to look at him keenly. The bowl of his pipe had dropped and his gaze
was fixed upon the fire. It was a new--and distinct impression that he
made upon her now--a not altogether pleasant one. Until a moment ago,
he had been merely a man in the woods--a kindly person of intelligence
with a talent for the building of balsam beds; in the last few minutes
he had developed an outline, a quite too visible personality, and
instinctively she withdrew from the contact.
“I think I can sleep now,” she said.
He understood. His place was at the fireside and he took it without
reluctance, aware of a sense of self-reproach. It had been her
privilege to be a fool--but not his. He threw a careless glance at her
over his shoulder.
“If you’re still timid, I’ll sit up and watch.”
“No, you mustn’t do that.” But by this time he had taken another coal
for his pipe and sitting, Indian-fashion, was calmly puffing.
“I’m going to, anyway,” he said. “Don’t bother about me, please.”
Without reply she stretched herself on the couch and disposed herself
again to sleep. This time she buried her head in her arms and lay
immovable. He knew that she was not asleep and that she was still
listening for the menace of the silences; but he knew, too, that if
suffer she must, he could not help her. A moment ago he had been on
the point of taking her in his arms and soothing her as he would have
done a child. They had been very close in spirit at that moment, drawn
together like two vessels alone in a calm waste of water. It was the
appeal of her helplessness to his strength, his strength to her
helplessness, of course, and yet----
For a long while Gallatin watched the flames as they rose and fell and
the column of smoke that drifted upward on the still night air and lost
itself among the leaves overhead. The voices he heard no more. The
fire crackled, a vagrant breeze sighed, a bird called somewhere, but
he realized that he was listening for another sound. The girl had not
moved since he had last spoken, and now he heard the rhythmic breathing
which told him that at last she was asleep. He waited some moments
more, then softly arose, took up his coat, which he had thrown over a
log, and laid it gently over her shoulders. Then he crept back to his
fire.
IV
EDEN
Dawn stalked solemnly forth and the heavens were rosy with light.
Gallatin stirred uneasily, then raised his head stiffly, peered around
and with difficulty got himself into a sitting posture. Fire still
glowed in the chinks of the largest log, but the air was chill. He took
out his watch and looked at it, winding it carefully. He had slept five
hours, without moving.
He was now accustomed to the convention of awaking early, with all his
faculties keenly alive; and he rose to his feet, rubbing the stiffness
out of his limbs and back, smiling joyously up at the gracious day. In
the shelter, her back toward the fire, her head hidden in her arms, the
girl still slept soundly. Cautiously Gallatin replenished the fire,
piling on the last of his wood. Save for a little stiffness in his
back, there were, it seemed, no penalties to be imposed for his night
in the open.
A shaft of sunlight shot across the topmost branches of the trees,
and instantly, as though at a signal, the woods were alive with
sound. There was a mad scampering in the pine boughs above him, and a
squirrel leapt into the air, scurried through the branches of a maple
and disappeared; two tiny wrens engaged in a noisy discussion about
the family breakfast, a blue-jay screamed and a woodpecker tattoed
the call to the business of the day. This, Gallatin knew, was meant
for him. There was much to be done, but he fell to with a will, his
muscles eager for the task, his mind cleared of the fogs of doubt
and speculation which had dimmed it the night before. There were
no problems he could not solve alone, no difficulties his ingenuity
could not surmount. The old blood of his race, which years before had
conquered this same wilderness, or another one like it, surged new in
his veins and he rejoiced in the chance to test his strength against
the unhandselled matter which opposed him. The forest smiled upon him,
already gracious in defeat.
He returned to camp after a turn through the woods, and in one hand
was a clean sliver of birch-bark, filled with blueberries. He put them
safely in a hollow place in the fallen tree, filled the saucepan with
water and placed it in the fire to boil. Then he cleaned fish.
