A PICNIC IN THE RED SAND VALLEY
Summer, at the foot of the Canadian Rockies, sets in suddenly. There
are no dreary days of damp and cold when the east wind bites through to
the bones and chills right down to the marrow. One moment all is black,
dead; the lean branches and dead grass of last year make a waste of
dreary decay. Watch. See the magic of the change. The black of the
trees gives way to a warming brown; the grass, so sad in its
depression, suddenly lightens with the palest hue of green. There is at
once a warmth of tone which spreads itself over the world, and gladdens
the heart and sets the pulses throbbing with renewed life and hope.
Animal life stirs; the insect world rouses. At the sun's first smile
the whole earth wakens; it yawns and stretches itself; it blinks and
rubs its eyes, and presently it smiles back. The smile broadens into a
laugh, and lo! it is summer, with all the world clad in festal raiment,
gorgeous in its myriads of changing color-harmonies.
It was on such a day in the smiling valley of the Red Sand River that
Betty Somers held her school picnic. There were no shadows to mar the
festivities she had arranged. The sky was brilliant, cloudless, and
early in the season as it was, the earth was already beginning to crack
and parch under the fiery sun.
A dozen democrat wagons, bedecked with flags and filled to overflowing
with smiling, rosy-faced children, each wagon under the charge of one
of the village matrons, set out at eight o'clock in the morning for the
camping-ground. Besides these, an hour later, a large number of private
buggies conveyed the parents and provender, while the young people of
the village rode out on horseback as a sort of escort to the
commissariat. It was a gay throng, and there could be little doubt but
that the older folk were as delighted at the prospect of the outing as
the children themselves.
Dave was there with the rest. Betty's challenge had had its effect. But
he came without any of the enthusiasm of the rest of the young people.
It was perfectly true that the demands of his mill made the outing
inconvenient to him, but that was not the real reason of his
reluctance. There was another, a far stronger one. All the years of his
manhood had taught him that there was small place for him where the
youth of both sexes foregathered. His body was too cumbersome, his
tongue was too slow, and his face was too plain. The dalliance of man
and maid was not for him, he knew, and did he ever doubt or forget it,
his looking-glass, like an evil spirit, was ever ready to remind and
convince him.
The picnic ground was some five miles down the valley, in the depths of
a wide, forest-grown glen, through which a tiny tributary of the Red
Sand River tumbled its way over a series of miniature waterfalls. The
place was large and magnificently rock-bound, and looked as though it
had originally been chiseled by Nature to accommodate a rushing
mountain torrent. It gave one the impression of a long disused waterway
which, profiting by its original purpose, had become so wonderfully
fertilized that its vegetation had grown out of all proportion to its
capacity. It was a veritable jungle of undergrowth and forest, so dense
and wide spreading as almost to shut out the dazzling sunlight. It was
an ideal pleasure camping-ground, where the children could romp and
play every game known to the Western child, and their elders could
revel in the old, old game which never palls, and which the practice of
centuries can never rob of its youth.
All the morning the children played, while the women were kept busy
with the preparations for the midday feast. The men were divided up
into two sections, the elders, taking office under the command of Tom
Chepstow, organizing the children's games, and the other half,
acknowledging the leadership of Mrs. Tom, assisting those engaged in
the culinary arrangements.
As might be expected, the latter occupation found most favor with the
younger men. There was far more fun in wandering through the tangled
undergrowth of the riverside to help a girl fill a kettle, than in
racking one's brains for some startlingly unoriginal and long-forgotten
game with which to dazzle the mind of Malkern's youth. Then there were
the joys of gathering fire-wood, a task which enlisted the services of
at least a dozen couples. This was a much favored occupation. There was
no time limit, and it involved a long, long ramble. Then, too, it was
remarkable that every girl performing the simplest duty, and one in
which she never required the least assistance when at home, found it
quite impossible to do so here without the strong physical and moral
support of the man she most favored.
