She was splendid as she stood there, an exquisite human touch in the
savageness of the world about her--and yet strangely wild as she faced
David, protecting with her own quivering body the great beast behind
her. To David, in the first immensity of his astonishment, she had
seemed to be a woman; but now she looked to him like a child, a very
young girl. Perhaps it was the way her hair fell in a tangled riot of
curling tresses over her shoulders and breast; the slimness of her; the
shortness of her skirt; the unfaltering clearness of the great, blue
eyes that were staring at him; and, above all else, the manner in which
she had spoken her name. The bear might have been nothing more than a
rock to him now, against which she was leaning. He did not hear Baree's
low growling. He had travelled a long way to find her, and now that she
stood there before him in flesh and blood he was not interested in much
else. It was a rather difficult situation. He had known her so long, she
had been with him so constantly, filling even his dreams, that it was
difficult for him to find words in which to begin speech. When they did
come they were most commonplace; his voice was quiet, with an assured
and protecting note in it.
"My name is David Raine," he said. "I have come a great distance to find
you."
It was a simple and unemotional statement of fact, with nothing that was
alarming in it, and yet the girl shrank closer against her bear. The
huge brute was standing without the movement of a muscle, his small
reddish eyes fixed on David.
"I won't go back!" she said. "I'll--fight!"
Her voice was clear, direct, defiant. Her hands appeared from behind
her, and her little fists were clenched. With a swift movement she
tossed her hair back from about her face. Her eyes were blue, but dark
as thunder clouds in their gathering fierceness. She was like a child,
and yet a woman. A ferocious little person. Ready to fight. Ready to
spring at him if he approached. Her eyes never left his face.
"I won't go back!" she repeated. "I won't!"
He was noticing other things about her. Her moccasins were in tatters.
Her short skirt was torn. Her shining hair was in tangles. As she swept
it back from her face he saw under her eyes the darkness of exhaustion;
in her cheeks a wanness, which he did not know just then was caused by
hunger, and by her struggle to get away from something. On the back of
one of her clenched hands was a deep, red scratch. The look in his face
must have given the girl some inkling of the truth. She leaned a little
forward, quickly and eagerly, and demanded:
"Didn't you come from the Nest? Didn't they send you--after me?"
She pointed down the narrow valley, her lips parted as she waited for
his answer, her hair rioting over her breast again as she bent toward
him.
"I've come fifteen hundred miles--from that direction," said David,
swinging an arm toward the backward mountains. "I've never been in this
country before. I don't know where the Nest is, or what it is. And I'm
not going to take you back to it unless you want to go. If some one is
coming after you, and you're bound to fight. I'll help you. Will that
bear bite?"
He swung off his pack and put down his gun. For a moment the girl stared
at him with widening eyes. The fear went out of them slowly. Her hand
unclenched, and suddenly she turned to the big grizzly and clasped her
bared arms about the shaggy monster's neck.
"Tara, Tara, it isn't one of them!" she cried. "It isn't one of
them--and we thought it was!"
She whirled on David with a suddenness that took his breath away. It was
like the swift turning of a bird. He had never seen a movement so quick.
"Who are you?" she flung at him, as if she had not already heard his
name. "Why are you here? What business have you going up there--to the
Nest?"
"I don't like that bear," said David dubiously, as the grizzly made a
slow movement toward him.
"Tara won't hurt you," she said. "Not unless you put your hands on me,
and I scream. I've had him ever since he was a baby and he has never
hurt any one yet. But--he will!" Her eyes glowed darkly again, and her
voice had a strange, hard little note in it. "I've been ... training
him," she added. "Tell me--why are you going to the Nest?"
It was a point-blank, determined question, with still a hint of
suspicion in it; and her eyes, as she asked it, were the clearest,
steadiest, bluest eyes he had ever looked into.
He was finding it hard to live up to what he had expected of himself.
