From “They of the High Trails,” copyright, 1916, by Harper
& Brothers. By special permission of the author.
I
Freeman Ward, geologist for the government, was not altogether easy
in his mind as he led his little pack-train out of Pinedale, a
frontier settlement on the western slope of the Rocky Mountain
divide, for he had permitted the girl of his deepest interest to
accompany him on his expedition.
Alice Mansfield, accustomed to having her way, and in this case
presuming upon Ward’s weakness, insisted on going. Outwardly he had
argued against it, making much of the possible storms, of the rough
trails, of the cold and dampness. But she argued that she was quite
as able to go as Mrs. Adams, the wife of the botanist of the
expedition. So Ward had yielded, and here these women were forming
part of a cavalcade which was headed for Frémont Peak, concerning
whose height and formation the leader wished to inform himself.
Alice was, however, a bit dashed by Ward’s change of manner as he
laid upon his train his final instructions.
“There is to be no skylarking,” he said, “and no back-tracking. Each
one is to exercise great care. We cannot afford to lose a horse nor
waste our provisions. This is not a picnic excursion, but a serious
government enterprise. I cannot turn back because of any discomfort
you may encounter in camp.”
“I am ready for what comes,” Alice answered, smilingly.
But she rode for the rest of the day remarkably silent. There had
been times when she was certain that Ward cared a great deal for
her--not in the impersonal way indicated by his reprimand--but in
the way of a lover, and she was very fond of him, had indeed looked
forward to this trip in his company as one sure to yield hours of
delightful intimacy. On the train he had been very devoted, “almost
lover-like,” Peggy Adams insisted. But now she was dismayed by his
tone of military command.
Their first day’s march brought them to a beautiful water called
Heart Lake, which shone dark and deep amid its martial firs at the
head of one of the streams which descended into the East Fork, and
there the guides advised a camp. They were now above the hunters,
almost above the game, in a region “delightfully primeval,” as the
women put it, and very beautiful and peaceful.
After the tents were in order and the supper eaten, Alice, having
tuned up her little metal banjo, began to twitter tender melodies
(to the moon, of course), and the long face of the man of science
broadened and he seemed less concerned about rocks and fauna and
flora.
The camp was maintained at Heart Lake for a day while Ward and his
men explored the various gorges in order to discover a way into
Blizzard Basin, which was their goal. They returned to camp each
time more and more troubled about the question of taking the women
over the divide into the “rough country” which lay to the north.
“It is a totally different world,” Adams explained to his wife. “It
is colder and stormier over there. The forest on the north slopes is
full of down-timber and the cliffs are stupendous. I wish you girls
were back in the settlement,” and in this wish Ward heartily joined.
However, the more they talked the more determined the women were to
go.
It was like a May day the following noon as they left timber-line
and, following the row of tiny monuments set up by the foresters,
entered upon the wide and undulating stretch of low edges which led
to the summit. The air was clear and the verdureless shapes of the
monstrous peaks stood sharp as steel against the sky. The tender
grass was filled with minute glistening flowers. The wind was
gentle, sweet, moist, and cool.
“Pooh!” said Alice, “this is absurdly easy. Freeman has been telling
us dreadful tales all along just to be rid of us.”
But she began to admit that her escort of four strong men was a
comfort, as the guide explained that this “rough country” had long
been known as the retreat of cattle-thieves and outlaws.
“Do you think there are any such men in here now?” asked Mrs. Adams.
“Undoubtedly,” Ward said; “but I don’t think, from the condition of
this trail, that they come in on this side of the range. I suspect
it’s too lonely even for a cattle-thief.”
They unsaddled that night on the bank of a stream near a small
meadow, and around the camp-fire discussed the trail which they were
to take next day. The guides agreed that it was “a holy terror,”
which made Alice the more eager to traverse it.
“I like trails that make men quake. I welcome adventure--that’s what
I came for,” she said.
Early the next forenoon, as they were descending the steep
north-slope trail, Alice gave out a cry of pain, and Adams called to
Ward:
“Hold on! Allie’s horse is down.”
Ward was not surprised. He rode in continual expectation of trouble.
She was forever trying short cuts and getting snared in the fallen
logs. Once she had been scraped from her saddle by an overhanging
bough, and now, in attempting to find an easier path down a slippery
ridge, her horse had fallen with her. Ward was ungracious enough to
say:
“Precisely what I’ve warned her against,” but he hurried to her
relief, nevertheless.
“Are you badly hurt?” he asked, as she stood before him, striving to
keep back her tears of pain.
“Oh no, not at all badly. My foot was jammed a little. Please help
me on to my horse; I’ll be all right in a minute.”
She put so good a face on her accident that he helped her into her
saddle and ordered the train to move on; but Peggy perceived that
the girl was suffering keenly.
“Sha’n’t we stop, Allie?” she called, a few minutes later.
“No. I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
She rode on for nearly half an hour, bravely enduring her pain, but
at last she turned to Mrs. Adams and cried out: “I can’t stand it,
Peggy! My foot pains me frightfully!”
Adams again called to Ward and the procession halted, while Ward
came back, all his anger gone.
“We’ll go into camp,” he said, as he examined her bruised foot.
“You’re badly hurt.”
“It’s a poor place to camp, Professor,” protested Gage. “If she can
go on for about fifteen minutes--”
“I’ll try,” she said; “but I can’t bear the stirrup, and my shoe is
full of blood.”
