From this point the traveling was good, and they descended rapidly,
zigzagging from side to side of a long, sweeping ridge. By noon they were
once more down amid the aspens, basking in a world of sad gold leaves and
delicious September sunshine.
At one o'clock, on the bank of a clear stream, the girl halted. "I reckon
we'd better camp awhile. You look tired, and I am hungry."
He gratefully acquiesced in this stop, for his knees were trembling with
the strain of the stirrups; but he would not permit her to ease him down
from his saddle. Turning a wan glance upon her, he bitterly asked: "Must
I always play the weakling before you? I am ashamed of myself. Ride on
and leave me to rot here in the grass. I'm not worth keeping alive."
"You must not talk like that," she gently admonished him. "You're not to
blame."
"Yes, I am. I should never have ventured into this man's country."
"I'm glad you did," she answered, as if she were comforting a child. "For
if you hadn't I should never have known you."
"That would have been no loss--to you," he bitterly responded.
She unsaddled one pack-animal and spread some blankets on the grass. "Lie
down and rest while I boil some coffee," she commanded; and he obeyed,
too tired to make pretension toward assisting.
Lying so, feeling the magic of the sun, hearing the music of the water,
and watching the girl, he regained a serener mood, and when she came back
with his food he thanked her for it with a glance before which her eyes
fell. "I don't see why you are so kind to me, I really believe you _like_
to do things for me." Her head drooped to hide her face, and he went on:
"Why do you care for me? Tell me!"
"I don't know," she murmured. Then she added, with a flash of bravery:
"But I do."
"What a mystery it all is! You turn from a splendid fellow like Landon to
a 'skate' like me. Landon worships you--you know that--don't you?"
"I know--he--" she ended, vaguely distressed.
"Did he ask you to marry him?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you? He's just the mate for you. He's a man of high character
and education." She made no answer to this, and he went on: "Dear girl,
I'm not worth your care--truly I'm not. I resented your engagement to
Belden, for he was a brute; but Landon is different. He thinks the world
of you. He'll go high in the service. I've never done anything in the
world--I never shall. It will be better for you if I go--to-morrow."
She took his hand and pressed it to her cheek, then, putting her arm
about his neck, drew him to her bosom and kissed him passionately. "You
break my heart when you talk like that," she protested, with tears. "You
mustn't say such gloomy things--I won't let you give up. You shall come
right home with me, and I will nurse you till you are well. It was all my
fault. If we had only stayed in camp at the lake daddy would have joined
us that night, and if I had not loitered on the mountain yesterday Cliff
would not have overtaken us. It's all my fault."
"I will not have it go that way," he said. "I've brought you only care
and unhappiness thus far. I'm an alien--my ways are not your ways."
"I can change," she answered. "I hate my ways, and I like yours."
As they argued she felt no shame, and he voiced no resentment. She knew
his mood. She understood his doubt, his depression. She pleaded as a man
might have done, ready to prove her love, eager to restore his
self-respect, while he remained both bitter and sadly contemptuous.
A cow-hand riding up the trail greeted Berrie respectfully, but a cynical
smile broke out on his lips as he passed on. Another witness--another
gossip.
She did not care. She had no further concern of the valley's comment. Her
life's happiness hung on the drooping eyelashes of this wounded boy, and
to win him back to cheerful acceptance of life was her only concern.
"I've never had any motives," he confessed. "I've always done what
pleased me at the moment--or because it was easier to do as others were
doing. I went to college that way. Truth is, I never had any surplus
vitality, and my father never demanded anything of me. I haven't any
motives now. A few days ago I was interested in forestry. At this time it
all seems futile. What's the use of my trying to live?"
Part of all this despairing cry arose from weariness, and part from a
luxurious desire to be comforted, for it was sweet to feel her sympathy.
He even took a morbid pleasure in the distress of her eyes and lips while
her rich voice murmured in soothing protest.
She, on her part, was frightened for him, and as she thought of the long
ride still before them she wrung her hands. "Oh, what shall I do? What
shall I do?" she moaned.
Instantly smitten into shame, into manlier mood, he said: "Don't worry
about me, please don't. I can ride. I'm feeling better. You must not
weaken. Please forgive my selfish complaints. I'm done! You'll never hear
it again. Come, let us go on. I can ride."
"If we can reach Miller's ranch--"
"I can ride to _your_ ranch," he declared, and rose with such new-found
resolution that she stared at him in wonder.
He was able to smile. "I've had my little crying spell. I've relieved my
heart of its load. I didn't mean to agonize you. It was only a slump." He
put his hand to his head. "I must be a comical figure. Wonder what that
cowboy thought of me?"
His sudden reversal to cheer was a little alarming to her, but at length
she perceived that he had in truth mastered his depression, and bringing
up the horses she saddled them, and helped him to mount. "If you get
tired or feel worse, tell me, and we'll go into camp," she urged as they
were about to start.
"You keep going till I give the sign," he replied; and his voice was so
firm and clear that her own sunny smile came back. "I don't know what to
make of you," she said. "I reckon you must be a poet."