ALONE ON THE MOUNTAIN
For the first two days of Harry King's absence Madam Manovska relapsed
into a more profound melancholy, and the care of her mother took up
Amalia's time and thoughts so completely as to give her little for
indulging her own anxiety for Harry's safety. Strangely, she felt no
fear for themselves, although they were thus alone on the mountain
top. She had a sense of security there which she had never felt in the
years since she had been taken from the convent to share her parents'
wanderings. She made an earnest effort to divert and arouse her mother
and succeeded until Madam Manovska talked much and volubly in Polish,
and revealed more of the thoughts that possessed her in the long hours
of brooding than she had ever told Amalia before. It seemed that she
confidently expected the return of the men with her husband, and that
the message she had sent by Larry Kildene would surely bring him. The
thought excited her greatly, and Amalia found it necessary to keep
continual watch lest she wander off down the trail in the direction
they had taken, and be lost.
For a time Amalia tried to prevent Madam Manovska from dwelling on the
past, until she became convinced that to do so was not well, since it
only induced the fits of brooding. She then decided to encourage her
mother to speak freely of her memories, rather than to keep them
locked in her own mind. It was in one of these intervals of
talkativeness that Amalia learned the cause of that strange cry that
had so pierced her heart and startled her on the trail.
They had gone out for a walk, as the only means of inducing her mother
to sleep was to let her walk in the clear air until so weary as to
bring her to the point of exhaustion. This time they went farther than
Amalia really intended, and had left the paths immediately about the
cabin, and climbed higher up the mountain. Here there was no trail and
the way was rough indeed, but Madam Manovska was in one of her most
wayward moods and insisted on going higher and farther.
Her strength was remarkable, but it seemed to be strength of will
rather than of body, for all at once she sank down, unable to go
forward or to return. Amalia led her to the shade of a great gnarled
tree, a species of fir, and made her lie down on a bed of stiff,
coarse moss, and there she pillowed her mother's head on her lap.
Whether it was something in the situation in which she found herself
or not, her mother began to tell her of a time about which she had
hitherto kept silent. It was of the long march through heat and cold,
over the wildest ways of the earth to Siberia, at her husband's side.
She told how she had persisted in going with him, even at the cost of
dressing in the garb of the exiles from the prisons and pretending to
be one of the condemned. Only one of the officers knew her secret, who
for reasons of humanity--or for some other feeling--kept silence. She
carried her child in her arms, a boy, five months old, and was allowed
to walk at her husband's side instead of following on with the other
women. She told how they carried a few things on their backs, and how
one and another of the men would take the little one at intervals to
help her, and how long the marches were when the summer was on the
wane and they wished to make as much distance as possible before they
were delayed by storms and snow.
Then she told how the storms came at last, and how her baby fell ill,
and cried and cried--all the time--and how they walked in deep snow,
until one and another fell by the way and never walked farther. She
told how some of the weaker ones were finally left behind, because
they could get on faster without them, but that the place where they
were left was a terrible one under a cruel man, and that her child
would surely have died there before the winter was over, and that when
she persisted in keeping on with her husband, they beat her, but at
last consented on condition that she would leave her baby boy. Then
how she appealed to the officer who knew well who she was and that she
was not one of the condemned, but had followed her husband for love,
and to intercede for him when he would have been ill-treated; and that
the man had allowed her to have her way, but later had demanded as his
reward for yielding to her, that she no longer belong to her husband,
but to him.
Looking off at the far ranges of mountains with steady gaze, she told
of the mountains they had crossed, and the rushing, terrible rivers;
and how, one day, the officer who had been kind only that he might be
more cruel, had determined to force her to obedience, and how he grew
very angry--so angry that when they had come to a trail that was
well-nigh impassable, winding around the side of a mountain, where was
a fearful rushing river far below them, and her baby cried in her
arms for cold and hunger, how he had snatched the child from her and
hurled it over the precipice into the swift water, and how she had
shrieked and struck him and was crazed and remembered no more for
days, except to call continually on God to send down curses on that
officer's head. She told how after that they were held at a certain
station for a long time, but that she was allowed to stay by her
husband only because the officer feared the terrible curses she had
asked of God to descend on that man, that he dared no more touch her.