He worked noiselessly, bringing more firewood, plenty of which was
still close at hand; and after a glance at the sleeping girl, he
unsheathed his knife and went again into the brush. There, after a
search, he found what he was looking for--a straight young oak tree,
about two inches in diameter. He succeeded at last, with much pains and
care for his knife, in cutting it through and trimming off the small
branches. At the upper end of this club was a V-shaped crotch, made by
two strong forking branches, which he cut and whittled until they were
to his liking. Returning to the fire, he emptied his fly-hook, took his
rod and unreeled a good length of line, which he cut off and placed on
the log beside him. Then with the line, he bound the fly-hook, stuffed
with caribou moss, into the fork of his stick, wrapping the strong
cord carefully until he had made a serviceable crutch. He was hobbling
around near the fire on it, testing its utility when he heard a gasp of
amazement. He had been so engrossed in his task that he had not thought
of the object of these attentions, and when he glanced toward the
shelter, she was sitting upright, regarding him curiously.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He laughed gayly.
“Good morning! Hobbling, I believe. Don’t I do it nicely?”
“You--you’ve hurt yourself?”
He took the crutch from under his arm and looked at it admiringly.
“Oh, no--but _you_ have.”
“I! Oh, yes. I forgot. I don’t think I’ll need it at all. I--” She
started up and tried to put her foot down and then sank back in dismay.
“It seems to still hurt me a little,” she said quietly.
“Of course it does. You don’t get over that sort of thing in a minute.
It will be better when the blood gets into it. Meanwhile,” he handed
her the stick, “you must use this. Breakfast will be ready in a minute,
so if you feel like making a toilet----”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she glanced around her at the patines of gold the
sun had laid over the floor of their breakfast-room and asked the time.
“Half past seven.”
“Then I’ve slept----”
“Nearly nine hours.”
He started forward to help her to her feet and as he did so, she saw
his coat, which had fallen from her shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have given me your coat. You must have frozen.”
“On the contrary, I was quite comfortable. The night was balmy--besides,
I was nearer the fire.”
“I’m very much obliged,” she said. After one or two clumsy efforts she
managed to master her crutch and, refusing his aid, made her way to the
stream without difficulty.
Gallatin spitted the fish on the charred sticks of yesterday and held
them up to the fire, his appetite pleasantly assertive at the first
delicious odor. When the girl joined him a while later, all was ready,
the last of the tea darkening the simmering pot, the cooked fish lying
in a row on a flat stone in the fire.
As she hobbled up he rose and offered her a place on the log beside him.
“I hope you’re hungry. I am. Our menu is small but most
select--blueberries Ojibway, trout _sauté_, and Bohea _en casserole_.
The biscuits, I’m ashamed to say, are no more.”
She reflected his manner admirably. “Splendid! I fairly dote on
blueberries. Where did you get them? You’re really a very wonderful
person. For luncheon, of course, cress and dandelion salad, fish and a
venison pasty. For dinner----”
“Don’t be too sure,” he laughed. “Let’s eat what we’ve got and be
thankful.”
“I am thankful,” she said, picking at the blueberries. “I might have
been still lying over there in the leaves.” She turned her face
confidingly to his. “Do you know, I thought you were a bear.”
“Did you?”
“Until you pointed a pistol at me--and then I thought you were an
Indian.”
“I’m very sorry. I didn’t know _what_ you were--I don’t think I quite
know yet.”
She took the cup of tea from his fingers before she replied.
“I? Oh, I’m just--just a girl. It doesn’t matter much who or what.”
“I didn’t mean to be inquisitive,” he said quickly.
“But you were--” she insisted.
“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid I was.”
“Names don’t matter--here, do they? The woods are impersonal. Can’t you
and I be impersonal, too?”
“I suppose so, but my curiosity is rather natural--under the
circumstances.”
“I don’t intend to gratify it.”
“Why not? My name----”
“Because--I prefer not,” she said firmly. And then: “These fish are
delicious. Some more tea, please!”
He looked at her while she drank and then took the cup from her hand
without replying. Her chin he discovered could fall very quickly into
lines of determination. Her attitude amused him. She was, it seemed, a
person in the habit of having things her own way and it even flattered
him that she had discerned that he must acquiesce.
“You shall have your own way,” he laughed amusedly, “but if I call you
‘Hey, there,’ don’t be surprised.”
“I won’t,” she smiled.
When they had finished the last of the tea he got up, washed the two
dishes at the stream, and relit the ashes of last night’s pipe.
