II

It was deep moonless night when Alice woke with a start. For a few

moments she lay wondering what had roused her--then a bright light

flashed and her companion screamed.

“Who’s there!” demanded the girl.

In that instant flare she saw a man’s face, young, smooth, with dark

eyes gleaming beneath a broad hat. He stood like a figure of bronze

while his match was burning, then exclaimed in breathless wonder:

“Great Peter’s ghost! a woman!” Finally he stepped forward and

looked down upon the white, scared faces as if uncertain of his

senses. “Two of them!” he whispered. As he struck his second match

he gently asked: “Would you mind saying how you got here?”

Alice spoke first. “We came up with a geological survey. I got hurt

and they had to leave us behind.”

“Where’s your party gone?”

“Up to the glaciers.”

“When did they leave?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“When do you expect them back?”

“Not for two or three days.”

He seemed to ponder a moment. “You say you’re hurt? Where?”

“My horse slipped and fell on my foot.”

“Wait a minute,” he commanded. “I’ll rustle a candle. I left one

here.”

When his form came out of the dark blur behind his candle Alice

perceived that he was no ordinary hunter. He was young, alert, and

very good-looking, although his face was stern and his mouth bitter.

He laid aside his hat as he approached the bunk in which the two

women were cowering as mice tremble before a cat. For a full minute

he looked down at them, but at last he smiled and said, in a jocular

tone:

“You’re sure-enough women, I can see that. You’ll excuse me--but

when a man comes back to a shack in the middle of the night in a

place like this and finds a couple of women in a bunk he’s likely to

think he’s seeing pictures in his sleep.”

“I can understand that,” Alice returned, recovering her

self-command. “You’re the ranger, I suppose? I told my friend here

that you might return.”

“I’m mighty glad I did,” he said, heartily.

“Thank you; you’re very kind.”

He bent a keen glare upon her. “What’s your name?”

“Alice Mansfield.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Mrs. Adams.”

“Are you a missis, too?”

She hesitated. This was impertinent, but then she herself was an

intrusive guest. “No,” she answered, “I am not married.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York City.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Yes, I’m feeling that this minute.” She drew the coverlet a little

closer to her chin.

He quickly read this sign. “You needn’t be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. You’re both all of a tremble and white as two

sheep--”

“It isn’t that,” wailed the girl; “but I’ve twisted my foot again.”

Her moan of pain broke the spell that bound Peggy.

“Would you leave, please, for a moment?” she called to the owner of

the cabin. “I’ve got to get up and doctor my patient.”

“Sure!” he exclaimed, moving toward the door. “If I can do anything

let me know.”

As soon as her patient’s aching foot was eased Peggy opened the door

and peeped out. A faint flare of yellow had come into the east, and

beside the fire, rolled in his blanket, the ranger was sleeping.

Frost covered everything and the air was keen.

“He’s out there on the cold ground--with only one blanket.”

“What a shame! Tell him to come inside--I’m not afraid of him.”

“Neither am I--but I don’t believe he’ll come. It’s ’most morning,

anyway--perhaps I’d better not disturb him.”

“Take one of these quilts to him--that will help some.”

Mrs. Adams lifted one of the coverlets and, stealing softly up, was

spreading it over the sleeper when he woke with a start, a wild

glare of alarm in his eyes.

“Oh, it’s you!” he said in relief. Then he added, as he felt the

extra cover: “That’s mighty white of you. Sure you don’t need it?”

“We can spare it. But won’t you come inside? I’m sorry we drove you

out of your cabin.”

“That’s all right. I’m used to this. Good night. I’m just about dead

for sleep.”

Thus dismissed, Peggy went back and lay down beside Alice. “He says

he’s quite comfortable,” she remarked, “and I hope he is, but he

doesn’t look it.”

When she woke again it was broad daylight and Alice was turning

restlessly on her hard bed. In the blaze of the sun all the mystery

of the night vanished. The incident of the return of the ranger to

his cabin was as natural as the coming of dawn.

“He probably makes regular trips through here,” said Mrs. Adams.

But the wounded girl silently differed, for she had read in the

man’s eyes and voice a great deal more than belonged to the

commonplace character of a forest-ranger. That first vision of his

face burned deep.

She had seen on the wall of the station at “the road” the

description of a train-robber which tallied closely with this man’s

general appearance, and the conviction that she was living in the

hidden hut of an outlaw grew into a certainty. “I must not let him

suspect my discovery,” she thought.

Mrs. Adams (who had not read the placard) treated the young fellow

as if he were one of the forest wardens, manifesting complete

confidence in him.

He deftly helped her about breakfast, and when she invited him into

the cabin he came readily, almost eagerly, but he approached Alice’s

bed with a touch of hesitation, and his glance was softer and his

voice gentler as he said:

“Well, how do you stack up this morning?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Must have been a jolt--my coming in last night the way I did?”

