I
When next Bob was able to visit the Upper Camp, he found Thorne fully
established. He rode in from the direction of Rock Creek, and so through
the pasture and by the back way. In the tiny potato and garden patch
behind the house he came upon a woman wielding a hoe.
Her back was toward him, and a pink sunbonnet, freshly starched,
concealed all her face. The long, straight lines of her gown fell about
a vigorous and supple figure that swayed with every stroke of the hoe.
Bob stopped and watched her. There was something refreshing in the
eagerness with which she attacked the weeds, as though it were less a
drudgery than a live interest which it was well to meet joyously. After
a moment she walked a few steps to another row of tiny beans. Her
movements had the perfect grace of muscular control; one melted, flowed,
into the other. Bob's eye of the athlete noted and appreciated this
fact. He wondered to which of the mountain clans this girl belonged.
Vigorous and breezy as were the maidens of the hills, able to care for
themselves, like the paladins of old, afoot or ahorse, they lacked this
grace of movement. He stepped forward.
"I beg pardon," said he.
The girl turned, resting the heel of her hoe on the earth, and both
hands on the end of its handle. Bob saw a dark, oval countenance, with
very red cheeks, very black eyes and hair, and an engaging flash of
teeth. The eyes looked at him as frankly as a boy's, and the flash of
teeth made him unaffectedly welcome.
"Is Mr. Thorne here?" asked Bob.
"Why, no," replied the girl; "but I'm Mr. Thorne's sister. Won't I do?"
She was leisurely laying aside her hoe, and drawing the fringed buckskin
gauntlets from her hands. Bob stepped gallantly forward to relieve her
of the implement.
"Do?" he echoed. "Why, of course you'll do!"
She stopped and looked him full in the face, with an air of great
amusement.
"Did you come to see Mr. Thorne on business?" she asked.
"No," replied Bob; "just ran over to see him."
She laughed quietly.
"Then I'm afraid I won't do," she said, "for I must cook dinner. You
see," she explained, "I'm Mr. Thorne's clerk, and if it were business, I
might attend to it."
Bob flushed to the ears. He was ordinarily a young man of sufficient
self-possession, but this young woman's directness was disconcerting.
She surveyed his embarrassment with approving eyes.
"You might finish those beans," said she, offering the hoe. "Of course,
you must stay to dinner, and I must go light the fire."
Bob finished the beans, leaned the hoe up against the house, and went
around to the front. There he stopped in astonishment.
"Well, you have changed things!" he cried.
The stuffy little shed kitchen was no longer occupied. A floor had been
laid between the bases of four huge trees, and walls enclosing three
sides to the height of about eight feet had been erected. The affair had
no roof. Inside these three walls were the stove, the kitchen table, the
shelves and utensils of cooking. Miss Thorne, her sunbonnet laid aside
from her glossy black braids, moved swiftly and easily here and there in
this charming stage-set of a kitchen. About ten feet in front of it, on
the pine needles, stood the dining table, set with white.
[Illustration: "I beg pardon," said he. The girl turned]
The girl nodded brightly to Bob.
"Finished?" she inquired. She pointed to the water pail: "There's a
useful task for willing hands."
Bob filled the pail, and set it brimming on the section of cedar log
which seemed to be its appointed resting place.
"Thank you," said the girl. Bob leaned against the tree and watched her
as she moved here and there about the varied business of cooking. Every
few minutes she would stop and look upward through the cool shadows of
the trees, like a bird drinking. At times she burst into snatches of
song, so brief as to be unrecognizable.
"Do you like sticks in your food?" she asked Bob, as though suddenly
remembering his presence, "and pine needles, and the husks of pine nuts,
and other débris? because that's what the breezes and trees and naughty
little squirrels are always raining down on me."
"Why don't you have the men stretch you a canvas?" asked Bob.
"Well," said the girl, stopping short, "I have considered it. I no more
than you like unexpected twigs in my dough. But you see I do like
shadows and sunlight and upper air and breezes in my food. And you can't
have one without the other. Did you get all the weeds out?"
"Yes," said Bob. "Look here; you ought not to have to do such work as
that."
"Do you think it will wear down my fragile strength?" she asked, looking
at him good-humouredly. "Is it too much exercise for me?"
"No--" hesitated Bob, "but--"
"Why, bless you, I like to help the babies to grow big and green," said
she. "One can't have the theatre or bridge up here; do leave us some of
the simple pleasures."
"Why did you want me to finish for you then?" demanded Bob shrewdly.