“The Committee of Ways and Means will now go into executive session,”
he began. “I haven’t the least idea where we are. I may have traveled
ten miles yesterday or twenty. I’ve lost my bearings, that’s sure, and
so have you. There are two things to do--one of them is to find our way
out by ourselves and the other is to let somebody find it for us. The
first plan isn’t feasible until you are able to walk----”
“I could manage with my crutch.”
“No, I’m afraid that won’t do. There’s no use starting off until we
know where we’re going.”
“But you said you thought you could----”
“I still think so,” he put in quickly, noting the sudden anxious query
in her eyes. “I’ll find my back-trail, but it may take time. Meanwhile
you’ve got to eat, and keep dry.”
“It isn’t going to rain.”
“Not now, but it may any time. I’ll get you comfortable here and then
I’ll take to the woods----”
“And leave me alone?”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to. We have four fish remaining--little ones.
Judging by my appetite they’re not quite enough for lunch--and we must
have more for supper.”
“I’ll catch them.”
“No, you must rest to-day. I have my automatic, too,” he went on. “I’m
not a bad shot. Perhaps, I may bring some meat.”
“But I can’t stay here and--do nothing.”
“You can help fix the shack. I’ll get the birch now.”
He was moving off into the brush when she called him back.
“I hope you didn’t think me discourteous awhile ago. I really didn’t
mean to be. You--you’ve been very good. I don’t think I realized that
we might have to be here long. You understand--under the circumstances,
I thought I’d rather not--have you know anything about me. It doesn’t
matter, really, I suppose.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” politely, and he went into the underbrush,
leaving her sitting at the fire. When he came back with his first
armful of canoe birches, she was still sitting there; but he went on
gathering birch and firewood, whistling cheerfully the while. She
watched him for a moment and then silently got up with the aid of her
crutch and reached for her rod and creel. She had hobbled past him
before he realized her intention.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” he protested.
“I must do my share----”
“You’d do it better by saving your foot.”
“I won’t hurt my foot. I can use it a little now.”
“If you slipped, things might go badly with you.”
“I won’t fall. I’m going down stream to get the fish for lunch.”
She adjusted her crutch and moved on. Her voice was even gay, but there
was no denying the quality of her resolution. He shrugged his shoulders
lightly and watched her until she had disappeared in the bushes, and
when he had finished his tasks, he took up rod and creel and followed
the stream in the opposite direction.
Of course, she had every right to keep her identity a secret, if she
chose, but it annoyed him a little to think that he had laid himself
open even to so slight a rebuff. Morning seemed to have made a
difference in the relations, a difference he was as yet at some pains
to define. Last night he had been merely a chance protector, upon whose
hospitality she had been forced against her will and he had done only
what common humanity demanded of him. The belief that her predicament
was only temporary, had for the time given her the assurance the
situation required; but with the morning, which had failed to bring
aid she had expected from her people, her obligations to him were
increasing with the hours. If, as he had indicated, it might be several
days or even more before she could find her way to camp, she must
indeed expect to find herself completely upon his mercies. Gallatin
smiled as he cast his line. With its other compensations daylight had
not brought him or his companion the pleasure of an introduction! Silly
little fool! Of what value were introductions in the heart of the
ancient wood--or elsewhere for that matter! No mere spoken words could
purge his heart--or any man’s! Vain conventions! The hoary earth was
mocking at them.
A swirl in the brown pool below him, a flash of light! Gallatin swore
softly. Two pounds and a half at least! And he had lost him!
This wouldn’t do. He was fishing for his dinner now--their dinner. He
couldn’t afford to make many more mistakes like that--not with another
mouth to fill. Why should he care who or what she was! The Gallatins
had never been of a curious disposition and he wondered that he should
care anything about the identity of this chance female thrown upon his
protection. She was not in any way unusual. He was quite sure that any
morning in New York he would have passed a hundred like her on the
street without a second glance. She had come with the falling evening,
wrapped in mystery and had shaken his rather somber philosophy out of
its bearings. Night had not diminished the illusion; and once, when
the spell of the woods had held them for a moment in its thrall, he
had been on the point of taking her in his arms. Did she know how near
she had been to that jeopardy? He fancied so. That was why things were
different to-day. It was the sanity of nine o’clock in the morning,
when there was no firelight to throw shadows among the trees and the
voyageurs no longer sang among the rapids. In an unguarded moment she
had shown him a shadowed corner of her spirit and was now resenting
it. A woman’s chief business in life, he realized, was the hiding
of her own frailties, the sources of impulse and the repression of
unusual emotions. She had violated these canons of her sex and justly
feared that he might misinterpret her. What could she know of him, what
expect--of a casual stranger into whose arms her helpless plight had
literally thrown her? He was forced to admit, at the last, that to a
modest woman the situation was trying.
