Swickey climbed from the edge of the river to the woods above. Here she
turned to look once more at the gorge, where the released waters, dotted
here and there with stray logs, churned between the black boulders, and
swept roaring round the bend below. Again she seemed to see Joe
Smeaton's lonely figure, drenched with spray, as he waved that gallantly
grotesque farewell. Tears welled beneath her lids and she bit her lips
to keep from sobbing. She longed to be at home, alone with Smoke.
Listlessly she passed along the trail, blind to the afternoon sunshine
that hung soft, radiant banners between the arches of the mast-high
trees; banners that trailed and flickered from bole to bole, touching
the gray-green lichens with wavering gold. Unconsciously she saw the
stones in the roadway and the little streams that winked between the
pebbles in the wagon ruts. So at one with her grief was she that she did
not notice the two figures plodding ahead of her in the distance until
one of them laughed as the other, endeavoring to jump across a muddy
pool, slipped and fell with a splashing and scrambling to secure a
footing.
She glanced up quickly. The taller of the two men was standing, arms
akimbo, laughing at his companion, who scraped the slimy mud from his
clothes with a deliberation that did not lack humor.
"It's Dave!--and that Mr. Bascomb."
The joy of seeing David again flashed across her lips in a quick smile,
but faded in the gloom of the recent tragedy. She wanted to feel happy,
if for nothing else than to make David's welcome what it should be, but
her heart quailed at the thought of meeting him now. She felt it would
be disloyal to the memory of the men whom she had just seen swept away
from the world and its sunshine, to allow herself the innocent happiness
that David's coming meant. She knew she must meet him sooner or later,
and some of her characteristic determination came to her as she
quickened her pace.
David and his companion had gone on--were walking faster than she. Why
not allow them to reach the camp before her? But the sight of David had
awakened something of the Swickey of three years ago. She hesitated;
then called.
Neither David nor Bascomb heard her. She hollowed her hands and called
through them: "Dave, it's Swickey."
They stopped and turned. Neither of them seemed to know where the call
came from until David recognized her figure and, with a word to Bascomb,
left him and came to where she stood.
"Well, Swickey!"
He put out both hands and she took them. His eyes told her he had found
another than the Swickey he used to know, and yet--
"What is it, Dave?" she asked simply.
"I'm looking for Swickey; this is Nanette."
"Oh, Dave," she cried, restraining a sob, "I'll never be Swickey again.
Andy Slocum and Joe--Joe Smeaton--have been killed--in the gorge--the
logs--oh, it was horrible! Andy fell and Joe tried to get him out--and
they're both gone."
She pulled her hands from his and covered her face.
"Great Heavens, Swickey! Killed? When? On the drive?"
"Just now," she sobbed. "I just came from there and I want to go home."
"Come," he said quietly.
Silently they walked along. Bascomb had gone ahead of them, for which
she felt a grateful relief. Presently David spoke.
"Was either of the men a--any one whom I knew?" he asked.
"Joe asked me to marry him, but--"
"I beg your pardon, Swickey. I didn't mean to be inquisitive, but you
seemed to feel so badly about it--"
"It was different--Andy--but Joe. Oh, I wish I could have told him--what
I wanted to."
David thought he understood and kept silent as they walked up the slope
toward the camp. He could not help noticing the change in her: the neat,
trim figure, lithely erect; the easy, natural stride; the maturing
fullness of the softly rounded cheek and throat; the great, heavy braids
of dusky hair that were caught up beneath her cap and showed so sharply
against her present pallor; the firm, slender brown hands.... He drew a
long breath and turned his eyes from her toward his cabin, where Bascomb
sat, pack-sack beside him, wreathed in films of smoke that drifted from
his pipe.
Even with his knowledge of the accident, and her grief, so manifest, a
little pang of something akin to jealousy gripped him. So she was to
have been married.... When he had thought of her during his absence, it
was of the girl who "wanted him--just him and no one else." He had never
dreamed of being anything more than a friend to her, even then. But
now.... He brushed the thought aside with a touch of self-accusing
anger.
"Wallie, this is Miss Avery."
Bascomb, who had arisen as they approached, laid down his pipe and shook
hands with her gravely. He noticed traces of her agitation and refrained
from making one of his characteristic remarks, bowing as she excused
herself and hastened toward the camp.
"Swickey's all broken up about the accident. Two men just killed in the
gorge--on the drive. I don't know just how it happened."
"Great Scott! Two of them killed? In the gorge? Why, we passed there
less than an hour ago. Say, Davy, I'm going back and--"
"I wouldn't, Wallie--not now."
Bascomb hesitated; then he turned toward David.
"Your're right, as usual, Davy,--I won't."
He picked up his pipe and relighted it.
"Davy, look!" Smoke was leaping straight up, as Swickey pointed toward
them. Finally, he saw the figures in David's doorway, and springing from
her, flashed across the clearing and bounded against David, then
crouched and rolled on his back, legs kicking wildly as he whined and
barked in sheer happiness. "Well, Smoke!"
At the sound of Bascomb's voice he stood up and shook himself. Then he
marched to his old master, sniffed at him once or twice, and then jumped
up, standing with his paws on Bascomb's chest.
"I know you'd kiss me if I didn't smoke, wouldn't you, old chap? Horrid
habit, isn't it? My! but you're looking fit. Killed anybody lately?"
The dog dropped to the ground and ran from one to the other, uncertain
as to which he owed more affection. Unwittingly Swickey solved the
difficulty by bringing the key of David's cabin. When she went back to
her father's camp, Smoke, after some serious hesitation, followed her
slowly.
