AN ENDING AND A BEGINNING
Unconsciously, by natural assimilation, so to speak, Hazel Weir had
absorbed more woodcraft than she realized in her over-winter stay in
the high latitudes. Bill Wagstaff had once told her that few people
know just what they can do until they are compelled to try, and upon
this, her second journey northward, the truth of that statement grew
more patent with each passing day. Little by little the vast central
interior of British Columbia unfolded its orderly plan of watercourses,
mountain ranges, and valleys. She passed camping places, well
remembered of that first protesting journey. And at night she could
close her eyes beside the camp fires and visualize the prodigious
setting of it all--eastward the pyramided Rockies, westward lesser
ranges, the Telegraph, the Babine; and through the plateau between the
turbulent Frazer, bearing eastward from the Rockies and turning
abruptly for its long flow south, with its sinuous doublings and
turnings that were marked in bold lines on Bill Wagstaff's map.
So trailing north with old Limping George, his fat _klootch_, and two
half-grown Siwash youths, Hazel bore steadily across country, driving
as straight as the rolling land allowed for the cabin that snuggled in
a woodsy basin close up to the peaks that guard Pine River Pass.
There came a day when brief uncertainty became sure knowledge at sight
of an L-shaped body of water glimmering through the fire-thinned
spruce. Her heart fluttered for a minute. Like a homing bird, by
grace of the rude map and Limping George, she had come to the lake
where the Indians had camped in the winter, and she could have gone
blindfolded from the lake to Roaring Bill's cabin.
On the lake shore, where the spruce ran out to birch and cottonwood,
she called a halt.
"Make camp," she instructed. "Cabin over there," she waved her hand.
"I go. Byemby come back."
Then she urged her pony through the light timber growth and across the
little meadows where the rank grass and strange varicolored flowers
were springing up under the urge of the warm spring sun. Twenty
minutes brought her to the clearing. The grass sprang lush there, and
the air was pleasant with odors of pine and balsam wafted down from the
mountain height behind. But the breath of the woods was now a matter
of small moment, for Silk and Satin and Nigger loafing at the sunny end
of the stable pricked up their ears at her approach, and she knew that
Roaring Bill was home again. She tied her horse to a sapling and drew
nearer. The cabin door stood wide.
A brief panic seized her. She felt a sudden shrinking, a wild desire
for headlong flight. But it passed. She knew that for good or ill she
would never turn back. And so, with her heart thumping tremendously
and a tentative smile curving her lips, she ran lightly across to the
open door.
On the soft turf her footsteps gave forth no sound. She gained the
doorway as silently as a shadow. Roaring Bill faced the end of the
long room, but he did not see her, for he was slumped in the big chair
before the fireplace, his chin sunk on his breast, staring straight
ahead with absent eyes.
In all the days she had been with him she had never seen him look like
that. It had been his habit, his defense, to cover sadness with a
smile, to joke when he was hurt. That weary, hopeless expression, the
wry twist of his lips, wrung her heart and drew from her a yearning
little whisper:
"Bill!"
He came out of his chair like a panther. And when his eyes beheld her
in the doorway he stiffened in his tracks, staring, seeing, yet
reluctant to believe the evidence of his vision. His brows wrinkled.
He put up one hand and absently ran it over his cheek.
"I wonder if I've got to the point of seeing things," he said slowly.
"Say, little person, is it your astral body, or is it really you?"
"Of course it's me," she cried tremulously, and with fine disregard for
her habitual preciseness of speech.
He came up close to her and pinched her arm with a gentle pressure, as
if he had to feel the material substance of her before he could
believe. And then he put his hands on her shoulders, as he had done on
the steamer that day at Bella Coola, and looked long and earnestly at
her--looked till a crimson wave rose from her neck to the roots of her
dark, glossy hair. And with that Roaring Bill took her in his arms,
cuddled her up close to him, and kissed her, not once but many times.
"You really and truly came back, little person," he murmured. "Lord,
Lord--and yet they say the day of miracles is past."