He fished moodily, impatiently and unsuccessfully, losing another fish
in the pool above. Things were getting serious. His mind now intent, he
cast again farther up, dropping the fly skillfully just above a tiny
rapid. There he was rewarded; for a fish struck viciously, not so large
a one as the first, but large enough for one meal for his companion at
least. His spirits rose. He was at peace again with the world, in the
elysium of the true fisher who has landed the first fish of the day.
A moment ago he had thought her commonplace. He admitted now that he
had been mistaken. A moment ago he had been trying to localize her
by the token of some treacherous trick of speech or intonation and
had almost been ready to assign her to that limbo of all superior
indigenous New Yorkers--“the West”; now he was even willing to admit
that she was to all intents and purposes a cosmopolitan. The sanity of
nine o’clock in the morning had done away with all myth and moonshine,
but daylight had, it seemed, taken nothing from her elfin comeliness.
Her hair had at last decided to be brown, her eyes a dark blue, her
figure slim, her limbs well proportioned, her motions graceful.
Altogether she had detracted nothing from the purely ornamental
character of the landscape.
These few unimportant facts clearly established, Gallatin gave himself
up more carefully to the business in hand, and by the time he reached
the head of the gorge, had caught an even dozen. If fish were to serve
them for diet, they would not go hungry on this day at least. As he
went higher up into the hills he kept his eyes open for the landmarks
of yesterday. He remembered the two big rocks in the gorge, and it
surprised him that they were no nearer to his camp. The task of
finding his back trail to Joe Keegón would be more difficult than he
had supposed, and he knew now that the point where he had first fished
this stream was many miles above. But he saw no reason to be unduly
alarmed. He had served his apprenticeship; and with an axe and a frying
pan, a kettle, some flour, tea, and a tin cup or two, his position
would have had no terrors.
Beyond the gorge he had a shot at a deer and the echoes derided him,
for he missed it. He shot again at smaller things and had the luck
to bring down two squirrels; then realizing that his cartridges were
precious, made his way back to camp.
The girl was already at the fire, her crutch beside her against the
fallen log.
“I thought you were never coming.” She smiled. “I heard your shooting
and it frightened me.”
Gallatin held the squirrels out for her inspection.
“There!” he said.
“Poor little things, what a pity! They were all so happy up there this
morning.”
“I’m afraid it can’t be helped. We must eat, you know. Did you have any
luck?”
She opened her creel and showed him.
Again she had caught more than he.
He laughed delightedly. “From this moment you are appointed Fish-wife
Extraordinary. I fish no more. When my cartridges are used I’ll have
nothing to do but sit by the fire.”
“Did you find your trail?” she asked anxiously.
“I followed it for a mile or so. I’m afraid I’ll have to start early
to-morrow. I want to see you comfortable first.”
His manner was practical, but she did not fail to catch the note of
uncertainty in his voice. She bent her gaze on the ground, and spoke
slowly.
“You’re very kind to try to keep me in ignorance, but I think I
understand now. We will be here a long time.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t think that,” cheerfully. “If I were
more experienced, I would promise to find my own guide to-morrow. I’m
going to do the best I can. I won’t come back here until I have to
acknowledge myself beaten. Meanwhile, many things may happen. Your
people will surely----”
“We are lost, both of us--hopelessly,” she persisted. “The fish strike
here as though these streams had never been fished before. My people
will find me, if they can; if they can’t--I--I--must make the best of
my position.”
She spoke bravely, but there was a catch in her voice that he had heard
before.
“I’ll do the best I can. I want you to believe that. Three or four days
at the most and I’m sure I can promise you----”
“I’d rather you wouldn’t promise,” she said. “We’ll get out someway, of
course, and if it wasn’t for this provoking foot----”
“Isn’t it better?”
“Oh, yes--better. But, of course, I can’t bear my weight on it. It’s so
tiresome.”
