To the outlaw in the Rocky Mountain cabin in that stormy night it
was in every respect the climax of his life. As he sat in the
doorway, looking at the fire and over into the storm beyond, he
realized that he was shaken by a wild, crude lyric of passion. Here
was, to him, the pure emotion of love. All the beautiful things he
had ever heard or read of girlhood, of women, of marriage, rose in
his mind to make this night an almost intolerable blending of joy
and sorrow, hope and despair.
To stay time in its flight, to make this hour his own, to cheat the
law, to hold the future at bay--these were the avid desires, the
vague resolutions, of his brain. So sure as the day came this
happiness would end. To-morrow he must resume his flight, resigning
his new-found jewel into the hands of another. To this thought he
returned again and again, each time with new adoration for the girl
and added fury and hate against his relentless pursuers and himself.
He did not spare himself! “Gad! what a fool I’ve been--and yet, if I
had been less a fool I would not be here and I would never have met
her.” He ended with a glance toward Alice.
Then he arose, closed the door of the cabin, and stood without
beside the fire, so that the women might prepare for bed. His first
thought of suicide came to him. Why not wait with his love as long
as possible--stay till the law’s hand was in the air above his head,
uplifted to strike, and then, in this last moment, die with this
latest, more glorious passion as climax to his career? To flee meant
endless fear, torment. To be captured meant defeat, utter and final
dismay.
A knock upon the door startled him, and Peggy’s voice cut short his
meditation. “You can come in now, Mr. Smith,” she said.
The broad crystals were still falling thickly and the fire was
hissing and spluttering around a huge root which he had rolled upon
it. In its light the cabin stood hardly higher than a kennel, and
yet it housed the woman whose glance had transformed his world into
something mystical. A man of commonplace ancestry would have felt
only an animal delight in shelter and warmth, but this youth was
stirred to a spiritual exaltation. The girl’s bosom, the rounded
beauty of her neck, appealed to him, but so also did the steady
candor of her gaze and the sweet courage of her lips. Her
helplessness roused his protective instinct, and her words, the
sound of her voice, so precise, so alien-sweet, filled him with
bitter sadness, and he re-entered the house in such spirit of
self-abasement as he had never known before.
He lay down upon the hard floor in silence, his audacity gone, his
reckless courage deep-sunk in gloomy foreboding.
Alice, on her part, could not free her mind from the burden of his
crime. He was so young, and so handsome, to be hunted like a noxious
beast! She had at the moment more concern of him than of Ward, and
in this lay a certain disloyalty. She sighed deeply as she thought
of the outlaw resuming his flight next day. Would it not be better
for him to sacrifice himself to the vengeance of the state at once
and so end it? What right had she to shield him from the law’s
demand? “He is a criminal, after all. He must pay for his rash act.”
She could not sleep, and when he rose to feed the fire she softly
asked, “Does it still storm?”
“No,” he answered in a tone that voiced disappointment; “the sky is
clear.”
“Isn’t that cheering!” she exclaimed, still in the same hushed
voice.
“For you,” he replied. “For me it’s another story.” He felt the
desire for a secret consultation which moved her, and on his way
back to his corner he halted and fixed his eyes upon her in hungry
admiration of her fire-lit face. Then he spoke. “I should have
pulled out before the storm quit. They can trail me now. But no
matter; I’ve known you.”
She still kept to ambiguous speech. “Wouldn’t it be better to give
up and take your--misfortune, and begin again? Professor Ward and I
will do all we can to help you.”
“That’s mighty white of you,” he responded, slowly. “But I can’t
stand the thought of confinement. I’ve been free as an Injun all my
life. Every way of the wind has been open to me. No; just as long as
I can find a wild spot I must keep moving. If it comes to ‘hands
up!’ I take the short cut.” He tapped his revolver as he spoke.
“You mustn’t do that,” she entreated. “Promise me you won’t think of
that!”
He made a stride toward her, but a movement of her companion checked
him.
“Is it morning?” Peggy sleepily asked.