Thus the morning passed. While the girls and men flirted, and the older
women took to themselves a reflected enjoyment of it all, the children
shrieked their delight at the simplest game, and baited their elders
with all the impudence of childhood. It was a morning of delight to
all; a morning when the sluggish blood of the oldest quickened in the
sunken veins; a morning when the joy of living was uppermost, and all
care was thrust into the background.
It was not until after dinner that Dave saw anything of Betty. As he
had anticipated, Jim Truscott never left her side, and his own morning
had been spent with Tom Chepstow and the children. Then, at dinner, it
had fallen to his lot to assist the matrons in waiting upon the same
riotous horde. In consequence, by the time he got his own meal, Betty
and the younger section of the helpers had finished theirs and were
wandering off into the woods.
After dinner he sought out a secluded spot in which to smoke and--make
the best of things. He felt he had earned a rest. His way took him
along the bank of the little tumbling river. It was delightfully
restful, cool and shadowed by the overhanging trees that nearly met
across it. It was not an easy path, but it was calmly beautiful and
remote, and that was all he sought.
Just above one rapid, something larger than the others he had passed,
he came to a little log footbridge. It was a delicious spot, and he sat
down and filled his pipe. The murmur of the rapids below came up to him
pleasantly. All the foliage about him was of that tender green inspired
by the humidity of the dank, river atmosphere. Here and there the sun
broke through in patches and lit up the scene, and added beauty to the
remoter shadows of the woods. It was all so peaceful. Even the distant
voices of the children seemed to add to the calm of his retreat.
His pipe was nearly finished, and an insidious languor was stealing
over him. He nodded once or twice, almost asleep. Then he started wide
awake; a familiar laughing voice sounded just behind him, calling him
by name.
"Oh, Dave! So this is where you are! I've been hunting for you
till--till my feet are sore."
Before he could move Betty had plumped herself down beside him on the
bridge. He was wide enough awake now, and his delight at the girl's
presence was so apparent that she promptly and frankly remarked upon it.
"I do believe you're glad I came, and--woke you up," she laughed.
The man leant back luxuriously and propped himself against the post of
the hand-rail.
"I am, surely," he said with conviction. "I've been thinking about
picnics. It seems to me they're a heap of fun----"
"So you stole away by yourself to enjoy this one."
Betty's brown eyes glanced slyly at him. There was a half smile in
them, and yet they were serious. Dave began to refill his pipe.
"Well, Betty, you see I just thought I'd like a smoke. I've been with
the kiddies all morning."
Suddenly the girl sat round facing him.
"Dave, I'm a little beast. I oughtn't to have made you come. I know you
don't care for this sort of thing, only--well, you are so kind, and you
are so fond of making people happy. And you--you---- Oh, Dave, I--I want
to tell you something. That's--that's why I was hunting for you."
She had turned from him, and was gazing out down the stream now. Her
face was flushed a deep scarlet. For an instant she had encountered his
steady gray eyes and her confusion had been complete. She felt as
though he had read right down into her very soul.
Dave put his pipe away. The serious expression of his rugged face was
unchanged, but the smile in his eyes had suddenly become more
pronounced.
"So that's why you hunted me out?" he said gently. "Well, Betty, you
can tell me."
He had seen the blushing face. He had noted the embarrassment and
hesitancy, and the final desperate plunge. He knew in his heart what
was coming, and the pain of that knowledge was so acute that he could
almost have cried out. Yet he sat there waiting, his eyes smiling, his
face calmly grave as it always was.
For nearly a minute neither spoke. Then the man's deep voice urged the
girl.
"Well?"
Betty rested her face in her hands and propped her elbows on her knees.
All her embarrassment had gone now. She was thinking, thinking, and
when at last her words came that tone of excitement which she had used
just a moment before had quite gone out of her voice.
"It's Jim," she said quietly. "He's asked me to marry him. I've
promised--and--and he's gone to speak to uncle."
Dave took out his pipe again and looked into the bowl of it.
"I guessed it was that," he said, after a while. Then he fumbled for
his tobacco. "And--are you happy--little Betty?" he asked a moment
later.
"Yes--I--I think so."
"You think so?"
