WHILE THE WATER FLOWS
The Colonel was not altogether surprised when that evening Jean told
him the important news. He had not been blind and deaf to all that had
been taking place around him since Dane's arrival. He was fond of the
courier, and believed him to be a noble young man, worthy of his
daughter's love. He wanted Jean to be happy, for in her happiness his
own was vitally involved. Yet it was only natural that the news of the
betrothal should bring a pang to his heart. Jean was his all, his
comfort, his joy. But now she shared her love with another, a young
man, of whose past history he knew very little, and nothing of the
family from which he had sprung.
He showed no trace of this feeling, however, as he sat before the fire.
Jean was standing by his side, the bright, flickering flames
illuminating her happy face. Suddenly she realised something of what
this revelation meant to him who was so dear to her. She had never
thought of it before, and it swept upon her now with a startling
intensity. What would her father do without her? She was all that he
had, and should she leave him, what would become of him? She recalled
his words uttered at the falls. "If anything happens to you," he had
said, "I do not believe I could endure life any longer." She had
smiled at him then, but she did not do so now. Stooping, she
impulsively threw her arms around her father's neck, and kissed him.
"You are not going to lose me, daddy," she said. "You will always have
me with you. And you will have another to help you," she added in a
lower voice.
"I know it, dear, I know it," was the somewhat faltering reply. "I
want you to be happy, Jean, and I believe the young man is worthy of
your love."
"'Deed he is," Old Mammy declared, as just then she waddled toward the
fire. Early that evening Jean had whispered the news into her ear, and
had received the old nurse's blessing, accompanied by a great motherly
hug. "Mistah Dane is a puffect gen'l'man," she continued. "He's not
one bit stuck up, an' he's got manners, too. Why, he touches his cap
to dis ol' woman, an' if dat ain't a sign of a gen'leman, den I'd like
to know what is. I ain't afraid to trust Missie Jean wif a man like
dat."
"But suppose he should take Jean away?" the Colonel queried.
"Doan yo' worry 'bout dat, Cun'l. Missie Jean'll nebber leave us. But
if she should, dis ol' woman'll go wif her."
"You are right, Mammy," Jean replied. "I shall not leave you and
daddy. We must always remain together."
For some time father and daughter sat before the fire and talked after
Old Mammy had gone to bed. To Jean the future looked bright and rosy.
The Colonel, on the other hand, viewed it with considerable
apprehension. In a land as yet a great wilderness, he could not help
seeing mountains of difficulties rising sternly before them. He knew
how many hardships must beset their path for years to come. At present
they were living in a most precarious manner, exiles, with the
pioneering work all ahead. But with Jean it was different. To her the
trail of life looked very pleasant, gleaming golden beneath the mystic
halo of romance.
The Colonel spent the next day with Dane in the hills. He wished to be
alone with the courier who had won his daughter's heart. There were
many things he desired to say to him, and he hoped to learn a little,
at least, about his past life. He had something on his mind this day
of far greater importance to him than moose, deer, or caribou.
The morning passed most pleasantly, and the Colonel was more satisfied
than ever with his companion. Dane was well versed in forest lore, and
the ways of the feathered and furry creatures of the trails were to him
an open book. Gradually and tactfully the Colonel led him to talk
about his life, but on this subject he became more reserved. He spoke
enthusiastically about his mother, and how much he owed to her. His
father, however, he never mentioned. The Colonel was far from
satisfied, as he had learned really nothing about Dane's history, nor
how his parents happened to be in this country.
They stopped to eat their dinner by a sparkling spring which bubbled
from a wooded hillside. They were hungry, and thoroughly enjoyed the
good things Mammy had provided.
"I suppose this is a common occurrence to you," the Colonel remarked
when he had finished his meal.
"It has been my life for years," was the quiet reply. "I hardly know
how to eat at a table."
"Have you no home?" the Colonel asked. "Is your father not living?"
"Yes, I believe he is living, but I have not seen him for years."
"And why not?"
To this question Dane made no reply. He sat very still, looking down
through the trees into the valley below. The Colonel at first became
impatient, then angry.
"Look here, young man," he began, "if you are to have my daughter, I
must know something more about who you are, and where you have come
from. Why do you not wish to tell me about your father?"
Had any one else spoken in such a peremptory manner he would soon have
learned his mistake. As it was, Dane found it difficult to control
himself.
"I cannot tell you now," he quietly replied. "I must explain nothing,
so please do not press me further."
The Colonel was now thoroughly aroused. His fighting blood was
stirred, and he turned angrily upon his companion.
"Are you ashamed of your father?" he roared. "Who is he? and what has
he done that you won't tell me about him? Surely------" He paused
abruptly, while a look of consternation leaped into his eyes. He
reached out and clutched Dane by the arm. "Tell me," he demanded, in a
voice that was but a hoarse whisper, "is your father an Indian? Speak,
quick. I must know the truth."
With a gesture of impatience, Dane threw aside the clutching hand, and
sprang to his feet, his eyes ablaze with anger.
"No, my father is not an Indian," he cried.