Then Amalia understood many things better than ever before, and grew
if possible more tender of her mother. She thought how all during that
awful time she had been safe and sheltered in the convent, and her
life guarded; and moreover, she understood why her father had always
treated her mother as if she were higher than the angels and with the
courtesy and gentleness of a knight errant. He had bowed to her
slightest wish, and no wonder her mother thought that when he received
her request to return to her, and give up his hope, he would surely
come to her.
More than ever Amalia feared the days to come if she could in no way
convince her mother that it was not expedient for her father to return
yet. To say again that he was dead she dared not, even if she could
persuade Madam Manovska to believe it; for it seemed to her in that
event that her mother would give up all interest in life, and die of a
broken heart. But from the first she had not accepted the thought of
her husband's death, and held stubbornly to the belief that he had
joined Harry King to find help. He had, indeed, wandered away from
them a few hours after the young man's departure and had been unable
to find his way back, and, until Larry Kildene came to them, they had
comforted themselves that the two men were together.
Much more Madam Manovska told her daughter that day, before she slept;
and Amalia questioned her more closely than she had ever done
concerning her father's faith. Thereafter she sat for a long time on
the bank of coarse moss and pondered, with her mother's head pillowed
on her lap. The sun reached the hour of noon, and still the mother
slept and the daughter would not waken her.
She took from the small velvet bag she always carried with her, a
crisp cake of corn meal and ate to satisfy her sharp hunger, for the
keen air and the long climb gave her the appetite belonging to the
vigorous health which was hers. They had climbed that part of the
mountain directly behind the cabin, and from the secluded spot where
they sat she could look down on it and on the paths leading to it;
thankful and happy that at last they were where all was so safe, no
fear of intrusion entered her mind. Even her first anxiety about the
Indians she had dismissed.
Now, as her eyes wandered absently over the far distance and dropped
to the nearer hills, and on down to the cabin and the patch of
cultivated ground, what was her horror to see three figures stealing
with swift, gliding tread toward the fodder shed from above, where was
no trail, only such rough and wild hillside as that by which she and
her mother had climbed. The men seemed to be carrying something slung
between them on a pole. With long, gliding steps they walked in single
file as she had seen the Indians walk on the plains.
She drew in her breath sharply and clasped her hands in supplication.
Had those men seen them? Devoutly she prayed that they might not look
up toward the heights where she and her mother sat. As they continued
to descend she lost sight of them among the pines and the undergrowth
which was more vigorous near the fall, and then they appeared again
and went into the cabin. She thought they must have been in the fodder
shed when she lost sight of them, and now she waited breathlessly to
see them emerge from the cabin. For an hour she sat thus, straining
her eyes lest she miss seeing them when they came forth, and fearing
lest her mother waken. Then she saw smoke issuing from the cabin
chimney, and her heart stopped its beating. What! Were they preparing
to stay there? How could her mother endure the cold of the mountain
all night?
Then she began to consider how she might protect her mother after the
sun had gone from the cold that would envelop them. Reasoning that as
long as the Indians stayed in the cabin they could not be seen by
them, she looked about for some projecting ledge under which they
might creep for the night. Gently she lifted her mother's head and
placed it on her own folded shawl, and, with an eye ever on the cabin
below, she crept further up the side of the mountain until she found a
place where a huge rock, warmed by the sun, projected far out, and
left a hollow beneath, into which they might creep. Frantically she
tore off twigs of the scrubby pines around them, and made a fragrant
bed of pine needles and moss on which to rest. Then she woke her
mother.