She laughed.
"Young man," said she, "I could give you at least ten reasons," with
which enigmatic remark she whipped her apron around her hand and whisked
open the oven door, where were displayed rows of beautifully browned
biscuits.
"Nevertheless----" began Bob.
"Nevertheless," she took him up, raising her face, slightly flushed by
the heat, "all the men-folks are busy, and this one woman-folk is not
harmed a bit by playing at being a farmer lassie."
"One of the rangers could do it all in a couple of hours."
"The rangers are in the employ of the United States Government, and this
garden is mine," she stated evenly. "How could I take a Government
employee to work on my property?"
"But surely Mr. Thorne--"
"Ashley, bless his dear old heart, takes beans for granted, as something
that happens on well-regulated tables."
She walked to the edge of the kitchen floor and looked up through the
trees. "He ought to be along soon now. I hope so; my biscuits are just
on the brown." She turned to Bob, her eyes dancing: "Now comes the
exciting moment of the day, the great gamble! Will he come alone, or
will he bring a half-dozen with him? I am always ready for the
half-dozen, and as a consequence we live in a grand, ingenious debauch
of warmed-ups and next-days. You don't know what good practice it is;
nor what fun! I've often thought I could teach those cooks of Marc
Antony's something--you remember, don't you, they used to keep six
dinners going all at different stages of preparation because they never
knew at what hour His High-and-mightiness might choose to dine. Or
perhaps you don't know? Football men don't have to study, do they?"
"What makes you think I'm a football man?" grinned Bob; "generally
bovine expression?"
"Not know the great Bob Orde!" cried the girl. "Why, not one of us but
had your picture, generally in a nice gilt shrine, but _always_ with
violets before it."
But on this ground Bob was sure.
"You have been reading a ten-cent magazine," he admonished her gravely.
"It is unwise to take your knowledge of the customs in girls' colleges
from such sources."
From the depths of the forest eddied a cloud of dust. Miss Thorne
appraised it carefully.
"Warmed-overs to-night," she pronounced. "There's no more than two of
them."
The accuracy of her guess was almost immediately verified by the
appearance of two riders. A moment later Thorne and California John
dismounted at the hitching rail, some distance removed among the
azaleas, and came up afoot. The younger man had dropped all his dry,
official precision, his incisive abruptness, his reticence. Clad in the
high, laced cruisers, the khaki and gray flannel, the broad, felt hat
and gay neckerchief of what might be called the professional class of
out-of-door man, his face glowing with health and enthusiasm, he seemed
a different individual.
"Hullo! Hullo!" he cried out a joyous greeting as he drew nearer; "I
couldn't bring you much company to-day, Amy. But I see you've found
some. How are you, Orde? I'm glad to see you."
He and California John disappeared behind the shed, where the wash basin
was; while Amy, with deftness, rearranged the table to accord with the
numbers who would sit down to it.
The meal in the open was most delightful; especially to Bob, after his
long course of lumber-camp provender. The deep shadows shifted slowly
across the forest floor. Sparkles of sunlight from unexpected quarters
touched gently in turn each of the diners, or glittered back from glass
or linen. Occasionally a wandering breeze lifted a corner of the
tablecloth and let it fall, or scurried erratically across the table
itself. Occasionally, too, a pine needle, a twig, a leaf would zigzag
down through the air to fall in some one's coffee or glass or plate.
Birds flashed across the open vault of this forest room--brilliant
birds, like the Louisiana Tanager; sober little birds like the creepers
and nuthatches. Circumspect and reserved whitecrowns and brush tohees
scratched and hopped silently over the forest litter. Once a swift
falcon, glancing like a shadowy death, slanted across the upper spaces.
The food was excellent, and daintily served.
"I am proud of my blue and white enamel-ware," Miss Thorne told Bob;
"it's so much better than tin or this ugly gray. And that glass pitcher
I got with coupons from the coffee packages."
"You didn't get these with coupons?" said Bob, lifting one of the
massive silver forks.
"No," she admitted. "That is my one foolishness. All the rest does not
matter, but I can't get along without my silver."
"And a great nuisance it is to those who have to move as we move," put
in Ashley Thorne.
The forest officers took up their broken conversation. Bob found himself
a silent but willing listener. He heard discussion of policies, business
dealings, plans that widened the horizon of what the Forest had meant to
him. In these discussions the girl took an active and intelligent part.
Her opinion seemed to be accepted seriously by both the men, as one who
had knowledge, and indeed, her grasp of details seemed as comprehensive
as that of the men themselves.