He was on the point of saying more, but restraining himself, he picked
up his gun and slipped swiftly away among the trees. Down into the
valley he moved, hardly caring where he went. For the second time in
his life he was afraid of himself; for the second time he fled from an
angry grey-haired man, not through fear of what might happen to
himself, but what he might do. His soul was stirred within him, and
the blood surged madly through his veins. But now, as on that other
occasion, he was saved by a mighty influence from being one with the
beasts of the forest, and that influence was the prevailing power of
love.
At length he stopped on the edge of a wild meadow, and threw himself
down upon a bed of moss under a fir tree. He remembered how he had
done the same five years before when he had fled from the face of the
man from whose loins he had sprung. It was love then which had
restrained him and held his hand, the love he bore to a woman whose
memory was enshrined in his heart, and that woman was his mother. So
now his love for the fairest maiden at Loyal kept him from laying
violent hands upon her father, the man who had insulted him.
And as he lay there his calmness gradually returned, until he once
again felt master of himself. He could not remain longer at the
settlement with the Colonel's anger hot against him. Something would
be sure to happen which might separate him forever from the girl of his
heart's choice. He must go away and lose himself for a time in the
heart of the forest. But before going, he must see Jean once more, see
her unknown to her father, and ask her to wait and be patient. The
thought of going to the Colonel for a reconciliation never once entered
his mind; such a thing was most foreign to his independent nature.
Time passed unheeded as he remained there lost in thought. At length
he was startled by the report of a gun, followed almost immediately by
a ringing cry of fear. Leaping to his feet, he dashed into the open,
and looked intently up across the wild meadow. Nothing unusual was to
be seen, but a great crashing could be plainly heard among the bushes.
To Dane that sound was similar to a discordant note to a trained
musician's sensitive ear. He had often heard it before, and knew its
meaning. It always meant danger, and never more so than now.
Bounding forward in the direction of the sound, in a few seconds his
eyes fell upon the cause of the disturbance. A great bull moose was
charging, and the object of his rage was the Colonel, frantically
striving to free himself from a tangle of fallen tree-tops into which
he had plunged. That the man had fled a short distance after wounding
the moose was quite evident. But to escape now by flight from that
infuriated animal was utterly impossible. This the Colonel realised,
so his only hope lay in seeking refuge amidst the tops of the fallen
trees. This position, however, was most precarious, for the branches
were half rotten and brittle, absolutely unable to withstand the
terrific goring impact of those wide-spread antlers, impelled by
insensate rage and over one thousand pounds of flesh, bone, and sinewy
muscles.
In an instant Dane comprehended the seriousness of the situation. He
knew that there was no time to lose, so bringing his musket to his
shoulder, he took a quick, careful aim and fired. The great antlered
demon was but a few feet from the tree-tops when the bullet tore into
its side just back of the shoulder. It charged and crashed into the
branches, but where it charged it fell, and after a brief convulsive
struggle remained still. The fighting days of the monarch of the
trails were ended.
Hastening at once to the spot, Dane found the Colonel pinned down
amidst a tangle of branches and antlers, and unable to help himself.
With considerable difficulty the courier at last assisted him to his
feet. Apart from several bruises upon the body, the only injury was in
the left arm, on which one of the prongs had struck a glancing blow.
An instant later this same arm had been caught under the huge body and
held as in a vise. The Colonel was weak, and trembled as he
endeavoured to stand upright. Blood oozed from several scratches on
his forehead and trickled down into his white beard. But he maintained
a brave spirit, and smiled as Dane questioned him about his injuries.
"I shall be all right shortly," he said. "There are no bones broken,
for which I am most thankful. I am somewhat weak, that is all."
"Suppose we go down to the brook and let me bathe your face," Dane
suggested. "It is not far, and you can lean on me."
Supported by the courier, the Colonel slowly made his way along the
border of the meadow to the little brook which flowed sluggishly
through a mass of wild grass and alders. Here Dane brought forth a
piece of soft cloth from one of his pockets, with which he washed away
the blood stains from the Colonel's forehead and beard. Then from a
small wooden tube he produced some salve-like ointment which he applied
to the wounds, thus giving immediate relief.
"I see you are well prepared for emergencies," the Colonel remarked,
both interested and pleased at the young man's skill and attention.
"Experience has taught me to be always ready," Dane replied. "One
never knows what is going to happen in the woods, so a few bandages are
very handy. That ointment, too, is useful. It is a simple Indian
remedy, but very effective."
The Colonel made no further comment, but lay upon the ground lost in
thought. There was a far-away look in his eyes, which caused Dane to
wonder what he was thinking about. At length he aroused and turned
toward his companion.
"Young man," he began, "I am greatly indebted to you for saving my
life to-day. But for your prompt action that moose would have crushed
me to death in a short time. I now ask your forgiveness for my
impatience and anger toward you to-day."
He held out his hand, but to his surprise Dane stepped quickly to the
other side of the narrow brook.
"What is the meaning of this?" the Colonel asked. "Shall we not be
friends?"
In reply Dane smiled and stretched out his hand, which the Colonel
immediately grasped.
"This is the Indian custom," Dane explained. "While the grass grows,
the sun shines, and the water flows, we will be friends."
"Amen," broke fervently from the Colonel's lips.
And there across that little stream youth and age clasped hands, and a
bond of friendship was formed which not even death itself could break.