"Yes, he overtook them on the trail, and would have killed Norcross if
Berrie hadn't interfered. He was crazy with jealousy."
"Nash didn't say anything about any assault."
"He didn't know it. Berrie told him that Norcross fell from his horse."
McFarlane was deeply stirred. "I saw Cliff leave camp, but I didn't think
anything of it. Why should he jump Norcross?"
"I suppose Mrs. Belden filled him with distrust of Berrie. He was already
jealous, and when he came up with them and found them lunching together,
he lost his head and rushed at Wayland like a wild beast. Of course he
couldn't stand against a big man like Cliff, and his head struck on a
stone; and if Berrie hadn't throttled the brute he would have murdered
the poor boy right there before her eyes."
"Good God! I never suspected a word of this. I didn't think he'd do
that."
The Supervisor was now very grave. These domestic matters at once threw
his work as forester into the region of vague and unimportant
abstractions. He began to understand the danger into which Berea had
fallen, and step by step he took up the trails which had brought them all
to this pass.
He fixed another penetrating look upon her face, and his voice was vibrant
with anxiety as he said: "You don't think there's anything--wrong?"
"No, nothing wrong; but she's profoundly in love with him. I never have
seen her so wrapped up in any one. She thinks of nothing else. It scares
me to see it, for I've studied him closely and I can't believe he feels
the same toward her. His world is so different from ours. I don't know
what to do or say. I fear she is in for a period of great unhappiness."
She was at the beginning of tears, and he sought to comfort her. "Don't
worry, honey, she's got too much horse sense to do anything foolish.
She's grown up. I suppose it's his being so different from the other boys
that catches her. We've always been good chums--let me talk with her. She
mustn't make a mistake."
The return of the crew from the corral cut short this conference, and
when McFarlane went in Berrie greeted him with such frank and joyous
expression that all his fears vanished.
"Did you come over the high trail?" she asked.
"No, I came your way. I didn't want to take any chances on getting mired.
It's still raining up there," he answered, then turned to Wayland:
"Here's your mail, Norcross, a whole hatful of it--and one telegram in
the bunch. Hope it isn't serious."
Wayland took the bundle of letters and retired to his room, glad to
escape the persistent stare of the cow-hands. The despatch was from his
father, and was curt and specific as a command: "Shall be in Denver on
the 23d, meet me at the Palmer House. Am on my way to California. Come
prepared to join me on the trip."
With the letters unopened in his lap he sat in silent thought, profoundly
troubled by the instant decision which this message demanded of him. At
first glance nothing was simpler than to pack up and go. He was only a
tourist in the valley with no intention of staying; but there was Berea!
To go meant a violent end of their pleasant romance. To think of flight
saddened him, and yet his better judgment was clearly on the side of
going. "Much as I like her, much as I admire her, I cannot marry her. The
simplest way is to frankly tell her so and go. It seems cowardly, but in
the end she will be happier."
His letters carried him back into his own world. One was from Will
Halliday, who was going with Professor Holsman on an exploring trip up
the Nile. "You must join us. Holsman has promised to take you on."
Another classmate wrote to know if he did not want to go into a land deal
on the Gulf of Mexico. A girl asked: "Are you to be in New York this
winter? I am. I've decided to go into this Suffrage Movement." And so,
one by one, the threads which bound him to Eastern city life re-spun
their filaments. After all, this Colorado outing, even though it should
last two years, would only be a vacation--his real life was in the cities
of the East. Charming as Berea was, potent as she seemed, she was after
all a fixed part of the mountain land, and not to be taken from it. At
the moment marriage with her appeared absurd.
A knock at his door and the Supervisor's voice gave him a keen shock.
"Come in," he called, springing to his feet with a thrill of dread, of
alarm.
McFarlane entered slowly and shut the door behind him. His manner was
serious, and his voice gravely gentle as he said: "I hope that telegram
does not call you away?"
"It is from my father, asking me to meet him in Denver," answered
Norcross, with faltering breath. "He's on his way to California. Won't
you sit down?"
The older man took a seat with quiet dignity. "Seems like a mighty fine
chance, don't it? I've always wanted to see the Coast. When do you plan
for to pull out?"
Wayland was not deceived by the Supervisor's casual tone; there was
something ominously calm in his manner, something which expressed an
almost dangerous interest in the subject.
"I haven't decided to go at all. I'm still dazed by the suddenness of it.
I didn't know my father was planning this trip."
"I see. Well, before you decide to go I'd like to have a little talk with
you. My daughter has told me part of what happened to you on the trail. I
want to know _all_ of it. You're young, but you've been out in the world,
and you know what people can say about you and my girl." His voice became
level and menacing, as he added: "And I don't intend to have her put in
wrong on account of you."