Finally Thorne pushed his chair back and began to fill his pipe.
"Anybody here to-day?" he asked.
The girl ran over rapidly a half-dozen names, sketching briefly the
business they had brought. Then, one after the other, she told the
answers she had made to them. This one had been given blanks, forms and
instructions. That one had been told clearly that he was in the wrong,
and must amend his ways. The other had been advised but tentatively, and
informed that he must see the Supervisor personally. To each of these
Thorne responded by a brief nod, puffing, meanwhile, on his pipe.
"All right?" she asked, when she had finished.
"All right but one," said he, removing his pipe at last. "I don't think
it will be advisable to let Francotti have what he wants."
"Pull the string, then!" cried the girl gaily.
Thorne turned to California John in discussion of the Francotti affair.
"What do you mean by 'pull the string'?" Bob took the occasion to
inquire.
"I settle a lot of these little matters that aren't worth bothering
Ashley with," she explained, "but I tie a string to each of my
decisions. I always make them 'subject to the Supervisor's approval.'
Then if I do wrong, all I have to do is to write the man and tell him
the Supervisor does not approve."
"I shouldn't think you'd like that," said Bob.
"Like what?"
"Why, it sort of puts you in a hole, doesn't it? Lays all the blame on
you."
She laughed in frank amusement.
"What of it?" she challenged.
"Any letters?" Thorne asked abruptly. "Morton brought mail this morning,
didn't he?"
"Nothing wildly important--except that they're thinking of adopting a
ranger uniform."
"A uniform!" snorted California John, rearing his old head.
"Oh, yes, I've heard of that," put in Thorne instantly. "It's to be a
white pith helmet with a green silk scarf on it; red coat with gold
lace, and white, English riding breeches with leather leggins. Don't you
think old John would look sweet in that?" he asked Bob.
But the old man refused to be drawn out.
"Supervisors same; but with a gold pompon on top the helmet," he
observed. "What _is_ the dang thing, anyway, Amy?" he asked.
"Dark green whipcord, green buttons, gray hat, military cut."
"Not bad," said Thorne.
"About one fifty-mile ride and one fire would make that outfit look like
a bunch of mildewed alfalfa. Blue jeans is about my sort of uniform,"
observed John.
"I don't believe we'd be supposed to wear it on range," suggested
Thorne. "Only in town and official business." He turned to the girl
again: "May have to go over Baldy to-morrow," said he, "so we'll run off
those letters."
She arose and saluted, military fashion. The two disappeared in the tiny
box-office, whence presently came the sound of Thorne's voice in
dictation.
California John knocked the ashes from his pipe.
"Get your apron on, sonny," said he.
He tested the water on the stove and slammed out a commodious dish-pan.
"Glasses first; then silver; and if you break anything, I'll bash in
your fool head. There's going to be some style to this dishwashing. I
used to slide 'em all in together and let her go. But that ain't the way
here. She knows four aces and the jolly joker better than that. Glasses
first."
They washed and wiped the dishes, and laid them carefully away.
"She's a little wonder," said California John, nodding at the office,
"and there ain't none of the boys but helps all they can."
Thorne called the old man by name, and he disappeared into the office. A
moment later the girl emerged, smoothing back her hair with both hands.
She stepped immediately to the little kitchen.
"Thank you," said she. "That helps."
"It was old John," disclaimed Bob. "I'm ashamed to say I should never
have thought of it."
The girl nodded carelessly.
"Where did you learn stenography?" asked Bob.
"Oh, I got that out of a ten-cent magazine too." She sat on a bench,
looked up at the sky through the trees, and drew a deep breath.
"You're tired," said Bob.
"Not a bit," she denied. "But I don't often get a chance to just look
up."
"You seem to do the gardening, the cooking, the housework, the clerical
work--you don't do the laundry, too, do you?" demanded Bob ironically.
"You noticed those miserable khakis!" cried Amy with a gesture of
dismay. "Ashley," she called, "change those khakis before you go out,"
"Yes, mama," came back a mock childish voice.
"What's your salary?" demanded Bob bluntly, nodding toward the office.
"What?" she asked, as though puzzled.
"Didn't you say you were the clerk?"
"Oh, I see. I just help Ashley out. He could _never_ get through the
field work and the office work both."
"Doesn't the Service allow him a clerk?"
"Not yet; but it will in time."
"What is Mr. Thorne's salary?"
