THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS
Marcel and Keeko were standing at the dawn of a new life. The man had
looked into a woman's wide, blue eyes. He had gazed upon softly rounded
cheeks, as perfect as physical well-being could make them. He had
contemplated rich, ripe lips that tempted him well-nigh to distraction.
Thus it was that the passionless life of the outworld had no longer
power before the stirring of a soul at last awakened from its pristine
slumbers.
The meaning of their encounter was no less for Keeko. She was less of
the wilderness, perhaps, than Marcel. She had not been so wholly bred to
it as he. Her child's eyes had looked upon some measure of civilization,
and her mind had gathered a brief training amongst the youth of her own
sex. But the result was no less. The grey shadows, which, as far back as
she could remember, had overhung her home life seemed suddenly to have
been lifted, and the rugged desolation of the Northland had been
transformed into a veritable Eden of hope and delight.
It was his new inspiration that lent wings to the feet of Marcel when he
hastened to collect his personal outfit. It was under the same
inspiration that he flung himself into the task of preparing for the
fulfilment of his pledge. And from the moment he joined the girl's
outfit on the banks of the river that came up out of the south he
became the acknowledged leader, whose will was absolute.
And Keeko's spirit was swift to respond. She displayed a readiness that
must have astonished the Indians who were accustomed to implicit
acknowledgment of her rule. Or, perhaps, in their savage hearts, they
understood something of the change that had been wrought. Here was a
great white man, a man whose power and abilities they were quick to
recognize and appreciate, whose body was great, and whose eye was clear
and commanding. Here was a white girl, fairer than any they had ever
known, and whose spirit had served them in a hundred ways. Well? What
then? They were all men of maturing years--these Indians. They had had
many squaws of their own. Perhaps? Who could tell? It seemed natural
that Keeko should choose her man from those of her own colour. And if
this man were to be the chosen one they were ready to yield him the same
fidelity they would yield to her.
So the night before the morning of departure came round. In three days
Marcel had completed every preparation, and all was in readiness for the
earliest possible start.
By the time supper was finished the summer daylight showed no sign of
giving way to the two-hour night. Marcel had that in his mind which he
was determined to do before their well-earned rest beside the camp-fire
was taken. And he pointed at the iron-bound cliff which frowned down
upon the waters of the river.
"Say, Keeko, I've a notion to set it up before we quit," he said, with a
laugh. "Do you feel like passing me a hand?"
Keeko turned from the sluggish waters, black with the reflection of the
barren walls of the gorge.
"What are you going to set up?" she questioned like one dragged back
from the contemplation of happy dreams.
"Oh, it's just a notion," Marcel laughed, in a boyish, half shamefaced
fashion as he lit his pipe with a firebrand. "Will you--come along?"
Keeko was on her feet in a moment. For all the days of labour there was
no weariness in her body. Besides----
"Guess you're handing me a mystery," she cried happily. "Seeing I'm a
woman I can't just miss it."
So they passed up the rugged foreshore to the foot of the path that cut
a perilous ascent to the fringe of the primordial forest above. It was
the man who led, and Keeko had no desire that it should be otherwise.
In a few minutes they were standing beside the fallen tree-trunk where
Marcel had first gazed down upon the scant encampment over which his
sovereignty was now absolute. He drew a deep breath as he gazed again
upon that first scene of the new life that had come to him.
"Gee!" he said, "I'm kind of glad."
"Glad?"
Keeko was regarding him amusedly. In those first three days of their
life together, in her woman's way, she had been studying him. And that
which she had learned filled her with a tender, almost motherly
amusement. He was transparent in his simplicity. His singleness of
purpose was almost amazing. But under it all she had become aware of a
strength and latent force that could only be guessed at. Their talks had
been less intimate during the time of their preparations, and she
understood that it was the result of the purpose that preoccupied him.
Now she speculated as to that which was in his mind. What was the boyish
whim that had brought them to the place he had selected as their tryst?
What was it that had made him express such gladness?
"I was thinking of that darn old moose," Marcel explained with eyes
alight and whimsical.
The girl waited and he went on.
"Say, I guess life's a pretty queer thing," he observed profoundly.
"It's a mighty small piece between content and discontent, isn't it?
It's so small you'd think anyone of sense could fix it so we couldn't be
discontented--ever. Yet we either can't or won't fix it. One leads to
good and the other leads to bad--and only time can say how bad. I was
getting mighty near discontent. Why? Because I'd got most everything I
wanted except the things--I wanted." He laughed. "I was crazy for
something, and I didn't quite know what. There was something in me
crying out, hollering help, and I couldn't hand that help. Well, I guess
there isn't a sound like that going on in me now. I'm just crazy with
content."
"Why?"
The girl's question was instant, but, in a moment, she regretted it.