"You didn't think I would, did you?" she asked, with her blushing face
snuggled against his sturdy breast. "Still, you gave me a map so that
I could find the place?"
"That was just taking a desperate chance. No, I never expected to see
you again, unless by accident," he said honestly. "And I've been
crying the hurt of it to the stars all the way back from the coast. I
only got here yesterday. I pretty near passed up coming back at all.
I didn't see how I could stay, with everything to remind me of you.
Say, but it looked like a lonesome hole. I used to love this
place--but I didn't love it last night. It seemed about the most
cheerless and depressing spot I could have picked. I think I should
have ended up by touching a match to the whole business and hitting the
trail to some new country. I don't know. I'm not weak. But I don't
think I could have stayed here long."
They stood silent in the doorway for a long interval, Bill holding her
close to him, and she blissfully contented, careless and unthinking of
the future, so filled was she with joy of the present.
"Do you love me much, little person?" Bill asked, after a little.
She nodded vigorous assent.
"Why?" he desired to know.
"Oh, just because--because you're a man, I suppose," she returned
mischievously.
"The world's chuck-full of men," Bill observed.
"Surely," she looked up at him. "But they're not like you. Maybe it's
bad policy to start in flattering you, but there aren't many men of
your type, Billy-boy; big and strong and capable, and at the same time
kind and patient and able to understand things, things a woman can't
always put into words. Last fall you hurt my pride and nearly scared
me to death by carrying me off in that lawless, headlong fashion of
yours. But you seemed to know just how I felt about it, and you played
fairer than any man I ever knew would have done under the same
circumstances. I didn't realize it until I got back into the civilized
world. And then all at once I found myself longing for you--and for
these old forests and the mountains and all. So I came back."
"Wise girl," he kissed her. "You'll never be sorry, I hope. It took
some nerve, too. It's a long trail from here to the outside. But this
North country--it gets in your blood--if your blood's red--and I don't
think there's any water in your veins, little person. Lord! I'm
afraid to let go of you for fear you'll vanish into nothing, like a
Hindu fakir stunt."
"No fear," Hazel laughed. "I've got a pony tied to a tree out there,
and four Siwashes and a camp outfit over by Crooked Lake. If I should
vanish I'd leave a plain trail for you to follow."
"Well," Bill said, after a short silence, "it's a hundred and forty
miles to a Hudson's Bay post where there's a mission and a preacher.
Let's be on our way and get married. Then we'll come back here and
spend our honeymoon. Eh?"
She nodded assent.
"Are you game to start in half an hour?" he asked, holding her off at
arm's length admiringly.
"I'm game for anything, or I wouldn't be here," she retorted.
"All right. You just watch an exhibition of speedy packing," Bill
declared--and straightway fell to work.
Hazel followed him about, helping to get the kyaks packed with food.
They caught the three horses, and Bill stripped the pony of Hazel's
riding gear and placed a pack on him. Then he put her saddle on Silk.
"He's your private mount henceforth," Bill told her laughingly.
"You'll ride him with more pleasure than you did the first time, won't
you?"
Presently they were ready to start, planning to ride past Limping
George's camp and tell him whither they were bound. Hazel was already
mounted. Roaring Bill paused, with his toe in the stirrup, and smiled
whimsically at her over his horse's back.
"I forgot something," said he, and went back into the cabin--whence he
shortly emerged, bearing in his hand a sheet of paper upon which
something was written in bold, angular characters. This he pinned on
the door. Hazel rode Silk close to see what it might be, and laughed
amusedly, for Bill had written:
"Mr. and Mrs. William Wagstaff will be at home to their friends on and
after June the twentieth."
He swung up into his saddle, and they jogged across the open. In the
edge of the first timber they pulled up and looked backward at the
cabin drowsing silently under its sentinel tree. Roaring Bill reached
out one arm and laid it across Hazel's shoulders.
"Little person," he said soberly, "here's the end of one trail, and the
beginning of another--the longest trail either of us has ever faced.
How does it look to you?"
She caught his fingers with a quick, hard pressure.
"All trails look alike to me," she said, with shining eyes, "just so we
hit them together."