"You're a good deal like a son to him, I imagine. You can do about all
that a boy can do, anyhow--more than I could ever do. Does he realize how
much you have to do with the management of his forest? I've never seen
your like. I really believe you _could_ carry on the work as well as
he."
She flushed with pleasure. "You seem to think I'm a district forester in
disguise."
"I have eyes, Miss Supervisor, and also ears--which leads me to ask: Why
don't you clean out that saloon gang? Landon is sure there's crooked work
going on at that mill--certainly that open bar is a disgraceful and
corrupting thing."
Her face clouded. "We've tried to cut out that saloon, but it can't be
done. You see, it's on a patented claim--the claim was bogus, of course,
and we've made complaint, but the matter is hung up, and that gives 'em a
chance to go on."
"Well, let's not talk of that. It's too delicious an hour for any
question of business. It is a moment for poetry. I wish I could write
what I feel this moment. Why don't we camp here and watch the sun go down
and the moon rise? From our lofty vantage-ground the coming of dawn would
be an epic."
"We mustn't think of that," she protested. "We must be going."
"Not yet. The hour is too perfect. It may never come again. The wind in
the pines, the sunshine, the conies crying from their rocks, the
butterflies on the clover--my heart aches with the beauty of it. It's
been a wonderful trip. Even that staggering walk in the rain had its
splendid quality. I couldn't see the poetry in it then; but I do now.
These few days have made us comrades, haven't they--comrades of the
trail? You have been very considerate of me." He took her hand. "I've
never seen such hands. They are like steel, and yet they are feminine."
She drew her hands away. "I'm ashamed of my hands--they are so big and
rough and dingy."
"They're brown, of course, and calloused--a little--but they are not big,
and they are beautifully modeled." He looked at her speculatively. "I am
wondering how you would look in conventional dress."
"Do you mean--" She hesitated. "I'd look like a gawk in one of those
low-necked outfits. I'd never dare--and those tight skirts would sure
cripple me."
"Oh no, they wouldn't. You'd have to modify your stride a little; but
you'd negotiate it. You're equal to anything."
"You're making fun of me!"
"No, I'm not. I'm in earnest. You're the kind of American girl that can
go anywhere and do anything. My sisters would mortgage their share of the
golden streets for your abounding health--and so would I."
"You are all right now," she smiled. "You don't look or talk as you
did."
"It's this sunlight." He lifted a spread hand as if to clutch and hold
something. "I feel it soaking into me like some magical oil. No more
moping and whining for me. I've proved that hardship is good for me."
"Don't crow till you're out of the woods. It's a long ride down the hill,
and going down is harder on the tenderfoot than going up."
"I'm no longer a tenderfoot. All I need is another trip like this with
you and I shall be a master trailer."
All this was very sweet to her, and though she knew they should be going,
she lingered. Childishly reckless of the sinking sun, she played with the
wild flowers at her side and listened to his voice in complete content.
He was right. The hour was too beautiful to be shortened, although she
saw no reason why others equally delightful might not come to them both.
He was more of the lover than he had ever been before, that she knew, and
in the light of his eyes all that was not girlish and charming melted
away. She forgot her heavy shoes, her rough hands and sun-tanned face,
and listened with wondering joy and pride to his words, which were of a
fineness such as she had never heard spoken--only books contained such
unusual and exquisite phrases.
A cloud passing across the sun flung down a shadow of portentous chill
and darkness. She started to her feet with startled recollection of the
place and the hour.
"We _must_ be going--at once!" she commanded.
"Not yet," he pleaded. "It's only a cloud. The sun is coming out again. I
have perfect confidence in your woodcraft. Why not spend another night on
the trail? It may be our last trip together."
He tempted her strongly, so frank and boyish and lovable were his glances
and his words. But she was vaguely afraid of herself, and though the long
ride at the moment seemed hard and dull, the thought of her mother
waiting decided her action.
"No, no!" she responded, firmly. "We've wasted too much time already. We
must ride."
He looked up at her with challenging glance. "Suppose I refuse--suppose I
decide to stay here?"
Upon her, as he talked, a sweet hesitation fell, a dream which held more
of happiness than she had ever known. "It is a long, hard ride," she
thought, "and another night on the trail will not matter." And so the
moments passed on velvet feet, and still she lingered, reluctant to break
the spell.
Suddenly, into their idyllic drowse of content, so sweet, so youthful,
and so pure of heart, broke the sound of a horse's hurrying, clashing,
steel-shod feet, and looking up Berrie saw a mounted man coming down the
mountainside with furious, reckless haste.
"It is Cliff!" she cried out. "He's on our trail!" And into her face came
a look of alarm. Her lips paled, her eyes widened. "He's mad--he's
dangerous! Leave him to me," she added, in a low, tense voice.