Many times he had thought of what he would say when he found this girl,
if he ever did find her; but he had anticipated something a little more
conventional, and had believed that it would be quite the easiest matter
in the world to tell who he was, and why he had come, and to tell it all
convincingly and understandably. He had not, in short, expected the sort
of little person who stood there against her bear--a very difficult
little person to approach easily and with assurance--half woman and half
child, and beautifully wild. She was not disappointing. She was greatly
appealing. When he surveyed her in a particularizing way, as he did
swiftly, there was an exquisiteness about her that gave him pleasureable
thrills. But it was all wild. Even her hair, an amazing glory of tangled
curls, was wild in its disorder; she seemed palpitating with that
wildness, like a fawn that had been run into a corner--no, not a fawn,
but some beautiful creature that could and would fight desperately if
need be. That was his impression. He was undergoing a smashing of his
conceptions of this girl as he had visioned her from the picture, and a
readjustment of her as she existed for him now. And he was not
disappointed. He had never seen anything quite like this Marge O'Doone
and her bear. _O'Doone!_ His mind had harked back quickly, at her
mention of that name, to the woman in the coach of the Transcontinental,
the woman who was seeking a man by the name of Michael O'Doone. Of
course the woman was her mother. Her name, too, must have been O'Doone.
Very slowly the girl detached herself from her bear, and came until she
stood within three steps of David.
"Tara won't hurt you," she assured him again, "unless I scream. He would
tear you to pieces, then."
If she had betrayed a sudden fear at his first appearance, it was gone
now. Her eyes were like dark rock-violets and again he thought them the
bluest and most fearless eyes he had ever seen. She was less a child
now, standing so close to him; her slimness made her appear taller than
she was. David knew that she was going to question him, and before she
could speak he asked:
"Why are you afraid of some one coming after you from the Nest, as you
call it?"
"Because," she replied with quiet fearlessness, "I am running away from
it."
"Running away!" he gasped. "How long...."
"Two days."
He understood now--her ragged moccasins, her frayed skirt, her tangled
hair, the look of exhaustion about her. It came upon him all at once
that she was standing unsteadily, swaying slightly like the slender stem
of a flower stirred by a breath of air, and that he had not noticed
these things because of the steadiness and clearness of her wonderful
eyes. He was at her side in an instant. He forgot the bear. His hand
seized hers--the one with the deep, red scratch on it--and drew her to a
flat rock a few steps away. She followed him, keeping her eyes on him in
a wondering sort of way. The grizzly's reddish eyes were on David. A few
yards away Baree was lying flat on his belly between two stones, his
eyes on the bear. It was a strange scene and rather weirdly incongruous.
David no longer sensed it. He still held the girl's hand as he seated
her on the rock, and he looked into her eyes, smiling confidently. She
was, after all, his little chum--the Girl who had been with him ever
since that first night's vision in Thoreau's cabin, and who had helped
him to win that great fight he had made; the girl who had cheered and
inspired him during many months, and whom he had come fifteen hundred
miles to see. He told her this. At first she possibly thought him a
little mad. Her eyes betrayed that suspicion, for she uttered not a word
to break in on his story; but after a little her lips parted, her breath
came a little more quickly, a flush grew in her cheeks. It was a
wonderful thing in her life, this story, no matter if the man was a bit
mad, or even an impostor. He at least was very real in this moment, and
he had told the story without excitement, and with an immeasurable
degree of confidence and quiet tenderness--as though he had been
simplifying the strange tale for the ears of a child, which in fact he
had been endeavouring to do; for with the flush in her cheeks, her
parted lips, and her softening eyes, she looked to him more like a child
now than ever. His manner gave her great faith. But of course she was,
deep in her trembling soul, quite incredulous that he should have done
all these things for _her_--incredulous until he ended his story with
that day's travel up the valley, and then, for the first time, showed to
her--as a proof of all he had said--the picture.
She gave a little cry then. It was the first sound that had broken past
her lips, and she clutched the picture in her hands and stared at it;
and David, looking down, could see nothing but that shining disarray of
curls, a rich and wonderful brown, in the sunlight, clustering about her
shoulders and falling thickly to her waist. He thought it indescribably
beautiful, in spite of the manner in which the curls and tresses had
tangled themselves. They hid her face as she bent over the picture. He
did not speak. He waited, knowing that in a moment or two all that he
had guessed at would be clear, and that when the girl looked up she
would tell him about the picture, and why she happened to be here, and
not with the woman of the coach, who must have been her mother.
When at last she did look up from the picture her eyes were big and
staring and filled with a mysterious questioning.
David, feeling quite sure of himself, said:
"How did it happen that you were away up here, and not with your mother
that night when I met her on the train?"
"She wasn't my mother," replied the girl, looking at him still in that
strange way. "My mother is dead."