not reply, but he dropped behind. Aldous took up the lead. A
few minutes later he looked back, and laughed softly under his breath.
Joanne and the old hunter were riding side by side in the creek bottom, and
Joanne was talking. He looked at his watch. He did not look at it again
until the first gaunt, red shoulder of the sandstone mountain began to loom
over them. An hour had passed since he left Joanne. Ahead of him, perhaps a
mile distant, was the cragged spur beyond which--according to the sketch
Keller had drawn for him at the engineers' camp--was the rough canyon
leading back to the basin on the far side of the mountain. He had almost
reached this when MacDonald rode up.
"You go back, Johnny," he said, a singular softness in his hollow voice.
"We're a'most there."
He cast his eyes over the western peaks, where dark clouds were shouldering
their way up in the face of the sun, and added:
"There's rain in that. I'll trot on ahead with Pinto and have a tent ready
when you come. I reckon it can't be more'n a mile up the canyon."
"And the grave, Mac?"
"Is right close to where I'll pitch the tent," said MacDonald, swinging
suddenly behind the pack-horse Pinto, and urging him into a trot. "Don't
waste any time, Johnny."
Aldous rode back to Joanne.
"It looks like rain," he explained. "These Pacific showers come up quickly
this side of the Divide, and they drench you in a jiffy. Donald is going on
ahead to put up a tent."
By the time they reached the mouth of the canyon MacDonald was out of
sight. A little creek that was a swollen torrent in spring time trickled
out of the gorge. Its channel was choked with a chaotic confusion of
sandstone rock and broken slate, and up through this Aldous carefully
picked his way, followed closely by Joanne. The sky continued to darken
above them, until at last the sun died out, and a thick and almost palpable
gloom began to envelop them. Low thunder rolled through the mountains in
sullen, rumbling echoes. He looked back at Joanne, and was amazed to see
her eyes shining, and a smile on her lips as she nodded at him.
"It makes me think of Henrik Hudson and his ten-pin players," she called
softly. "And ahead of us--is Rip Van Winkle!"
The first big drops were beginning to fall when they came to an open place.
The gorge swung to the right; on their left the rocks gave place to a
rolling meadow of buffalo grass, and Aldous knew they had reached the
basin. A hundred yards up the slope was a fringe of timber, and as he
looked he saw smoke rising out of this. The sound of MacDonald's axe came
to them. He turned to Joanne, and he saw that she understood. They were at
their journey's end. Perhaps her fingers gripped her rein a little more
tightly. Perhaps it was imagination that made him think there was a slight
tremble in her voice when she said:
"This--is the place?"
"Yes. It should be just above the timber. I believe I can see the upper
break of the little box canyon Keller told me about."
She rode without speaking until they entered the timber. They were just in
time. As he lifted her down from her horse the clouds opened, and the rain
fell in a deluge. Her hair was wet when he got her in the tent. MacDonald
had spread out a number of blankets, but he had disappeared. Joanne sank
down upon them with a little shiver. She looked up at Aldous. It was almost
dark in the tent, and her eyes were glowing strangely. Over them the
thunder crashed deafeningly. For a few minutes it was a continual roar,
shaking the mountains with mighty reverberations that were like the
explosions of giant guns. Aldous stood holding the untied flap against the
beat of the rain. Twice he saw Joanne's lips form words. At last he heard
her say:
"Where is Donald?"
He tied the flap, and dropped down on the edge of the blankets before he
answered her.
"Probably out in the open watching the lightning, and letting the rain
drench him," he said. "I've never known old Donald to come in out of a
rain, unless it was cold. He was tying up the horses when I ran in here
with you."
He believed she was shivering, yet he knew she was not cold. In the half
gloom of the tent he wanted to reach over and take her hand.
For a few minutes longer there was no break in the steady downpour and the
crashing of the thunder. Then, as suddenly as the storm had broken, it
began to subside. Aldous rose and flung back the tent-flap.
"It is almost over," he said. "You had better remain in the tent a little
longer, Ladygray. I will go out and see if MacDonald has succeeded in
drowning himself."
Joanne did not answer, and Aldous stepped outside. He knew where to find
the old hunter. He had gone up to the end of the timber, and probably this
minute was in the little box canyon searching for the grave. It was a
matter of less than a hundred yards to the upper fringe of timber, and when
Aldous came out of this he stood on the summit of the grassy divide that
separated the tiny lake Keller had described from the canyon. It was less
than a rifle shot distant, and on the farther side of it MacDonald was
already returning. Aldous hurried down to meet him. He did not speak when
they met, but his companion answered the question in his eyes, while the
water dripped in streams from his drenched hair and beard.
"It's there," he said, pointing back. "Just behind that big black rock.
There's a slab over it, an' you've got the name right. It's Mortimer
FitzHugh."
Above them the clouds were splitting asunder. A shaft of sunlight broke
through, and as they stood looking over the little lake the shaft
broadened, and the sun swept in golden triumph over the mountains.
MacDonald beat his limp hat against his knee, and with his other hand
drained the water from his beard.
"What you goin' to do?" he asked.