“I guess the ‘jolt’ was mutual. You looked surprised.”

He smiled again, a faint, swift half-smile. “Surprised! That’s no

name for it. For a minute I thought I’d fallen clear through. I hope

you didn’t get a back-set on account of it.”

“Oh no, thank you.”

“How many men are in your party?”

“Six, counting the guides.”

“Who are the men?”

She named them, and he mused darkly, his eyes on her face. “I reckon

I can’t wait to make their acquaintance. I’m going on down the Green

River to-day. I’m sorry to miss ’em. They must be a nice bunch--to

leave two women alone this way.”

He ate heartily, but with a nicety which betrayed better training

than is usual to men in his position. He remained silent and in deep

thought, though his eyes were often on Alice’s face.

As he rose to go he said to Peggy: “Would you mind doing up a little

grub for me? I don’t know just when I’ll strike another camp.”

“Why, of course! I’ll be glad to. Do you have to go?”

“Yes, I must pull out,” he replied, and while she was preparing his

lunch he rolled a blanket and tied it behind his saddle. At last he

re-entered the cabin and, again advancing to Alice’s bedside,

musingly remarked: “I hate to leave you women here alone. It doesn’t

seem right. Are you sure your party will return to-night?”

“Either to-night or to-morrow. Professor Ward intends to climb

Frémont Peak.”

“Then you won’t see him for three days.” His tone was that of one

who communes with himself. “I reckon I’d better stay till to-morrow.

I don’t like the feeling of the air.”

She explained that Gage, one of the guides, would return in case the

professor wished to remain in the heights.

“Well, I’ll hang around till toward night, anyhow.”

He went away for half an hour, and upon his return presented a

cleanly shaven face and a much less savage look and bearing. He

hovered about the door, apparently listening to Peggy’s chatter, but

having eyes only for the wounded girl. He seized every slightest

excuse to come in, and his voice softened and his manner changed

quite as markedly, and at last, while Mrs. Adams was momentarily

absent, he abruptly said:

“You are afraid of me; I can see it in your eyes. I know why. You

think you know who I am.”

“Yes; I’m sure of it.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I saw your picture in the railway station.”

He regarded her darkly. “Well, I trust you. You won’t give me away.

I’m not so sure of her.” He nodded his head toward the open door.

“What would be the good of my betraying you?”

“Two thousand dollars’ reward is a big temptation.”

“Nonsense! If I told--it would be for other reasons. If I were to

betray your hiding-place it would be because society demands the

punishment of criminals.”

“I’m not a criminal. I never lifted a cent from any man. I didn’t

get a dollar from the express company--but I tried--I want you to

know, anyway,” he continued, “that I wouldn’t rob an individual--and

I wouldn’t have tried this, only I was blind drunk and desperate. I

needed cash, and needed it bad.”

“What did you need it for?” asked Alice, with a steady look.

He hesitated, and a flush crept across his brown face. His eyes

wavered. “Well, you see, the old home was mortgaged--and mother was

sick--”

“Oh, bosh! Tell me the truth,” she demanded. “The papers said you

did it for a girl. Why not be honest with me?”

“I will,” he responded, impulsively. “Yes, that’s right. I did it

for a girl--and afterward, when I was on the run, what did she do?

Threw me down! Told everything she knew--the little coyote--and here

I am hunted like a wolf on account of it.” His face settled into

savage lines for a moment. But even as he sat thus another light

came into his eyes. His gaze took account of Alice’s lips and the

delicate rounded whiteness of her neck and chin. Her like he had

never met before. The girls he had known giggled; this one smiled.

His sweetheart used slang and talked of cattle like a herder, but

this woman’s voice, so sweet and flexible, made delightfully strange

music to his ears.

Peggy’s return cut short his confidence, and while she was in the

cabin he sat in silence, his eyes always on the girl. He seized

every opportunity to speak to her, and each time his voice betrayed

increasing longing for her favor.

Mrs. Adams, who had conceived a liking for him, ordered him about as

freely as though he were a hired guide, and he made himself useful

on the slightest hint.

Alice, on her part, was profoundly interested in him, and whenever

her foot would permit her to think of anything else, she pitied him.

In the madness of his need, his love, he had committed an act which

made all the world his enemy, and yet, as she studied his form and

expression, her heart filled with regret. He was very attractive in

the Western way, with nothing furtive or evasive about him.

With a directness quite equal to his own she questioned him about

his reckless deed.

“Why did you do it?” she exclaimed in despair of his problem.

“I don’t know. Hanged if I do, especially now. Since seeing you I

think I was crazy--crazy as a loon. If I’d done it for you, now, it

wouldn’t have been so wild. You’re worth a man’s life. I’d die for

you.”