"Well, really----"
"Oh, I beg pardon," cried Bob flushing; "I just meant supervisors'
salaries, of course. I wasn't prying, really. It's all a matter of
public record, isn't it?"
"Of course." The girl checked herself. "Well, it's eighteen hundred--and
something for expenses."
"Eighteen hundred!" cried Bob. "Do you mean to say that the _two_ of you
give all your time for that! Why, we pay a good woods foreman pretty
near that!"
"And that's all you do pay him," said the girl quietly. "Money wage
isn't the whole pay for any job that is worth doing."
"Don't understand," said Bob briefly.
"We belong to the Service," she stated with a little movement of pride.
"Those tasks in life which give a high moneyed wage, generally give only
that. Part of our compensation is that we belong to the Service; we are
doing something for the whole people, not just for ourselves." She
caught Bob's half-smile, more at her earnestness than at her sentiment,
and took fire. "You needn't laugh!" she cried. "It's small now, but
that's because it's the beginning, because we have the privilege of
being the forerunners, the pioneers! The time will come when in this
country there will be three great Services--the Army, the Navy, the
Forest; and an officer in the one will be as much respected and looked
up to as the others! Perhaps more! In the long times of peace, while
they are occupied with their eternal Preparation, we shall be labouring
at Accomplishment."
She broke off abruptly.
"If you don't want to get me started, don't be superior," she ended,
half apologetic, half resentful.
"But I do want to get you started," said Bob.
"It's amusing, I don't doubt."
"Not quite that: it's interesting, and I am no longer bewildered at the
eighteen hundred a year--that is," he quoted a popular song, "'if there
are any more at home like you.'"
She looked at him humorously despairing.
"That's just like an outsider. There are plenty who feel as I do, but
they don't say so. Look at old California John, at Ross Fletcher, at a
half-dozen others under your very nose. Have you ever stopped to think
why they have so long been loyal? I don't suppose you have, for I doubt
if they have. But you mark my words!"
"All right, Field Marshal--or is it 'General'?" said Bob.
She laughed.
"Just camp cook," she replied good-humouredly.
The sun was slanting low through the tall, straight trunks of the trees.
Amy Thorne arose, gathered a handful of kindling, and began to rattle
the stove.
"I am contemplating a real pudding," she said over her shoulder.
Bob arose reluctantly.
"I must be getting on," said he.
They said farewell. At the hitching rail Thorne joined him.
"I'm afraid I'm not very hospitable," said the Supervisor, "but that
mustn't discourage you from coming often. We'll be better organized in
time."
"It's mighty pleasant over here; I've enjoyed myself," said Bob,
mounting.
Thorne laid his hand on the young man's knee.
"I wish we could induce you old-timers to come to our way of thinking,"
said he pleasantly.
"How's that?" asked Bob.
"Your slash is in horrible shape."
"Our slash!" repeated Bob in a surprised tone. "How?"
"It's a regular fire-trap, the way you leave it tangled up. It wouldn't
cost you much to pile the tops and leave the ground in good shape."
"Why, it's just like any other slash!" protested Bob. "We're logging
just as everybody always logs!"
"That's just what I object to. And when you fell a tree or pull a log to
the skids, I do wish we could induce you to pay a little attention to
the young growth. It's a little more trouble, sometimes, to go around
instead of through, but it's worth it to the forest."
Bob's brows were bent on the Supervisor in puzzled surprise. Thorne
laughed, and slapped the young man's horse on the flanks to start him.
"You think it over!" he called.
A half-hour's ride took Bob to the clearing where the logging crews had
worked the year before. Here, although the hour was now late, he reined
in his horse and looked. It was the first time he had ever really done
so. Heretofore a slashing had been as much a part of the ordinary
woodland landscape as the forest itself.
He saw then the abattis of splintered old trunks, of lopped limbs, and
entangled branches, piled up like jackstraws to the height of even six
or eight feet from the ground; the unsightly mat of sodden old masses of
pine needles and cedar fans; the hundreds of young saplings bent double
by the weight of débris, broken square off, or twisted out of all chance
of becoming straight trees in their age; the long, deep, ruthless
furrows where the logs had been dragged through everything that could
stand in their way; the few trees left standing, weak specimens,
undesirable species, the culls of the forest, further scarred where the
cruel steel cables had rasped or bitten them. He knew by experience the
difficulty of making a way, even afoot, through this tangle. Now, under
the influence of Thorne's suggestion, he saw them as great piles of so
much fuel, laid as though by purpose for the time when the evil genius
of the forest should desire to warm himself.