“Not quite,” answered the outlaw, “but it’s time for me to be
moving. I’d like to hear from you sometime,” he said to Alice, and
his voice betrayed his sadness and tenderness. “Where could I reach
you?”
She gave her address with a curious sense of wrongdoing.
He listened intently. “I’ll remember that,” he said, “when I’ve
forgotten everything else. And now--” He reached his hand to her and
she took it.
“Poor boy! I’m sorry for you!” she whispered.
Her words melted his heart. Dropping on his knees beside her bed, he
pressed her fingers to his lips, then rose. “I’ll see you
again--somewhere--sometime,” he said, brokenly. “Good-by.”
No sooner had the door closed behind the outlaw than Peggy rose in
her place beside Alice and voiced her mystification. “Now what is
the meaning of all that?”
“Don’t ask me,” replied the girl. “I don’t feel like talking, and my
foot is aching dreadfully. Can’t you get up and bathe it? I hate to
ask you--but it hurts me so.”
Peggy sprang up and began to dress, puffing and whistling with
desperation. As soon as she was dressed she ran to the door and
opened it. All was still, a world of green and white. “The fire is
almost out,” she reported, “and I can see Mr. Smith’s horse’s
tracks.”
V
It was about ten o’clock when a couple of horsemen suddenly rounded
the point of the forest and rode into the clearing. One of them, a
slender, elderly man with gray, curly beard and a skin like red
leather, dismounted and came slowly to the door, and though his eyes
expressed surprise at meeting women in such a place, he was very
polite.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, with suave inflection.
“Good morning,” Peggy replied.
“Fine snowy mornin’.”
“It is so.” She was a little irritated by the fixed stare of his
round, gray eyes.
He became more direct. “May I ask who you are and how you happen to
be here, ma’am?”
“You may. I’m Mrs. Adams. I came up here with my husband, Professor
Adams.”
“Where is he?”
“He has gone up the trail toward Frémont. He is a botanist.”
“Is that his horse’s tracks?”
Alice called sharply, “Peggy!”
Mrs. Adams turned abruptly and went in.
The stranger turned a slow gaze upon his companion.
“Well, this beats me. ’Pears like we’re on the wrong trail, Bob. I
reckon we’ve just naturally overhauled a bunch of tourists.”
“Better go in and see what’s inside,” suggested the other man,
slipping from his horse.
“All right. You stay where you are.”
As he stepped to the door and rapped, Peggy opened it, but Alice
took up the inquiry.
“What do you want?” she asked, imperiously.
The man, after looking keenly about, quietly replied: “I’m wonderin’
how you women come to be here alone, but first of all I want to know
who made them tracks outside the door?”
Alice ignored the latter part of his question and set about
satisfying his wonder. “We came up here with a geological survey,
but my horse fell on my foot and I couldn’t ride, so the men had to
leave me behind--”
“Alone?” sharply interrogated the man.
“No; one man stayed.”
“What was his name?”
“I don’t know. We called him Smith.”
“Was he the man that rode away this morning?”
“What does that matter to you?” asked the girl. “Why are you so
inquisitive?”
He maintained his calm tone of mild authority. “I’m the sheriff of
Uinta County, ma’am, and I’m looking for a man who’s been hiding out
in this basin. I was trailin’ him close when the snow came on
yesterday, and I didn’t know but what these tracks was his.”
Peggy turned toward Alice with an involuntary expression of
enlightenment, and the sheriff read it quickly. Slipping between the
two women, he said:
“Jest a minute, miss. What sort of a looking man was this Smith?”
Alice took up the story. “He was rather small and dark--wasn’t he,
Peggy?”
Peggy considered. “I didn’t notice him particularly. Yes, I think he
was.”
The man outside called: “Hurry up, Cap. It’s beginning to snow
again.”
The sheriff withdrew toward the door. “You’re both lying,” he
remarked without heat, “but it don’t matter. We’ll mighty soon
overhaul this man on the horse--whoever he is. If you’ve been
harboring Hall McCord we’ll have to take you, too.” With that threat
as a farewell he mounted his horse and rode away.