Dave was astonished out of himself.
"You only think so?" he went on, his breath coming quickly.
Betty sat quite still and the man watched her, with his pipe and
tobacco gripped tightly in his great hand. He was struggling with a mad
desire to crush this girl to his heart and defy any one to take her
from him. It was a terrible moment. But the wild impulse died down. He
took a deep breath and--slowly filled his pipe.
"Tell me," he said, and his tone was very tender.
The girl turned to him. She rested an arm on his bent knee and looked
up into his face. There was no longer any hesitation or doubt. She was
pale under the warm tanning of her cheeks, but she was very pretty,
and, to Dave, wildly seductive as she thus appealed to him.
"Oh, Dave, I must tell you all. You are my only real friend. You, I
know, will understand, and can help me. If I went to uncle, good and
kind as he is, I feel he would not understand. And auntie, she is so
matter-of-fact and practical. But you--you are different from anybody
else."
The man nodded.
"I have loved Jim for so long," she went on hurriedly. "Long--long
before he ever even noticed me. To me he has always been everything a
man should and could be. You see, he is so kind and thoughtful, so
brave, so masterful, so--so handsome, with just that dash of
recklessness which makes him so fascinating to a girl. I have watched
him pay attention to other girls, and night after night I have cried
myself to sleep about it. Dave, you have never known what it is to love
anybody, so all this may seem silly to you, but I only want to show you
how much I have always cared for Jim. Well, after a long time he began
to take notice of me. I remember it so well," she went on, with a
far-away look in her eyes. "It was a year ago, at our Church Social. He
spent a lot of time with me there, and gave me a box of candy, and then
asked permission to see me home. Dave, from that moment I was in a
seventh heaven of happiness. Every day I have felt and hoped that he
would ask me to be his wife. I have longed for it, prayed for it,
dreaded it, and lived in a dream of happiness. And now he has asked me."
She turned away to the bustling stream. Her eyes had become
pathetically sad.
"And----" Dave prompted her.
"Oh, I don't know." She shook her head a little helplessly. "It all
seems different now."
"Different?"
"Yes, that wildly happy feeling has gone."
"You are--unhappy?"
The man's voice shook as he put his question.
"It isn't that. I'm happy enough, I suppose. Only--only--I think I'm
frightened now, or something. All my dreams seem to have tumbled about
my ears. I have no longer that wonderful looking forward. Is it because
he is mine now, and no one can take him from me? Or is it," her voice
dropped to an awed whisper, "that--I--don't----"
She broke off as though afraid to say all she feared. Dave lit his pipe
and smoked slowly and thoughtfully. He had gone through his ordeal
listening to her, and now felt that he could face anything without
giving his own secret away. He must reassure her. He must remove the
doubt in her mind, for, in his quiet, reasoning way, he told himself
that all her future happiness was at stake.
"No, it's not that, Betty," he said earnestly. "It's not that you love
him less. It's just that for all that year you've thought and thought
and hoped about it--till there's nothing more to it," he added lamely.
"You see, it's the same with all things. Realization is nothing. It's
all in the anticipation. You wait, little girl. When things are fixed,
and Parson Tom has said 'right,' you'll--why, you'll just be the
happiest little bit of a girl in Malkern. That's sure."
Betty lifted her eyes to his ugly face and looked straight into the
kindly eyes. Just for one impulsive moment she reached out and took
hold of his knotty hand and squeezed it.
"Dave, you are the dearest man in the world. You are the kindest and
best," she cried with unusual emotion. "I wonder----" and she turned
away to hide the tears that had suddenly welled up into her troubled
eyes.
But Dave had seen them, and he dared not trust himself to speak. He sat
desperately still and sucked at his pipe, emitting great clouds of
smoke till the pungent fumes bit his tongue.
Then relief came from an unexpected quarter. There was a sharp
crackling of bush just above where they sat and the scrunch of crushing
pine cones trodden under foot, and Jim Truscott stepped on to the
bridge.
"Ah, here you are at last. My word, but I had a job to find you."
His tone was light and easy, but his usually smiling face was clouded.