The man's eyes regarded her steadily for a moment, and Keeko hastily
turned away. Promptly the echoes of the canyon were awakened by the
youth's laughter.
"I couldn't just tell you--easy," he cried. "But I'm about as content as
a basking seal. That's all. It's easier telling you how I feel glad
thinking of that old moose. Oh, yes, that's easy. I owe him a debt I
can't repay easy, seeing he's dead. Still, I feel like doing the best I
know to make him feel good about things."
Marcel's mood infected the girl.
"You're--you're not reckoning to start in and--bury him?" she cried.
Marcel shook his head.
"There's only his bones left. The rest of him is chasing around in the
bellies of a pack of timber wolves. No. It's his head and his antlers.
The wolves have cleaned his head sheer to the bone, as I reckoned they
would, and I've toted their leavings right here, and I guess we're going
to set it up a monument. Say, Keeko," he went on, with real seriousness,
"I couldn't quit this camp here without setting up a monument. Do you
know why?"
Keeko sat herself on the old tree-trunk. She made no reply. She simply
waited for whatever he had to say.
"It's to commemorate something," he went on quickly, gazing out over the
canyon. "I've found something I've been looking for--years. And I just
didn't know I was looking for it. Well, that old moose found it for me.
So I'm going to set his skull up, with his proud antlers a-top of it, in
the best and highest place I can set it, so his old dead eye sockets can
just look out over the territory he reigned over till Fate reckoned it
was time to set a human queen reigning in his stead. I don't guess he'll
worry about things. He'll just feel proud that it wasn't a feller of his
own sex ever beat him, and, if I know a thing, he'll feel sort of
content and pleased watching over things for us."
The whim of the man, intended to be so light, was full of real feeling.
Keeko was torn between tears and laughter. In the end she trusted
herself only to a simple question.
"Where are you going to fix him up?" she demanded.
The spell was broken. Marcel promptly became the man of action. He
pointed at the gnarled and broken head of a stunted tree growing at the
very edge of the canyon, with its battered crest reaching out at a
perilous angle over the abyss.
"At the head of that," he said, "so he can watch for your coming up out
of the south, and--tell me about it."
"But----!"
A sickening apprehension had seized upon Keeko as she contemplated the
overhang of the tree. It was almost at right angles to the face of the
cliff. It projected out nearly thirty feet, and below--Her woman's heart
could not repress a shudder at the thought of the three hundred feet
drop to the rocky shoals in the waters below.
"You don't mean that?" she demanded a little desperately.
Marcel nodded.
"It's plumb easy."
There was no showiness, no bravado. Marcel had no thought to dazzle the
girl. His purpose was a simple, boyish act.
He moved off into the forest while Keeko looked after him. From her
heart she could have begged him to abandon, or modify his plan. But she
refrained, and, somehow, sick at the thought of his purpose, she still
realized a thrill at the object of it all. She looked at the roots of
the overhanging tree and shuddered. They were partly torn out of the
ground.
Marcel returned with his trophy. It was a burden of no mean weight. And
Keeko's recognition of the fact only added to her fears.
"How--?" she began. But her question remained unasked.
"It's a cinch," Marcel cried. "Don't worry a thing. See those?" He
pointed at two thongs of plaited rawhide, each secured to one of the
horns. "Guess I'll tie them into a sling about the old trunk, and move
the poor feller's head up as I get out, leaving it hanging below. Then,
when I get to the end, I'll just haul it up, and fix it in its place.
I've got it all figured."
Keeko nodded.
"I can help you fix the slings," she said eagerly.
"Sure."
The approval had its effect. Keeko set her teeth, and beat down her
panic.
The minutes stretched out into the better part of half an hour before
the sling was successfully adjusted about the tree-trunk. But at last
Marcel stood up from his task and regarded the moose head swinging just
beyond the face of the cliff. Then he followed Keeko's gaze, which was
in the direction of the upstanding roots of the tree where they had been
partially torn from their hold in the ground. It was only for a moment,
however. He had no misgivings. Forthwith he divested himself of his
pea-jacket and stood ready for the final task.
"What--what can I do now?"
Keeko's voice refused that steadiness which was its wont, and Marcel
laughed.
"Do? Why just sit around and act audience while I do the balancing act.
Guess that old moose is yearning for his place out there. He didn't
figure on the honour, but--he's earned it."
And, despite her fears Keeko smiled at the boyishness of it all.
In a moment her breath was drawn sharply. Marcel was out on the log. He
had passed from the cliff edge and was sitting astride of the trunk with
his feet and calves gripping tight about it like a horseman on a bucking
broncho. His progress was rapid. He lifted the sling and set it out at
the full reach of his powerful arms, and then drew himself out after it.