Peggy turned to Alice. “Did you know that young fellow was an
outlaw?”
“Yes: I saw his picture and description on a placard in the railway
station. I recognized him at once.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, I liked his looks, and, besides, I wanted to find out if he
were really bad or only unfortunate.”
“What has he done?”
“They say he held up a train!”
“Merciful Heavens! a train-robber! What’s his real name?”
“The name on the placard was Hall McCord.”
“And to think he was in the same room with us last night, and you
were chumming with him! I can’t understand you. Are you sure he is
the robber?”
“Yes. He confessed to having tried to rob the express car.”
“He seemed such a nice fellow. How did he come to do it?”
Alice concluded not to honor the other girl by bringing her into the
discussion. “Oh, it is hard to say. Need of money, I suppose. Poor
boy, I pity him.”
“They’ll get him, sure. They can follow his tracks as easy as
anything. I don’t suppose I ought to say it, but I hope he’ll get
away. Don’t you?”
“Yes, I do!” was Alice’s fervent response. “But see! it’s snowing
again. It may cover his trail.”
Peggy went to the door and gazed long and keenly at the peaks. When
she turned her face was solemn. “Allie, this is getting pretty
serious for us. If the men don’t come to-day they may get snowed up
entirely.”
Alice stifled a wail. “Oh, if I were only able to walk I wouldn’t
mind. I could help gather fuel and keep the fire going.”
“There’s plenty of wood for another day, but I’m worried about the
men. Suppose they are up on that glacier?”
“I’m not worried about them, but I know they are worrying about us.
They’ll surely start back this morning; but they may not be able to
reach us till night.”
The light of the morning had turned gray and feeble. The air was
still and the forest soundless, save now and then when a snow-laden
branch creaked with its burden.
There was something majestic as well as menacing in this
all-pervading solemn hush.
Peggy went about her duties as cheerfully as she could, but with a
wider knowledge of mountaineering than Alice had. She was at heart
quite terrified. “We’re going to miss our nice outlaw,” she
remarked. “He was so effective as a purveyor of wood.” Then she went
to the door and looked out. “That sheriff will never keep his
trail,” she said.
“What’s that?” suddenly asked Alice.
Both listened. “I hear it!” whispered Peggy. “It’s a horse--there!
Some one spoke.”
“It’s Freeman!” Alice joyously called out. “Coo-hoo!”
No one replied, and Peggy, rushing to the door, met the young
outlaw, who appeared on the threshold with stern, set face.
“Who’s been here since I left? Your party?”
Peggy recoiled in surprise and alarm, and Alice cried out, “Why did
you come back?”
“Two men on horseback have been here since I left. Who were they?”
His voice was full of haste.
“One of them said--he was the--the sheriff,” Alice replied, faintly.
He smiled then, a kind of terrifying humor in his eyes. “Well, the
chances are he knew. They took my trail, of course, and left in a
hurry. Expected to overhaul me on the summit. They’ve got their work
cut out for ’em.”
“How did they miss you?” the girl asked, huskily.
“Well, you see, when I got up where I could view the sky I was dead
sure we were in for a whooping big snow-storm, and I just couldn’t
leave you girls up here all alone, so I struck right down the cañon
in the bed of the creek--the short cut. I don’t like to backtrail,
anyway; it’s a bad habit to get into. I like to leave as blind a
trail as I can.” His face lightened up, grew boyish again. “They’re
sure up against a cold proposition about now. They’ll lose my track
among the rocks, but they’ll figure I’ve hustled right on over into
Pine Creek, and if they don’t freeze to death in the pass they’ll
come out at Glover’s haymeadow to-morrow night. How’s the wood-pile
holding out?”
“Please go!” cried Alice. “Take your chance now and hurry away.”
“I’m not used to leaving women in such a fix. The moment I saw that
blizzard was beginning all over again I turned back.”
“You haven’t had any breakfast?” said Peggy.
