THE OUT TRAIL
"This time last spring," Bill said to her, "I was piking away north of
those mountains, bound for the head of the Naas to prospect for gold."
They were camped in a notch on the tiptop of a long divide, a thousand
feet above the general level. A wide valley rolled below, and from the
height they overlooked two great, sinuous lakes and a multitude of
smaller ones. The mountain range to which Bill pointed loomed seventy
miles distance, angling northwest. The sun glinted on the snow-capped
peaks, though they themselves were in the shadow.
"I've been wondering," Hazel said. "This country somehow seems
different. You're not going back to Cariboo Meadows, are you?"
Bill bestowed a look of surprise on her.
"I should say not!" he drawled. "Not that it would make any difference
to me. But I'm very sure you don't want to turn up there in my
company."
"That's true," she observed. "But all the clothes and all the money I
have in the world are there."
"Don't let money worry you," he said briefly. "I have got plenty to
see you through. And you can easily buy clothes."
They were now ten days on the road. Their course had lain across low,
rolling country, bordered by rugged hills, spotted with lakes, and cut
here and there by streams that put Bill Wagstaff to many strange shifts
in crossing. But upon leaving this camp they crossed a short stretch
of low country, and then struck straight into the heart of a
mountainous region. Steadily they climbed, reaching up through gloomy
cañons where foaming cataracts spilled themselves over sheer walls of
granite, where the dim and narrow pack trail was crossed and recrossed
with the footprints of bear and deer and the snowy-coated mountain
goat. The spring weather held its own, and everywhere was the pleasant
smell of growing things. Overhead the wild duck winged his way in
aerial squadrons to the vast solitudes of the North.
Roaring Bill lighted his evening fire at last at the apex of the pass.
He had traveled long after sundown, seeking a camp ground where his
horses could graze. The fire lit up huge firs, and high above the fir
tops the sky was studded with stars, brilliant in the thin atmosphere.
They ate, and, being weary, lay down to sleep. At sunrise Hazel sat up
and looked about her in silent, wondering appreciation. All the world
spread east and west below. Bill squatted by the fire, piling on wood,
and he caught the expression on her face.
"Isn't it great?" he said. "I ran across some verses in a magazine a
long time ago. They just fit this, and they've been running in my head
ever since I woke up:
"'All night long my heart has cried
For the starry moors
And the mountain's ragged flank
And the plunge of oars.
'Oh, to feel the Wind grow strong
Where the Trail leaps down.
I could never learn the way
And wisdom of the town.
'Where the hill heads split the Tide
Of green and living air
I would press Adventure hard
To her deepest lair.'
"The last verse is the best of all," he said thoughtfully. "It has
been my litany ever since I first read it:
"'I would let the world's rebuke
Like a wind go by,
With my naked soul laid bare
To the naked Sky.'
"And here you are," he murmured, "hotfooting it back to where the
world's rebuke is always in evidence, always ready to sting you like a
hot iron if you should chance to transgress one of its petty-larceny
dictums. Well, you'll soon be there. Can you see a glint of blue away
down there? No? Take the glasses."
She adjusted the binoculars and peered westward from the great height
where the camp sat. Distantly, and far below, the green of the forest
broke down to a hazy line of steel-blue that ran in turn to a huge fog
bank, snow-white in the rising sun.
"Yes, I can see it now," she said. "A lake?"
"No. Salt water--a long arm of the Pacific," he replied. "That's
where you and I part company--to your very great relief, I dare say.
But look off in the other direction. Lord, you can see two hundred
miles! If it weren't for the Babine Range sticking up you could look
clear to where my cabin stands. What an outlook! Tens of thousands of
square miles of timber and lakes and rivers! Sunny little valleys;
fish and game everywhere; soil that will grow anything. And scarcely a
soul in it all, barring here and there a fur post or a stray
prospector. Yet human beings by the million herd in filthy tenements,
and never see a blade of green grass the year around.
"I told you, I think, about prospecting on the head of the Naas last
spring. I fell in with another fellow up there, and we worked
together, and early in the season made a nice little clean-up on a
gravel bar. I have another place spotted, by the way, that would work
out a fortune if a fellow wanted to spend a couple of thousand putting
in some simple machinery. However, when the June rise drove us off our
bar, I pulled clear out of the country. Just took a notion to see the
bright lights again. And I didn't stop short of New York. Do you
know, I lasted there just one week by the calendar. It seems funny,
when you think of it, that a man with three thousand dollars to spend
should get lonesome in a place like New York. But I did. And at the
end of a week I flew. The sole memento of that trip was a couple of
Russell prints--and a very bad taste in my mouth. I had all that money
burning my pockets--and, all told, I didn't spend five hundred. Fancy
a man jumping over four thousand miles to have a good time, and then
running away from it. It was very foolish of me, I think now. If I
had stuck and got acquainted with somebody, and taken in all the good
music, the theaters, and the giddy cafés I wouldn't have got home and
blundered into Cariboo Meadows at the psychological moment to make a
different kind of fool of myself. Well, the longer we live the more we
learn. Day after to-morrow you'll be in Bella Coola. The cannery
steamships carry passengers on a fairly regular schedule to Vancouver.
How does that suit you?"
"Very well," she answered shortly.