Betty sprang to her feet.
"What is it, Jim?" she demanded, searching his face. "Something is
wrong. I know it is."
Jim seated himself directly in front of Dave, who now watched him with
added interest. He now noticed several things in the boy he did not
remember having observed before. The face in repose, or rather without
the smile it usually wore, bore signs of weakness about the mouth. The
whole of the lower part of it lacked the imprint of keen decision.
There was something almost effeminate about the mould of his full lips,
something soft and yielding--even vicious. The rest of his face was
good, and even intellectual. He was particularly handsome, with crisp
curling hair of a light brown that closely matched his large expressive
eyes. His tall athletic figure was strangely at variance with the
intellectual cast of his face and head. But what Dave most noticed were
the distinct lines of dissipation about his eyes. And he wondered how
it was he had never seen them before. Perhaps it was that he so rarely
saw Jim without his cheery smile. Perhaps, now that Betty had told him
what had taken place, his observation was closer, keener.
"What is it, Jim?" He added his voice to Betty's inquiry. Jim's face
became gloomier. He turned to the girl, who had resumed her seat at
Dave's side.
"Have you told him?" he asked, and for a moment his eyes brightened
with a shadow of their old smile.
The girl nodded, and Dave answered for her.
"She's told me enough to know you're the luckiest fellow in the Red
Sand Valley," he said kindly.
Jim glanced up into the girl's face with all the passion of his
youthful heart shining in his handsome eyes.
"Yes, I am, Dave--in that way," he said. Then his smile faded out and
was replaced by a brooding frown. "But all the luck hasn't come my way.
I've talked to Parson Tom."
"Ah!" Dave's ejaculation was ominous.
Suddenly Jim exploded, half angrily, half pettishly, like a
disappointed schoolboy.
"Betty, I've got to go away. Your uncle says so. He asked me all about
my mill, what my profits were, and all that. I told him honestly. I
know I'm not doing too well. He said I wasn't making enough to keep a
nigger servant on. He told me that until I could show him an income of
$2,500 a year there was to be no talk of engagement. What is more, he
said he couldn't have me philandering about after you until there was a
reasonable prospect of that income. We talked and argued, but he was
firm. And in the end he advised me, if I were really in earnest and
serious, to go right away, take what capital I had, and select a new
and rising country to start in. He pointed out that there was not room
enough here for two in the lumbering business; that Dave, here,
complained of the state of trade, so what chance could I possibly have
without a tithe of his resources. Finally, he told me to go and think
out a plan, talk it over with you, and then tell him what I had decided
upon. So here I am, and----"
"So am I," added Betty.
"And as I am here as well," put in Dave, "let's talk it over now. Where
are you thinking of going?"
"Seems to me the Yukon is the place. There's a big rush going on.
There's great talk of fabulous fortunes there."
"Yes, fabulous," said Dave dryly. "It's a long way. A big fare. You'll
find yourself amongst all the scum and blacklegs of this continent.
You'll be up against every proposition known to the crook. You'll get
tainted. Why not do some ranching? Somewhere around here, toward
Edmonton."
Jim shook his head gloomily.
"I haven't nearly enough capital."
"Maybe I could manage it for you," said Dave thoughtfully. "I mean it
as a business proposition," he added hastily.
Jim's face cleared, and his ready smile broke out like sunshine after a
summer storm.
"Would you?" he cried. "Yes, a business proposition. Business interest.
I know the very place," he went on ardently. "Betty, wouldn't that be
bully? How would you like to be a rancher's wife?"
But his spirits quickly received a damper. Betty shook her head.
"No, Jim. Not at Dave's expense." Then she turned to the man who had
made the offer. "No, no, Dave, old friend. Jim and I know you. This is
not business from your point of view. You added that to disguise your
kindly intention."
"But----" Dave began to protest.
But Betty would have none of it.