Sane and practical on all subjects but the one, Madam Manovska roused
herself to meet this new difficulty with the old courage, and climbed
with Amalia's help to their wild resting place without a word of
complaint. There she sat looking out over the magnificent scene
before her with her great brooding eyes, and ate the coarse corn cake
Amalia put in her hands.
She talked, always in Polish or in French, of the men "rouge," and
said she did not wonder they came to so good a place to rest, and that
she would give thanks to the great God that she and her daughter were
on the mountain when they arrived. She reminded Amalia that if she had
consented to return when her daughter wished, they would now have been
in the cabin with those terrible men, and said that she had been
inspired of God to stay long on the mountain. Contentedly, then, she
munched her cake, and remarked that water would give comfort in the
eating of it, but she smiled and made the best of the dry food. Then
she prayed that her husband might be detained until the men were
gone.
Amalia gave her mother the water that was left in the bottle she had
brought with her, and lamented that she had saved so little for her.
"It was so bad, not to save more for my mamma," she cried, giving the
bottle with its lowered contents into her mother's hand. "I go to
watch, mamma mine. Soon will I return."
Amalia went back to her point of vantage, where she could see all
about the cabin and shed. Still the smoke poured from the chimney, and
there was no sign of red men without. It was a mountain sheep they had
carried, slung between them, and now they dressed and cooked a portion
of it, and were gorging themselves comfortably before the fire, with
many grunts of satisfaction at the finding of the formidable owner of
the premises absent. They were on their way to Laramie to trade and
sell game, and it was their intention to leave a portion of their
mutton with Larry Kildene; for never did they dare venture near him
without bringing a propitiatory offering.
The sun had set and the cold mists were blowing across from the fall
and closing around the cabin like a veil of amethystine dye, when
Amalia saw them moving about the cabin door as if preparing to depart.
Her heart rose, and she signaled her mother, but no. They went indoors
again, and she saw them no more. In truth they had disputed long as to
whether it was best to leave before the big man's return, or to remain
in their comfortable quarters and start early, before day. It was the
conference that drew them out, and they had made ready to start at a
moment's notice if he should return in the night. But as the darkness
crept on and Larry Kildene did not appear they stretched themselves
before the fire and slept, and the two women on the mountain, hungry
and cold, crept under the mother's cloak and lay long into the night,
shivering and listening, couched on the pine twigs Amalia had spread
under the ledge of rock. At last, clasped in each other's arms, they
slept, in spite of fear and cold, for very weariness.
Amalia woke next morning to the low murmuring of a voice. It was her
mother, kneeling in the pine needles, praying at her side. She waited
until the prayer was ended, then she rose and went out from the
sheltered hollow where they lay. "I will look a little, mamma. Wait
for me."
She gazed down on the cabin, but all was still. The amethystine veil
had not lifted, and no smoke came from the chimney. She crept back to
her mother's side, and they sat close for warmth, and waited. When the
sun rose and the clouds melted away, all the earth smiled up at them,
and their fears seemed to melt away with the clouds. Still they did
not venture out where they thought they might be spied from below, and
time passed while they watched earnestly for the sight of moving
figures, and still no smoke appeared from the cabin.
Higher and higher the sun climbed in the sky, yet they could not bring
themselves to return. Hunger pressed them, and Amalia begged her
mother to let her go a little nearer to listen, but she would not. So
they discussed together in their own tongue and neither would allow
the other to venture below, and still no smoke issued from the
chimney.
At last Amalia started and pressed her hand to her heart. What did she
see far along on the trail toward the desert? Surely, a man with two
animals, climbing toward the turn. Her eyes danced for gladness as she
turned a flushed face toward her mother.
"Look, mamma! Far on,--no--there! It is--mamma mine--it is 'Arry
King!" The mere sight of him made her break out in English. "It is
that I must go to him and tell him of the Indian in the cabin before
he arrive. If he come on them there, and they kill him! Oh, let me go
quickly." At the thought of him, and the danger he might meet, all her
fears of the men "rouge" returned upon her, and she was gone, passing
with incredible swiftness over the rough way, to try to intercept him
before he could reach the cabin.