"Smoke seems to realize the situation is a bit complicated," said
Wallie, as the dog disappeared in the other cabin.
"I don't know," replied David, throwing open the door and entering his
old familiar quarters. "But he seems to have made a pretty wise choice."
"I don't know how wise it is--but it's a pretty one, anyway. Your little
friend Swickey is simply stunning, Davy. My! what a complexion. No
wonder you were in a 'swesperation' to get back to her. She'd make the
niftiest show-girl in Boston look like the morning after."
David, busily unpacking his knapsack, grumbled something about having
forgotten to bring extra blankets.
"Blankets? Don't you worry, Davy. Uncle Walt can bunk anywhere after
that walk. Why, I'll brace the Cy--Avery for a pair if it's necessary."
"That reminds me, Walt. Remember that letter you wrote to me--the one in
which you sent your regards to the Cyclops and the siren child?"
"Sure thing. What about it?"
"Nothing, except I lost it and Swickey found it."
"Whew!"
Bascomb's whistle expressed a realization of untold possibilities.
"She's keeping it for me," said David, smiling as he watched Wallie's
expression. "I told her it wasn't important enough to forward."
"Well, you long-legged idiot, what did you do that for?"
"_I_ didn't want it. You may claim it yourself if you want to."
"But _she_ don't know what' Cyclops' means, Davy. Great Caesar! I'm a
goner if she does."
"Swickey has been going to school for two years, Wallie, and she isn't
slow. You can never tell."
"Oh, well, I've got to square myself with Avery anyway. He's had it in
for me ever since I desecrated his Eden with survey-stakes. Speaking of
stakes, did you notice the N. M. & Q. iron was laid up to the creek
below Jim Cameron's?"
"No, I didn't. I was thinking of something else."
"Asbestos?"
"Yes. Livingstone and the committee will be up here in a few days and I
was wondering what we--that is, where we could put them if they stay
overnight."
"Oh, Livy's a good sort--about as good a mining expert as there is east
of the Rockies, and that's going some. They're satisfied with his report
(you know I had him up here the first year I was in--before you came),
but I think they want an excuse to annex a private car and take a
joy-ride. Say, can't I help you tidy up a bit, or something?"
"No, you sit still and talk. I'll get the bunks straightened out in a
minute."
"All right, Mary. Don't forget to sweep under the bed."
"For that impertinence you may go over and get an armful of wood. I'm
hungry--and you'll have to eat my cooking. That's my revenge."
"I'll annex the wood-pile--but your cooking--I don't know. Here, where
are _you_ going?"
"Over to the house to borrow a few groceries to feed you. Come on."
Wallie seemed in no hurry to be up and doing.
"No, I'll interview the wood-pile."
He glanced at his muddy clothes. David laughed.
"'Tis not alone my inky cloak--there are other reasons," said Bascomb,
with mock-seriousness. "And by heck! here comes one of them like Ulysses
on the home stretch. Well, Davy, when you write, tell them I died a
hero."
As Avery, coming up the slope, saw the figures near David's cabin, his
grim features lightened.
"The boy's back ag'in," he exclaimed, quickening his pace. "And the
surveyor feller, too, I take it."
They went to meet him as he hurried up the hill.
"Wal, how be you, Dave? I'm a'mighty glad to see you ag'in." His fist
closed over David's fingers vigorously.
"First rate, Avery. You've met Mr. Bascomb?"
"Ya-a-s," replied the old man, shaking hands with Wallie, "I have.
Dave's been tellin' me how you jined forces--goin' to dig asbestos
t'gither. Wal, they's plenty of it to dig."
"And how have you been?" asked David.
"Oh, middlin'--fur a Cyclocks,"--he glanced shrewdly at
Bascomb,--"whatever thet be."
Wallie flushed despite himself. He hesitated, and then, glancing at
David, stepped up to Avery.
"See here, Mr. Avery, I know all about that letter having been lost and
found by your daughter. I didn't suppose you would ever see it, and I
beg your pardon."
"Ya-a-s," replied Avery noncommittally.
Bascomb, taken aback by Avery's cool acceptance of his apology, was
tempted to let the matter drop right there; but the simple dignity of
the old man, as he stood silently before them, awoke an impulse that he
hastened to express.
"I want to apologize to your daughter also."
"Say nothin' more about it," interrupted Avery. "Mebby I be a Cyclocks,
but seein' as I ain't eddicated up to knowin' it, it don't bother me
none. Howcome I ain't speakin' fur Swickey. She's been goin' to school."
Avery's shoulders straightened perceptibly.
As they walked toward the camp, Avery asked them if Swickey had told
them of the catastrophe in the gorge. "Swickey never said much, but I
reckon she sot some store by Joe. He would 'a' crawled from here to
Tramworth fur her--and he went down a'tween them hell-grindin' logs like
a feller goin' to a dance. Wal, 't ain't the fust time I've seen 'em
go.--You're comin' in to eat, ain't you?" he asked, as David said
something about borrowing some bacon and flour.
"Thanks, but we'll have supper in my cabin to-night."
"Can't see no sense in thet. Swickey's got 'most everything ready. You
jest come in and feel to home."
David glanced at Bascomb. "We'll manage to-night, anyway."
He caught the glance of quick approval in Swickey's eyes, and after some
joking about running two establishments to feed five people, he borrowed
what he needed for supper and followed Bascomb to his own cabin, where
they cooked and ate a meal that "escaped criticism merely because there
wasn't enough of it to criticize," as Wallie remarked, with an
omnivorous eye on the thirteenth and last biscuit.