"This is a debate," she said, with a brightness she did not feel, "and
I am speaking. Jim," she turned gently to her lover, "we'll start fair
and square with the world. You must do as uncle says. And you can do
it. Do it yourself--yourself unaided. God will help you--surely. You
are clever; you have youth, health and strength. I will wait for you
all my life, if necessary. You have my promise, and it is yours until
you come back to claim me. It may be only a year or two. We must be
very, very brave. Whatever plan you decide on, if it is the Yukon, or
Siberia, or anywhere else, I am content, and I will wait for you."
The girl's words were so gently spoken, yet they rang with an
irrevocable decision that astonished her hearers. Dave looked into the
pretty, set face. He had known her so long. He had seen her in almost
every mood, yet here was a fresh side to her character he had never
even suspected, and the thought flashed through his mind, to what
heights of ambition might a man not soar with such a woman at his side.
Jim looked at her too. But his was a stare of amazement, and even
resentment.
"But why, Betty?" he argued sharply. "Why throw away a business offer
such as this, when it means almost certain success? Dave offered it
himself, and surely you will allow that he is a business man before all
things."
"Is he?" Betty smiled. Then she turned to the man who had made the
offer. "Dave, will you do something for me?"
"Why, yes, Betty--if it's not to go and wash up cups down there," he
replied at once, with a grin.
"No, it isn't to wash cups. It's"--she glanced quickly at Jim, who was
watching her with anything but a lover-like stare--"it's--to withdraw
that offer."
Dave removed his pipe and turned to Jim.
"That ranch business is off," he said.
Then he suddenly sat up and leant toward the younger man.
"Jim, boy, you know I wish you well," he said. "I wish you so well that
I understand and appreciate Betty's decision now, though I allow I
didn't see it at first. She's right. Parson Tom is right. I was wrong.
Get right out into the world and make her a home. Get right out and
show her, and the rest of us, the stuff you're made of. You won't fail
if you put your back into it. And when you come back it'll be a great
day for you both. And see here, boy, so long as you run straight you
can ask me anything in the name of friendship, and I'll not fail you.
Here's my hand on it."
Something of Dave's earnestness rather than the girl's quiet strength
seemed to suddenly catch hold of and lift the dejected man out of his
moodiness. His face cleared and his sunny smile broke out again. He
gripped the great hand, and enthusiasm rang in his voice.
"By God, you're right, Dave," he cried. "You're a good chap. Yes, I'll
go. Betty," he turned to the girl, "I'll go to the Yukon, where there's
gold for the seeking. I'll realize all the money I can. I won't part
with my mill. That will be my fall-back if I fail. But I won't fail.
I'll make money by--no, I'll make money. And----" Suddenly, at the
height of his enthusiasm, his face fell, and the buoyant spirit dropped
from him.
"Yes, yes," broke in Betty, anxious to see his mood last.
Jim thought for a moment while the clouds gathered on his face. Then he
looked steadily at Dave.
"Dave," he said, and paused. Then he began again. "Dave--in
friendship's name--I'll ask you something now. Betty here," he
swallowed, as though what he had to say was very difficult. "You see, I
may be away a long time, you can never tell. Will you--will you take
care of her for me? Will you be her--her guardian, as you have always
been mine? I know I'm asking a lot, but somehow I can't leave her here,
and--I know there's her uncle and aunt. But, I don't know, somehow I'd
like to think you had given me your word that she would be all right,
that you were looking after her for me. Will you?"
His face and tone were both eager, and full of real feeling. Dave never
flinched as he listened to the request, yet every word cut into his
heart, lashed him till he wondered how it was Jim could not see and
understand. He moistened his lips. He groped in his pocket for his
matches and lit one. He let it burn out, watching it until the flame
nearly reached his fingers. Then he knocked his pipe out on his boot,
and broke it with the force he used. Finally he looked up with a smile,
and his eyes encountered Betty's.
She smiled back, and he turned to her lover, who was waiting for his
answer.
"Sure I'll look after her--for you," he said slowly.
Jim sprang to his feet.
"I can never thank----"
But Dave cut him short.
"Don't thank me, boy," he said, preparing to return to the camp.
"Just--get out and do." And he left the lovers to return at their
leisure.