This outburst of passion, so fierce and wild, thrilled the girl; she

grew pale with comprehension of his mood. It meant that the sight of

her lying there had replaced the old madness with a new one. She was

unprepared for this furious outflaming of primitive admiration.

“You mustn’t talk like that to me,” she protested, as firmly as she

could.

He sensed her alarm. “Don’t you be scared,” he said, gently. “I

didn’t mean to jar you. I only meant that I didn’t know such women

as you were in the world. I’d trust you. You’ve got steady eyes.

You’d stick by the man that played his whole soul for you, I can see

that. I come of pretty good stock. I reckon that’s why you mean so

much to me. You get hold of me in a way I can’t explain.”

“Why don’t you fly?” she asked him. “Every minute you spend here

increases your danger. The men may return at any moment.”

“That’s funny, too,” he answered, and a look of singular, musing

tenderness fell over his face. “I’d rather sit here with you and

take my chances.”

“But you must not! You are imperiling your life for nothing.”

“You’re mistaken there. I’m getting something every

minute--something that will stay with me all my life. After I leave

you it doesn’t matter. I came into the hills just naturally, the way

the elk does. After that girl reported me, life didn’t count. Seeing

you has changed me. It matters a whole lot to me this minute, and

when I leave you it’s stormy sunset for me, sure thing.”

Alice gazed upon him with steady eyes, but her bosom rose and fell

with the emotion which filled her heart. She debated calling for

Mrs. Adams, but there was something in the droop of the outlaw’s

head, in the tone of his voice, which arrested her. However sudden

and frenzied his admiration might seem to others, it was sincere and

manly, of that she was persuaded. Nevertheless, she was deeply

perturbed.

“I wish you would go,” she entreated at last, huskily. “I don’t want

to see you taken. You have made yourself a criminal and I ought not

to find excuses for you, but I do. You’re so young. It doesn’t seem

as if you knew what you were doing. Why don’t you ride away into the

wild north country and begin a new life somewhere? Can’t you escape

to Canada?”

He seized eagerly upon her suggestion. “Will you write to me if I

do?”

“No, I cannot promise that.”

“Why can’t I play the ranger here and wait upon you till the men

return?”

“Because Professor Ward read that placard with me. He will know you

instantly. I wish you’d go. Gage may come at any moment now.”

Peggy came in with a disturbed look. “It looks like rain,” she

announced; “the clouds are settling down all over the peaks.”

The outlaw sprang up and went to the door. “It looked bad when I got

up,” he said, as he studied the sky. “I guess we’re in for trouble.

It may be snow.”

His fears were soon realized. Rain began to fall in a thin drizzle,

and at four o’clock the first faint flakes of snow began to flash

amid the gray veils of the water-drops. The women looked at each

other in alarm as the cabin’s interior darkened with the ominous

shadow of the storm.

“I don’t like this a bit,” said Peggy, after a while. “This is no

mountain squall. I wish the men were here.”

“It can’t be anything that will last,” replied Alice. “It isn’t time

for the winter snows.”

“I know,” replied Peggy. “But it’s snowing perfect feather beds now,

and no wind. Lucky this forest-ranger is here. The men may get lost

in this storm.”

“Mercy! Don’t speak of such a thing!” exclaimed Alice; but she knew,

just the same, that Ward and his party were high in the peaks, far,

far above the cabin, and that the storm there would be

proportionately fiercer. She listened with growing thankfulness to

the outlaw’s blows upon the dry limbs of wood that he was chopping

for the fire. He was very capable and would not desert them--of that

she felt assured.

As the man worked on, the women both came to keen realization of the

serious view he took of the storm. He mounted his horse and with his

rope dragged great bundles of fagots from the thickets. As he came

up, laden with one of his bundles of hard-won fuel, Mrs. Adams

asked:

“You don’t think it will keep this up, do you?”

“You never can tell what will happen in these mountains. It doesn’t

generally snow much till later, but you can’t bank on anything in

this range.”

Alice called to him and he stepped inside. “What do you think we’d

better do?” she asked.

“There isn’t a thing you can do, miss. It’s just a case of stick it

out. It may let up by sundown; but, as it is, your party can’t get

back to-night, and if you don’t mind I’ll camp down just outside the

door and keep the fire going.”

“You will be a comfort to us,” she replied, “but I feel that--that

you ought to be going. Isn’t it dangerous for you? I mean you will

be shut in here.”

“If I’m shut in, others are shut out,” he answered, with a grim

smile. “My job is to keep fire.” With these words he returned to his

work of breaking limbs from the dead firs.

Alice said: “If it does turn out as this--this ranger says--if the

storm keeps up, you mustn’t let him sleep out in the snow.”

“Of course not,” said Peggy. “He can sleep inside. I trust him

perfectly--and, besides, you have your revolver.”

Alice smiled a little, wondering how Peggy’s trust would stand the

strain of a fuller knowledge concerning their guardian’s stirring

career.