Keeko watched. She watched with wide, apprehensive eyes. It was a fear
quite new to her. A vivid imagination possessed her. She saw the great
body of this man lying crushed and broken upon the rocks below, and the
terror of it left her with nerves and muscles straining. She did not
pause to consider the reason of her fears. She knew it, and acknowledged
it to herself. In the battle of life which she had been forced to fight
a champion had suddenly appeared. A champion such as she had sometimes
dreamed of. And with perfect trust and simple faith she had yielded her
soul to him.
Foot by foot Marcel moved out, always thrusting his trophy ahead of him.
There was a growing vibration in the leaning tree. It laboured under his
weight. He pressed on, his whole mind and purpose concentrated. Keeko
watched the roots for a sign of the strain. There was none. She glanced
out at the distance he yet had to go. And the length of it prompted a
warning cry she dared not utter. Farther and farther he passed on. Then
came a pause that suggested uncertainty.
Keeko's heart leapt. Was he dizzy? Had he suddenly become aware of the
perilous depth below him? Was his nerve----?
The moment passed. He was moving on again. The far off head of the tree
was coming nearer, but the vibration had increased with his movements.
Would the roots hold? Could they be expected to with the balance so
heavily against them? Keeko could look no longer, and, in the agony of
the moment, she seized hold of the upstanding roots and clung to them in
a ridiculously impotent frenzy of hope that the weight of her own light
body might help him.
The vibrations of the tree ceased and Keeko raised her terrified eyes
for the meaning.
A wave of partial relief swept over her. Marcel had reached his goal. He
had swung up the great moose head to set it in position. It was a
breathless moment. She understood that his greatest difficulties had
begun, and again she withdrew her gaze. But she clung to the roots of
the tree, desperately determined that if the tree fell it should drag
her to the disaster waiting upon him.
The suspense seemed endless. But at last there was renewed vibration in
the tree. Keeko raised her eyes again. Marcel was moving backwards, and
there, right at the broken head of the tree, the fleshless skull with
its magnificent antlers was set up in its place.
The girl was still clinging to the upstanding roots when Marcel leapt
from his seat on the trunk and stood confronting her. His quick, smiling
eyes took in the meaning of the situation at once. He reached out and
removed the hands from their task, and, in doing so, he retained them
longer than was necessary.
"You guessed you could hold that up if it--fell?" he asked.
And Keeko's reply was full of confusion.
"I didn't think," she stammered. "I didn't know what to do. It was
shaking, and I thought--I thought----"
"You didn't want me to get smashed on the rocks below. Well--say--!"
Marcel turned abruptly and pointed at the splendid antlers. "There he
is," he laughed. "Isn't he a dandy? You could see him miles. And he's
feeling good. He just told me that before I quit him. And he said he'd
stop right there and see no harm came along your way. So I patted his
darn old head, and told him I'd come along each year and see the rawhide
was sound, and, if necessary, I'd fix him up again. Well?"
Keeko's fears had passed like a summer storm and the sun of her smile
had returned again to her eyes.
"I'm just glad," she said. Then she became serious. "Say, do you believe
in omens?" She was gazing out at the great antlers. "I don't guess you
do. Only Indians worry with omens. Not folks of sense. Still, I kind of
fancy that feller set up that way is our omen. He's going to hand us
good luck in plenty. We'll get a great 'catch' where we're going, and
we'll get back-safe. Do you think that?"
"Sure. Guess I think a heap more than that, though." Marcel's smile was
good to see. "That's not the limit of our luck," he went on. "Not by a
lot. Say, I was raised by a feller who handed me a whole heap of wisdom.
Guess there's more wisdom in him than ever I could get a grip on. He
always guessed that luck was real in the folk who understood that way.
He said a feller made his luck by faith. The darn fool who squealed
because things went wrong queered his own luck, and just chased it out
of sight. Get a notion and hammer it through so long as you've a breath
in your body, and, if you act that way, luck'll pour itself all over you
till you're kind of floating around on a sea of desire fulfilled. That's
been his way, and I reckon it's good. I'm out to act as he said, so I
don't reckon that hollow-eyed feller out there is the whole meaning of
things. I've got all my notions and I'm going to push 'em plumb
through."
Keeko nodded.
"That's the grit a man needs," she said. "Maybe a woman does, too,
only--she's kind of different."
"Is she?" Marcel shook his head, and his eyes were full of a boyish
humour. "She isn't--when it comes to grit. Say, there's only one woman I
know except you, and those poor folks you see in Seal Bay, who--who
don't know better. But that other woman and you have taught me things
about grit most fellers don't ever learn. Most all the time a feller
who's built strong can fight to the limit of his muscles. A gal isn't
born with muscles worth speaking about, and she spends her life mostly
fighting beyond the limit. Say, she's born to troubles and worries all
the time. And she mostly gets through all the time. Why? Grit! She
doesn't just care a darn. She's going to get through--and she does. Say,
let's get along down and leave that wall-eyed old figurehead keeping
guard. Come on."