“Nothing to speak of,” he replied, dryly. “I wasn’t thinking of
breakfast when I pulled out.”
“I’ll get you some.”
Alice could not throw off the burden of his danger. “What will you
do when my people return?”
“I don’t know--trust to luck.”
“You are very foolish. They are certain to come to-day.”
“They won’t know who I am if you women don’t give me away.”
“I’m sure Freeman--Professor Ward--will know you, for he also saw
the placard.”
“That’s no sign. Suppose he does--maybe he won’t think it is his job
to interfere. Anyway”--here his voice became decisive--“I won’t
leave you in such a fix as this.” His eyes spoke to her of that
which his tongue could not utter. “I wanted an excuse to come back,
anyway,” he concluded. “No matter what comes now, my job is here to
protect you.”
She did not rebuke him, and Peggy--though she wondered at his
tone--was too grateful for his presence even to question Alice’s
motive in permitting such remarks.
As for Alice, she felt herself more and more involved in the tangled
skein of his mysterious life. His sudden and reckless abandonment of
the old love which had ruined him, and the new and equally
irrational regard which he now professed for her, filled her with a
delicious marveling.
He appealed to a woman’s imagination. He had the spice of the
unknown. In her relationship with Ward there was no danger, no
mystery--his courtship narrowly escaped being commonplace. She had
accepted his attentions and expected to marry him, and yet the
thought of the union produced, at its warmest, merely a glow of
comfort, a sense of security, whereas the hint of being loved and
protected by this Rob Roy of the hills, this reckless Rough Rider of
the wilderness, was instinct with romance. Of course his devotion
was a crazy folly, and yet, lying there in her rough bunk, with an
impenetrable wall of snow shutting out the rest of the world, it was
hard not to feel that this man and his future had become an
inescapable part of her life--a part which grew in danger and in
charm from hour to hour.
Full two miles above the level of her own home, surrounded by peaks
unscalably wild and lonely, deserted by those who should care for
her, was it strange that she should return this man’s adoring gaze
with something of the primal woman’s gratitude and submission?
The noon darkened into dusk as they talked, slowly, with long
pauses, and one by one the stirring facts of the rover’s life came
out. From his boyhood he had always done the reckless thing. He had
known no restraint till, as a member of the Rough Riders, he yielded
a partial obedience to his commanders. When the excitement of the
campaigns was over he had deserted and gone back to the round-up
wagon and the campfire.
In the midst of his confidences he maintained a reserve about his
family which showed more self-mastery than anything else about him.
That he was the black sheep of an honorable flock became
increasingly evident. He had been the kind of lad who finds in the
West a fine field for dare-devil adventure. And yet there were
unstirred depths in the man. He was curious about a small book which
Alice kept upon her bed, and which she read from time to time with
serene meditation on her face.
“What is that?” he asked.
“My Bible.”
“Can I see it?”
“Certainly.”
He took it carefully and read the title on the back, then turned a
few of the leaves. “I’m not much on reading,” he said, “but I’ve got
a sister that sends me tracts, and the like.” He returned to the
fly-leaf.
“Is this your name?”
“Yes.”
“‘Alice Mansfield,’” he read; “beautiful name! ‘New York City’!
That’s pretty near the other side of the world to me.” He studied
the address with intent look. “I’d like to buy this book. How much
will you take for it?”
“I’ll trade it for your weapon,” she replied.
He looked at her narrowly. “You mean something by that. I reckon I
follow you. No, I can’t do that--not now. If I get into business
over the line I’ll disarm, but in this country a fellow needs to be
protected. I want this book!”
“For the fly-leaf?”
He smiled in return. “You’ve hit it.”
She hesitated. “I’ll give you the book if you’ll promise to read
it.”
He clapped the covers together and put the volume in his pocket.
“It’s mine! I’ll read every word of it, if it takes an age, and
here’s my hand on it.”
She gave him her hand, and in this clasp something came to her from
his clutching fingers which sobered her. She drew her hand away
hastily and said: “If you read that book--and think about it--it
will change your whole world.”