She seemed on the point of tears, and while he was trying to think of
something to say to console her, she reached for her crutch and bravely
rose.
“I’m not going to cry. I abominate whining women. Give me something to
do, and I won’t trouble you with tears.”
“You’re plucky, that’s certain,” he said admiringly. “The lunch must
be cooked. We’ll save the squirrels for supper. I’m going to work on
your house. I’m afraid there’s no tea--no real tea, but we might try
arbor-vitæ. They say its palatable.”
She insisted on cleaning the fish and preparing the meal while he sat
beside her and began sewing two rolls of thick birch-bark together with
white spruce-roots. Between whiles she watched him with interest.
“I never heard of sewing a roof before,” she said with a smile.
“It’s either sewing the roof or reaping the whirlwind,” he laughed. “It
may not rain before we get out of here, but I think it’s best not to
take any chances. The woods are not friendly when they’re wet. Besides,
I’d rather not have any doctor’s bills.”
“That’s not likely here,” she laughed. “And the lunch is ready,” she
announced.
All that afternoon he worked upon her shelter and by sunset it was
weather-tight. On three sides and top it was covered with birches, and
over the opening toward the fire was a projecting eave which could
be lowered over one side as a protection from the wind. When he had
finished it he stood at one side and examined his handiwork with an
approving eye.
She had already thanked him many times.
“Of course, I don’t know how to show my gratitude,” she said again.
“Then don’t try.”
“But you can’t sleep out again.”
“Oh, yes, I can. I’m going to anyway.”
“You mustn’t.”
He glanced up at her quizzically.
“Why not?”
“I want to take my share.”
“I’m afraid you can’t. That house is yours. You’re going to sleep
there. I’m afraid you’ll have to obey orders,” he finished. “You see,
I’m bigger than you are.”
Her eyes measured his long limbs and her lips curved in a crooked
little smile.
“I don’t like to obey orders.”
“I’m afraid you must.”
“You haven’t any right to make yourself uncomfortable.”
“Oh, yes, I have,” he said. “Might is right--in the woods.”
Something in the way he spoke caused her to examine his face minutely,
but his eyes were laughing at her.
“Oh!” she said meekly.
V
WOMAN AND MAN
There were no voices in the woods that night, or if there were any the
girl in the lean-to did not hear them. The sun had already found its
way past the protecting flap of her shack before she awoke. The first
thing she discovered was that at some time during the night he had
put his coat over her again. She held it for a moment in her fingers
thinking, before she rose; then got up quickly and peered out. The
morning was chill, but the fire showed signs of recent attention and on
the saucepan which had been placed near the fire a piece of birch-bark
was lying. She picked it up curiously to read a hastily pencilled
scrawl:
“I’m off up country. I must go far, so don’t be frightened if I’m not
back for supper. Be careful with your foot--and keep the fire going.
There are fish and firewood enough to last. Nothing can harm you. With
luck I’ll bring my guide and duffel-bag.”
She glanced quickly over her shoulder into the depths of the pine-woods
in the direction he must have taken as though she hoped to see him
walking there; then, the birch-bark still in her hands, sat down on the
log, read the message over again, smiling. She had begun to understand
this tall young man, with the grim, unshaven face and somber, peering
eyes. Those eyes had frightened her at first; and even now the memory
of them haunted her until she recalled just what they did when he
smiled, and then remembered that she was not to be frightened any more.
He had been gone for several hours. She knew this by the condition of
the fire, but wondered why he had not spoken more definitely about his
plans the night before. Possibly he had been afraid that she would
not have slept. She _had_ slept, soundly, dreamlessly, and she found
herself wondering how she could have done so. The last thing she could
recall was looking out through sleepy eyes at his profile as he sat
motionless by the fire staring into the shadows. She knew then that
fear of him had passed and that had she slept under a city roof she
could not have been more contented to sleep securely.
He would be gone all day, of course, and she must depend upon her own
exertions. First she filled the little saucepan with water and put it
between the two flat stones that served for its hearth, and then took
from the creel two fish that he had cleaned the night before. Half way
to the fire she paused, her crutch in mid-air, balancing herself safely
without its aid. She peered to right and left among the branches and
then put the fish back into the creel in quick decision.