"And you haven't the least twinge of regret at leaving all this?" He
waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep.
"I don't happen to have your peculiar point of view," she returned.
"The circumstances connected with my coming into this country and with
my staying here are such as to make me anxious to get away."
"Same old story," Bill muttered under his breath.
"What is it?" she asked sharply.
"Oh, nothing," he said carelessly, and went on with his breakfast
preparations.
They finished the meal. Bill got his horses up beside the fire,
loading on the packs. Hazel sat on the trunk of a winter-broken fir,
waiting his readiness to start. She heard no sound behind her. But
she did see Roaring Bill stiffen and his face blanch under its tan.
Twenty feet away his rifle leaned against a tree; his belt and
six-shooter hung on a limb above it. He was tucking a keen-edged
hatchet under the pack lashing. And, swinging this up, he jumped--it
seemed--straight at her. But his eyes were fixed on something beyond.
Before she could move, or even turn to look, so sudden was his
movement, Bill was beside her. The sound of a crunching blow reached
her ears. In the same instant a heavy body collided with her, knocking
her flat. A great weight, a weight which exhaled a rank animal odor,
rolled over her. Her clutching hands briefly encountered some hairy
object. Then she was slammed against the fallen tree with a force that
momentarily stunned her.
When she opened her eyes again Roaring Bill had her head in his lap,
peering anxiously down. She caught a glimpse of the unsteady hand that
held a cup of water, and she struggled to a sitting posture with a
shudder. Bill's shirt was ripped from the neckband to the wrist,
baring his sinewy arm. And hand, arm, and shoulder were spattered with
fresh blood. His face was spotted where he had smeared it with his
bloody hand. Close by, so close that she could almost reach it, lay
the grayish-black carcass of a bear, Bill's hatchet buried in the
skull, as a woodsman leaves his ax blade stuck in a log.
"Feel all right?" Bill asked. His voice was husky.
"Yes, yes," she assured him. "Except for a sort of sickening feeling.
Are you hurt?"
He shook his head.
"I thought you were broken in two," he muttered.. "We both fell right
on top of you. Ugh!"
He sat down on the tree and rested his head on his bloodstained hands,
and Hazel saw that he was quivering from head to foot. She got up and
went over to him.
"Are you sure you aren't hurt?" she asked again.
He looked up at her; big sweat drops were gathering on his face.
"Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared. You looked as if you
were dead, lying there so white and still."
[Illustration: "Hurt? No," he murmured; "I'm just plain scared."]
He reached out one long arm and drew her up close to him.
"Little person," he whispered, "if you just cared one little bit as
much as I do, it would be all right. Look at me. Just the thought of
what might have happened to you has set every nerve in my body jumping.
I'm Samson shorn. Why can't you care? I'd be gooder than gold to
_you_."
She drew herself away from him without answering--not in fear, but
because her code of ethics, the repressive conventions of her whole
existence urged her to do so in the face of a sudden yearning to draw
his bloody face up close to her and kiss it. The very thought, the
swift surge of the impulse frightened her, shocked her. She could not
understand it, and so she took refuge behind the woman instinct to hold
back, that strange feminine paradox which will deny and shrink from the
dominant impulses of life. And Roaring Bill made no effort to hold
her. He let her go, and fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his
glistening face. And presently he went over to where a little stream
bubbled among the tree roots and washed his hands and face. Then he
got a clean shirt out of his war bag and disappeared into the brush to
change. When he came out he was himself again, if a bit sober in
expression.
He finished his packing without further words. Not till the pack
horses were ready, and Silk saddled for her, did he speak again. Then
he cast a glance at the dead bear.
"By Jove!" he remarked. "I'm about to forget my tomahawk."
He poked tentatively at the furry carcass with his toe. Hazel came up
and took a curious survey of fallen Bruin. Bill laid hold of the
hatchet and wrenched it loose.
"I've hunted more or less all my life," he observed, "and I've seen
bear under many different conditions. But this is the first time I
ever saw a bear tackle anybody without cause or warning. I guess this
beggar was strictly on the warpath, looking for trouble on general
principles."
"Was he after me?" Hazel asked.
"Well, I don't know whether he had a grudge against you," Bill smiled.
"But he was sure coming with his mouth open and his arms spread wide.
You notice I didn't take time to go after my rifle, and I'm not a
foolhardy person as a rule. I don't tackle a grizzly with a hatchet
unless I'm cornered, believe me. It was lucky he wasn't overly big.
At that, I can feel my hair stand up when I think how he would have
mussed us up if I'd missed that first swing at his head. You'll never
have a closer call. And the same thing might not happen again if you
lived in a bear country for thirty years.
"It's a pity to let that good skin rot here," Bill concluded slowly;
"but I guess I will. I don't want his pelt. It would always be a
reminder of things--things I'd just as soon forget."
He tucked the hatchet in its place on the pack. Hazel swung up on
Silk. They tipped over the crest of the mountain, and began the long
descent.
The evening of the third day from there Bill traveled till dusk. When
camp was made and the fire started, he called Hazel to one side, up on
a little rocky knoll, and pointed out a half dozen pin points of yellow
glimmering distantly in the dark.
"That's Bella Coola," he told her. "And unless they've made a radical
change in their sailing schedules there should be a boat clear
to-morrow at noon."