Ward, who was now keenly sympathetic, put her on his own horse and
walked beside her while they slowly crawled down into the small
valley, which held a deep and grassy tarn. Here they went into camp
and the day was lost.
Alice was profoundly mortified to find herself the cause of the
untimely halt, and as she watched the men making camp with anxious,
irritated faces she wept with shame at her folly. She had seized the
worst possible moment, in the most inaccessible spot of their
journey, to commit her crowning indiscretion.
She was ill in every nerve, shivering and weak, and remained for
that day the center of all the activities of the camp. Ward, very
tender even in his chagrin, was constantly at her side, his brow
knotted with care. He knew what it meant to be disabled two hundred
miles from a hospital, with fifty miles of mountain trail between
one’s need and a roof, but Alice buoyed herself up with the belief
that no bones were broken, and that in the clear air of the germless
world her wound would quickly heal.
She lay awake a good part of that night, hearing, above the roar of
the water, the far-off noises of the wild-animal world. A wolf
howled, a cat screamed, and their voices were fear-inspiring.
She began also to worry about the effect of her mishap on the
expedition, for she heard Ward say to Adams: “This delay is very
unfortunate. Our stay is so limited. I fear we will not be able to
proceed for some days, and snow is likely to fall at any time.”
What they said after that Alice could not hear, but she was in full
possession of their trouble. It was not a question of the loss of a
few days; it meant the possible failure of the entire attempt to
reach the Summit.
“Peggy,” she declared, next morning, “the men must push on and leave
you with me here in the camp. I will not permit the expedition to
fail on my account.”
This seemed a heroic resolution at the moment, with the menacing
sounds of the night still fresh in her ears, but it was the most
natural and reasonable thing in the world at the moment, for the sun
was rising warm and clear and the valley was as peaceful and as
beautiful as a park.
Mrs. Adams readily agreed to stay, for she was wholly free from the
ordinary timidities of women, but Ward, though sorely tempted,
replied:
“No. We’ll wait a day or two longer and see how you come on.”
At this point one of the guides spoke up, saying: “If the women
would be more comfortable in a cabin, there’s one down here in the
brush by the lake. I found it this morning when I was wranglin’ the
horses.”
“A cabin! In this wild place?” said Alice.
“Yes, ma’am--must be a ranger’s cabin.”
Ward mused. “If it’s habitable it would be warmer and safer than a
tent. Let’s go see about it.”
He came back jubilant. “It doesn’t seem to have been occupied very
recently, but is in fair shape. We’ll move you right down there.”
The wounded girl welcomed the shelter of a roof, and it was good to
feel solid logs about her helpless self. The interior of the hut was
untidy and very rude, but it stood in a delightful nook on the bank
of a pond just where a small stream fell into the valley, and it
required but a few minutes of Mrs. Adams’ efforts to clear the place
out and make it cozy, and soon Alice, groaning faintly, was
deposited in the rough pole bunk at the dark end of the room. What
an inglorious end to her exalted ride!
Ward seemed to understand her tears as he stood looking down upon
her, but he only said: “I dislike leaving you, even for the day. I
shall give up my trip.”
“No, no! you must go on!” she cried out. “I shall hate myself if you
don’t go on.”
He reluctantly yielded to her demand, but said: “If I find that we
can’t get back to-morrow I will send Gage back. He’s a trusty
fellow. I can’t spare Adams, and Smith and Todd--as you know--are
paying for their trip.”
Mrs. Adams spoke up firmly. “You need not worry about us. We can get
along very well without anybody. If you climb the peak you’ll need
Gage. I’m not afraid. We’re the only people in this valley, and with
this staunch little cabin I feel perfectly at home.”
“That’s quite true,” replied Ward in a relieved tone. “We are above
the hunters--no one ever crosses here now. But it will be lonely.”
“Not at all!” Alice assured him. “We shall enjoy being alone in the
forest.”
With slow and hesitating feet Ward left the two women and swung into
his saddle. “I guess I’ll send Gage back, anyhow,” he said.
“Don’t think of it!” called Peggy.
As a matter of fact, Alice was glad to have the men pull out. Their
pity, their reproach, irritated her. It was as if they repeated
aloud a scornful phrase--“You’re a lovely and tempting creature, but
you’re a fool-hen just the same.”
The two women spent the day peacefully, save now and then when
Alice’s wounded foot ached and needed care; but as night began to
rise in the cañon like the smoke of some hidden, silent,
subterranean fire, and the high crags glowed in the last rays of the
sun, each of them acknowledged a touch of that immemorial awe of the
darkness with which the race began.
Peggy, seating herself in the doorway, described the scene to her
patient, who could see but little of it. “Oh, but it’s gloriously
uncanny to be here. Only think! We are now alone with God and His
animals, and the night.”
“I hope none of God’s bears is roaming about,” replied Alice,
flippantly.
“There aren’t any bears above the berries. We’re perfectly safe. My
soul! but it’s a mighty country! I wish you could see the glow on
the peaks.”
“I’m taking my punishment,” replied Alice. “Freeman was very angry,
wasn’t he?”
“If it breaks off the match I won’t be surprised,” replied Peggy,
with resigned intonation.
“There wasn’t any match to break off.”
“Well!” replied the other, and as she slowly rose she added: “I
won’t say that he is perfectly distracted about you, but I do know
that he thinks more of you than of any other woman in the world, and
I’ve no doubt he is worrying about you this minute.”