He, too, lost his brightness. “Well, I’m not so anxious to keep up
this kind of life. But if anybody changes me it will be you.”
“Hush!” she warned with lifted finger.
He fell back, and after a little silence went out to wait upon the
fire.
“It seems to me,” said Peggy, reprovingly, “that you’re too gracious
with this mountaineer; he’s getting presumptuous.”
“He doesn’t mean to be. It’s his unsophisticated way. Anyhow, we
can’t afford to be captious to our host.”
“That’s true,” admitted Peggy.
The night shut down with the snow still falling, but with a growing
chill in the air.
“The flakes are finer,” the outlaw announced, as he came in a little
later. “That is a good sign. It is growing colder and the wind is
changing. It will pinch hard before sun-up, and the worst of it,
there’s no way to warm this cabin. We can’t have the door open
to-night. I’m worried about you,” he said to Alice. “If only those
chumps had left a man-size ax!”
The two women understood that this night was to bring them into
closer intimacy with the stranger than before. He could not remain
outdoors, and though they now knew something of his desperate
character, they had no fear of him. He had shown his chivalry. No
one could have been more considerate of them, for he absented
himself at Peggy’s request instantly and without suggestion of
jocularity, and when he came in and found them both in bed he said:
“I reckon I’ll not make down to-night--you’ll need all your blankets
before morning”; and thereupon without weighing their protests,
proceeded to spread the extra cover over them.
Alice looked up at him in the dim light of the candle and softly
asked: “What will you do? You will suffer with cold!”
“Don’t worry about me; I’m an old campaigner. I still have a blanket
to wrap around my shoulders. I’ll snooze in a corner. If you hear me
moving around don’t be worried; I’m hired to keep the fire going
even if it doesn’t do us much good inside.”
The chill deepened. The wind began to roar, and great masses of
snow, dislodged from the tall trees above the cabin, fell upon its
roof with sounds like those of soft, slow footfalls. Strange noises
of creaking and groaning and rasping penetrated to Alice’s ears, and
she cowered half in fear, half in joy of her shelter and her male
protector. Men were fine animals for the wild.
She fell asleep at last, seeing her knight’s dim form propped
against the wall, wrapped in a blanket Indian-wise, his head bowed
over the book she had given him, a candle smoking in his hand.
She woke when he rose to feed the fire, and the current of cold air
which swept in caused her to cover her mouth with the blanket. He
turned toward her.
“It’s all over for sure, this time,” he said. “It’s cold and goin’
to be colder. How are you standing it? If your feet are cold I can
heat a stone. How is the hurt foot?” He drew near and looked down
upon her anxiously.
“Very much easier, thank you.”
“I’m mighty glad of that. I wish I could take the pain all on
myself.”
“You have troubles of your own,” she answered, as lightly as she
could.
“That’s true, too,” he agreed in the same tone. “So many that a
little one more or less wouldn’t count.”
“Do you call my wound little?”
“I meant the foot was little--”
She checked him.
“I didn’t mean to make light of it. It sure is no joke.” He added,
“I’ve made a start on the book.”
“How do you like it?”
“I don’t know yet,” he answered, and went back to his corner.
She snuggled under her warm quilts again, remorseful, yet not daring
to suggest a return of the blanket he had lent. When she woke again
he was on his feet, swinging his arms silently. His candle had gone
out, but a faint light was showing in the room.
“Is it morning?” she asked.
“Just about,” he replied, stretching like a cat.
The dawn came gloriously. The sun in far-splashing splendor slanted
from peak to peak, painting purple shadows on the snow and warming
the boles of the tall trees till they shone like fretted gold. The
jays cried out as if in exultation of the ending of the tempest, and
the small stream sang over its icy pebbles with resolute cheer. It
was a land to fill a poet with awe and ecstatic praise--a radiant,
imperial, and merciless landscape. Trackless, almost soundless, the
mountain world lay waiting for the alchemy of the sun.