Norcross was quick to reply. "Nobody will dare accuse her of wrongdoing.
She's a noble girl. No one will dare to criticize her for what she could
not prevent."
"You don't know the Beldens. My girl's character will be on trial in
every house in the county to-morrow. The Belden side of it will appear in
the city papers. Sympathy will be with Clifford. Berrie will be made an
issue by my enemies. They'll get me through her."
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Norcross, in sudden realization of the gravity of
the case. "What beasts they are!"
"Moore's gang will seize upon it and work it hard," McFarlane went on,
with calm insistence. "They want to bring the district forester down on
me. This is a fine chance to badger me. They will make a great deal of my
putting you on the roll. Our little camping trip is likely to prove a
serious matter to us all."
"Surely you don't consider me at fault?"
Worried as he was, the father was just. "No, you're not to blame--no one
is to blame. It all dates back to the horses quitting camp; but you've
got to stand pat now--for Berrie's sake."
"But what can I do? I'm at your service. What rôle shall I play? Tell me
what to do, and I will do it."
McFarlane was staggered, but he answered: "You can at least stay on the
ground and help fight. This is no time to stampede."
"You're right. I'll stay, and I'll make any statement you see fit. I'll
do anything that will protect Berrie."
McFarlane again looked him squarely in the eyes. "Is there a--an
agreement between you?"
"Nothing formal--that is--I mean I admire her, and I told her--" He
stopped, feeling himself on the verge of the irrevocable. "She's a
splendid girl," he went on. "I like her exceedingly, but I've known her
only a few weeks."
McFarlane interrupted. "Girls are flighty critters," he said, sadly. "I
don't know why she's taken to you so terrible strong; but she has. She
don't seem to care what people say so long as they do not blame you; but
if you should pull out you might just as well cut her heart to pieces--"
His voice broke, and it was a long time before he could finish. "You're
not at fault, I know that, but if you _can_ stay on a little while and
make it an ounce or two easier for her and for her mother, I wish you'd
do it."
Wayland extended his hand impulsively. "Of course I'll stay. I never
really thought of leaving." In the grip of McFarlane's hand was something
warm and tender.
He rose. "I'm terribly obliged," he said; "but we mustn't let her suspect
for a minute that we've been discussing her. She hates being pitied or
helped."
"She shall not experience a moment's uneasiness that I can prevent,"
replied the youth; and at the moment he meant it.
Berrie could not be entirely deceived. She read in her father's face a
subtle change of line which she related to something Wayland had said.
"Did he tell you what was in the telegram? Has he got to go away?" she
asked, anxiously.
"Yes, he said it was from his father."
"What does his father want of him?"
"He's on his way to California and wants Wayland to go with him; but
Wayland says he's not going."
A pang shot through Berrie's heart. "He mustn't go--he isn't able to go,"
she exclaimed, and her pain, her fear, came out in her sharpened,
constricted tone. "I won't let him go--till he's well."
Mrs. McFarlane gently interposed. "He'll have to go, honey, if his father
needs him."
"Let his father come here." She rose, and, going to his door, decisively
knocked. "May I come in?" she demanded, rather than asked, before her
mother could protest. "I must see you."
Wayland opened the door, and she entered, leaving her parents facing each
other in mute helplessness.
Mrs. McFarlane turned toward her husband with a face of despair. "She's
ours no longer, Joe. Our time of bereavement has come."
He took her in his arms. "There, there, mother. Don't cry. It can't be
helped. You cut loose from your parents and came to me in just the same
way. Our daughter's a grown woman, and must have her own life. All we can
do is to defend her against the coyotes who are busy with her name."
"But what of _him_, Joe; he don't care for her as she does for him--can't
you see that?"
"He'll do the right thing, mother; he told me he would. He knows how much
depends on his staying here now, and he intends to do it."
"But in the end, Joe, after this scandal is lived down, can he--will
he--marry her? And if he marries her can they live together and be happy?
His way of life is so different. He can't content himself here, and she
can't fit in where he belongs. It all seems hopeless to me. Wouldn't it
be better for her to suffer for a little while now than to make a mistake
that may last a lifetime?"
"Mebbe it would, mother, but the decision is not ours. She's too strong
for us to control. She's of age, and if she comes to a full understanding
of the situation, she can decide the question a whole lot better than
either of us."
"That's true," she sighed. "In some ways she's bigger and stronger than
both of us. Sometimes I wish she were not so self-reliant."
"Well, that's the way life is, sometimes, and I reckon there's nothin'
left for you an' me but to draw closer together and try to fill up the
empty place she's going to leave between us."