Aldous turned toward the timber. Joanne herself answered the question. She
was coming up the slope. In a few moments she stood beside them. First she
looked down upon the lake. Then her eyes turned to Aldous. There was no
need for speech. He held out his hand, and without hesitation she gave him
her own. MacDonald understood. He walked down ahead of them toward the
black rock. When he came to the rock he paused. Aldous and Joanne passed
him. Then they, too, stopped, and Aldous freed the girl's hand.
With an unexpectedness that was startling they had come upon the grave. Yet
not a sound escaped Joanne's lips. Aldous could not see that she was
breathing. Less than ten paces from them was the mound, protected by its
cairn of stones; and over the stones rose a weather-stained slab in the
form of a cross. One glance at the grave and Aldous riveted his eyes upon
Joanne. For a full minute she stood as motionless as though the last breath
had left her body. Then, slowly, she advanced. He could not see her face.
He followed, quietly, step by step as she moved. For another minute she
leaned over the slab, making out the fine-seared letters of the name. Her
body was bent forward; her two hands were clenched tightly at her side.
Even more slowly than she had advanced she turned toward Aldous and
MacDonald. Her face was dead white. She lifted her hands to her breast, and
clenched them there.
"It is his name," she said, and there was something repressed and terrible
in her low voice. "It is his name!"
She was looking straight into the eyes of John Aldous, and he saw that she
was fighting to say something which she had not spoken. Suddenly she came
to him, and her two hands caught his arm.
"It is terrible--what I am going to ask of you," she struggled. "You will
think I am a ghoul. But I must have proof! I must--I must!"
She was staring wildly at him, and all at once there leapt fiercely through
him a dawning of the truth. The name was there, seared by hot iron in that
slab of wood. The name! But under the cairn of stones----
Behind them MacDonald had heard. He towered beside them now. His great
mountain-twisted hands drew Joanne a step back, and strange gentleness was
in his voice as he said:
"You an' Johnny go back an' build a fire, Mis' Joanne. I'll find the
proof!"
"Come," said Aldous, and he held out his hand again.
MacDonald hurried on ahead of them. When they reached the camp he was gone,
so that Joanne did not see the pick and shovel which he carried back. She
went into the tent and Aldous began building a fire where MacDonald's had
been drowned out. There was little reason for a fire; but he built it, and
for fifteen minutes added pitch-heavy fagots of storm-killed jack-pine and
spruce to it, until the flames leapt a dozen feet into the air. Half a
dozen times he was impelled to return to the grave and assist MacDonald in
his gruesome task. But he knew that MacDonald had meant that he should stay
with Joanne. If he returned, she might follow.
He was surprised at the quickness with which MacDonald performed his work.
Not more than half an hour had passed when a low whistle drew his eyes to a
clump of dwarf spruce back in the timber. The mountaineer was standing
there, holding something in his hand. With a backward glance to see that
Joanne had not come from the tent, Aldous hastened to him. What he could
see of MacDonald's face was the lifeless colour of gray ash. His eyes
stared as if he had suffered a strange and unexpected shock. He went to
speak, but no words came through his beard. In his hand he held his faded
red neck-handkerchief. He gave it to Aldous.
"It wasn't deep," he said. "It was shallow, turribly shallow, Johnny--just
under the stone!"
His voice was husky and unnatural.
There was something heavy in the handkerchief, and a shudder passed through
Aldous as he placed it on the palm of his hand and unveiled its contents.
He could not repress an exclamation when he saw what MacDonald had brought.
In his hand, with a single thickness of the wet handkerchief between the
objects and his flesh, lay a watch and a ring. The watch was of gold. It
was tarnished, but he could see there were initials, which he could not
make out, engraved on the back of the case. The ring, too, was of gold. It
was one of the most gruesome ornaments Aldous had ever seen. It was in the
form of a coiled and writhing serpent, wide enough to cover half of one's
middle finger between the joints. Again the eyes of the two men met, and
again Aldous observed that strange, stunned look in the old hunter's face.
He turned and walked back toward the tent, MacDonald following him slowly,
still staring, his long gaunt arms and hands hanging limply at his side.
Joanne heard them, and came out of the tent. A choking cry fell from her
lips when she saw MacDonald. For a moment one of her hands clutched at the
wet canvas of the tent, and then she swayed forward, knowing what John
Aldous had in his hand. He stood voiceless while she looked. In that tense
half-minute when she stared at the objects he held it seemed to him that
her heart-strings must snap under the strain. Then she drew back from
them, her eyes filled with horror, her hands raised as if to shut out the
sight of them, and a panting, sobbing cry broke from between her pallid
lips.
"Oh, my God!" she breathed. "Take them away--take them away!"
She staggered back to the tent, and stood there with her hands covering her
face. Aldous turned to the old hunter and gave him the things he held.
A moment later he stood alone where the three had been, staring now as
Joanne had stared, his heart beating wildly.
For Joanne, in entering the tent, had uncovered her face; it was not grief
that he saw there, but the soul of a woman new-born. And as his own soul
responded in a wild rejoicing, MacDonald, going over the summit and down
into the hollow, mumbled in his beard:
"God ha' mercy on me! I'm doin' it for her an' Johnny, an' because she's
like my Jane!"