Ben rose at daybreak, wonderfully refreshed by the night's sleep, and
built the fire at the cavern mouth. Beatrice was still asleep, and he
was careful not to waken her. The days would be long and monotonous for
her, he knew, and the more time she could spend in sleep the better.
He did, however, steal to the opening of the cavern and peer into her
face. The soft, morning light fell gently upon it, bringing out its
springtime freshness and the elusive shades of gold in her hair. She
looked more a child than a woman, some one to shelter and comfort rather
than to harry as a foe. "Poor little girl," he murmured under his
breath. "I'm going to make it as easy for you as I can."
He meant what he said. He could do that much, at least--extend to her
every courtesy and comfort that was in his power, and place his own
great strength at her service.
His first work was to remove the skin of last night's invader,--the huge
grizzly that lay dead just outside the cavern opening. They would have
use for this warm, furry hide before their adventure was done. It would
supplement their supply of blankets; and if necessary it could be cut
and sewed with threads of sinew into clothes. Because the animal had
but recently emerged from hibernation his fur, except for a few rubbed
places, was long and rich,--a beautiful, tawny-gray that shimmered like
cloth-of-gold in the light.
It taxed his strength to the utmost to roll over the huge body and skin
it. When the heavy skin was removed he laid it out, intending to stretch
it as soon as he could build a rack. He cut off some of the fat; then
quartering the huge body, he dragged it away into the thickets.
The hour was already past ten; but Beatrice--worn out by the stress of
the night before--did not waken until she heard the crack of her pistol.
She lay a while, resting, watching through the cavern opening Ben's
efforts to prepare breakfast. A young grouse had fallen before the
pistol, and her companion was busy preparing it for the skillet.
The girl watched with some pleasure his rather awkward efforts to go
about his work in silence,--evidently still believing her asleep. She
laughed secretly at his distress as he tripped clumsily over a piece of
firewood; then watched him with real interest as he mixed batter for
griddle cakes and fried the white breast of the grouse in bear fat.
Filling one of the two tin plates he stole into the cavern.
Falling into his mood the girl pretended to be asleep. She couldn't have
understood why her pulse quickened as he knelt beside her, looking so
earnestly and soberly into her face. Then she felt the touch of his
fingers on her shoulder.
"Wake up, Beatrice," he commanded, with pretended gruffness. "It's after
ten, and you've got to cook my breakfast."
She stirred, pretending difficulty in opening her eyes.
"Get right up," he commanded again. "D'ye think I'm going to wait all
morning?"
She opened her eyes to find him regarding her with boyish glee. Then--as
a surprise--he proffered the filled plate, meanwhile raising his arm in
feigned fear of a blow.
She laughed; then began upon her breakfast with genuine relish. Then he
brought her hot water and the meager toilet articles; and left the cave
to prepare his own breakfast.
"I'm going on a little hunt," he said, when this rite was over. "We
can't depend on grouse and bear forever. I hate to ask you to go--"
His tone was hopeful; and she could not doubt but that the lonely spirit
of these solitudes had hold of him. They were two human beings in a vast
and uninhabited wilderness, and although they were foes, they felt the
primitive need of each other's companionship. "I don't mind going," she
told him. "I'd rather, than stay in the cave."
"It's a fine morning. And what's your favorite meat--moose or caribou?"
"Caribou--although I like both."
He might have expected this answer. There are few meats in this
imperfect earth to compare in flavor with that of the great, woodland
caribou, monarch of the high park-lands.
"That means we do some climbing, instead of watching in the beaver
meadows. I'm ready--any time."
They took the game trail up the ridge, venturing at once into the heavy
spruce; but curiously enough, the mysterious hush, the dusky shadows did
not appall Beatrice greatly to-day. The miles sped swiftly under her
feet. Always there were creatures to notice or laugh at,--a squirrel
performing on a branch, a squawking Canada Jay surprised and utterly
baffled by their tall forms, a porcupine hunched into a spiny ball and
pretending a ferociousness that deceived not even such hairbrained folk
as the chipmunks in the tree roots, or those queens of stupidity, the
fool hens on the branch. In the way of more serious things sometimes
they paused to gaze down on some particularly beautiful glen--watered,
perhaps, by a gleaming stream--or a long, dark valley steeped deeply in
the ancient mysticism of the trackless wilds.
He helped her over the steeps, waited for her at bad crossings; and
meanwhile his thoughts found easy expression in words. He had to stop
and remind himself that she was his foe. Beatrice herself attempted no
such remembrance; she was simply carrying out her resolve to make the
best of a deplorable situation.
She could see, however, that he kept close watch of her. He intended to
give her no opportunity to strike back at him. He carried his rifle
unloaded, so that if she were able, in an unguarded moment, to wrest it
from him she could not turn it against him. But there was no joy for her
in noticing these small precautions. They only reminded her of her
imprisonment; and she wisely resolved to ignore them.
They climbed to the ridge top, following it on to the plateau where
patches of snow still gleamed white and the spruce grew in dark clumps,
leaving open, lovely parks between. Here they encountered their first
caribou.
This animal, however, was not to their liking in the way of meat for the
table. A turn in the trail suddenly revealed him at the edge of the
glade, his white mane gleaming and his graceful form aquiver with that
unquenchable vitality that seems to be the particular property of
northern wild animals; but Ben let him go his way. He was an old bull,
the monarch of his herd; he had ranged and mated and fought his rivals
for nearly a score of years in the wild heart of Back There,--and his
flesh would be mostly sinew.
Ten minutes later, however, the girl touched his arm. She pointed to a
far glade, fully three hundred yards across the canyon. Her quick eyes
made out a tawny form against the thicket.
It was a young caribou--a yearling buck--and his flesh would be tender
as a spring fowl.
"It's just what we want, but there's not much chance of getting him at
that range," he said.
"Try, anyway. You've got a long-range rifle. If you can hold true, he's
yours."
This was one thing that Ben was skilled at,--holding true. He raised the
weapon to his shoulder, drawing down finely on that little speck of
brown across the gulch. Few times in his life had he been more anxious
to make a successful shot. Yet he would never have admitted the true
explanation: that he simply desired to make good in the girl's eyes.
He held his breath and pressed the trigger back.
Beatrice could not restrain a low, happy cry of triumph. She had
forgotten all things, for the moment, but her joy at his success. And
truly, Ben had made a remarkable shot. Most hunters who boast of
long-range hits do not step off the distance shot; fifty yards is called
a hundred, a hundred and fifty yards three hundred; and to kill true at
this range is not the accustomed thing on the trails of sport. The
bullet had gone true as a light-shaft, striking the animal through the
shoulders, and he had never stirred out of his tracks. With that joy of
conquest known to all owners of rod and gun--related darkly to the
blood-lust of the beasts--they raced across the gully toward the
fallen.
Ben quartered the animal, and again he saw fit to save the hide. It is
the best material of all for the parka, the long, full winter garment of
the North.
Ben carried the meat in four trips back to the camp. By the time this
work was done, and one of the quarters was drying over a fire of
quivering aspen chips, the day was done. Again they saw the twilight
shadows grow, and the first sable cloak of night was drawn over the
shoulders of the forest. Beatrice prepared a wonderful roast of caribou
for their evening meal; and thereafter they sat a short time at the
mouth of the cavern, looking quietly into the red coals of the dying
fire. Again Ben knew the beneficence and peace of the sheltering walls
of home. Again he felt a sweet security,--a taming, gentling influence
through the innermost fiber of his being.
But Fenris the wolf gazed only into the darkened woods, and the hair
stood stiff at his shoulders, and his eyes glowed and shone with the
ancient hunting madness induced by the rising moon.