The morning was calm and Jimmy, walking by Margaret's horse, turned his
head. Faint, sweet notes stole across the rocks and he knew the distant
chime of cow-bells. As a rule, the elfin music moved him. Where the
cow-bells rang, cornfields and orchards advanced up the valleys and man
drove back the forest, but Jimmy's satisfaction was blunted. For two
days Margaret and he had pushed through the quiet woods. In the cold
evenings they had talked by the snapping fire, but now the romantic
journey was near its end.
After a few minutes Margaret stopped the horse. In front, dark pines
rolled up the hill and the long rows of ragged tops looked like the
waves of an advancing tide that broke against the rocks. Across the
valley, the sun touched the snow, and at the bottom of a broken slope a
lake sparkled. Jimmy saw its surface rippled, for a Chinook wind blew
and the frost was gone. Near the end of the lake a plume of smoke
streaked the trees.
"Green Lake ranch!" said Margaret.
For a few moments Jimmy was quiet. When they reached the valley he
thought the strange charm he had felt in the mountains would vanish; it
was too fine and elusive for him to recapture. Until they started for
Green Lake, he had not known Margaret. Cleverer than himself at
woodcraft, she had a man's strength and pluck. She did not grumble; she
was frank and not embarrassed. Yet a womanly gentleness marked her, and
she did not think for herself. Although her touch was light, Jimmy had
felt her control and took the line she meant him to take. In the
meantime they were not lovers, but partners in romantic adventure.
"For your sake, I'm glad we'll soon reach your cousin's house," he said.
"I don't know if I'm glad for mine."