But she need not have feared, for the Indians were long gone. Before
daybreak they had passed Harry where he rested in the deep dusk of the
morning, without knowing he was near. With swift, silent steps they
had passed down the trail, taking as much of Larry Kildene's corn as
they could carry, and leaving the bloody pelt of the sheep and a very
meager share of the mutton in exchange. Hungry and footsore, yet eager
and glad to have come home successfully, Harry King walked forward,
leading his good yellow horse, his eyes fixed on the cabin, and
wondering not a little; for he, too, saw that no smoke was issuing
from the chimney.
He hastened, and all Amalia's swiftness could not bring her to him
before he reached his goal. He saw first the bloody pelt hanging
beside the door, and his heart stood still. Those two women never
could have done that! Where were they? He dropped the leading strap,
leaving the weary horses where they stood, and ran forward to enter
the cabin and see the evidence of Indians all about. There were the
clean-picked bones of their feast and the dirt from their feet on
Amalia's carefully kept floor. The disorder smote him, and he ran out
again in the sun. Looking this way and that, he called and listened
and called again. Why did no answer reach him? Poor Amalia! In her
haste she had turned her foot and now, fainting with pain, and with
fear for him, she could not find her voice to reply.
He thought he heard a low cry. Was it she? He ran again, and now he
saw her, high above him, a dark heap on the ground. Quickly he was by
her side, and, kneeling, he gathered her in his arms. He forgot all
but that she was living and that he held her, and he kissed her white
face and her lips, and said all the tender things in his heart. He did
not know what he was saying. He only knew that he could feel her heart
beat, and that she was opening her eyes, and that with quivering arms
she clasped his neck, and that her tears wet his cheek, and that, over
and over, her lips were repeating his name.
"'Arry--'Arry King! You are come back. Ah, 'Arry King, my heart cry
with the great gladness they have not killed you."
All in the same instant he bethought himself that he must not caress
her thus. Yet filled with a gladness he could not fathom he still
clung to her and still murmured the words he meant never to speak to
her. One thing he could do. One thing sweet and right to do. He could
carry her to the cabin. How could she reach it else? His heart leaped
that he had at least that right.
"No, 'Arry King. You have walk the long, hard way, and are very
weary." But still he carried her.
"Put me down, 'Arry King." Then he obeyed her, and set her gently
down. "I am too great a burden. See, thus? If you help me a little--it
is that I may hop--It is better, is not?"
She smiled in his face, but he only stooped and lifted her again in
his arms. "You are not a burden, Amalia. Put your arms around my neck,
and lean on me."
She obeyed him, and he could say no more for the beating of his heart.
Carefully and slowly he made his way, setting his feet cautiously
among the stones that obstructed his path. Madam Manovska from her
heights above saw how her daughter was being carried, and, guessing
the trouble, snatched up the velvet bag Amalia had dropped in her
haste, flung her cloak about her, and began to thread her way down,
slowly and carefully; for, as she said to herself, "We must not both
break the bones at one time."
To Harry it seemed no sound was ever sweeter than Amalia's low voice
as she coaxed him brokenly to set her down and allow her to walk.
"This is great foolishness, 'Arry King, that you carry me. Put me down
that you rest a little."
"I can't, Amalia."
"You have walk all the long trail--I saw you walk--and lead those
horse, for only to bring our box. How my heart can thank you is not
possible. 'Arry King, you are so weary--put me down."
"I can't, Amalia," again was all he said. So he held her, comforting
his heart that he had this right, until he drew near the cabin, and
there Amalia saw the pelt of the sheep hung upon the wall of the
cabin, pitifully dangling, bloody and ragged. Strangely, at the sight
quite harmless, yet gruesome, all her fortitude gave way. With a cry
of terror she hid her face and clung to him.
"No, no. I cannot go there--not near it--no!"
"Oh, you brave, sweet woman! It is only a skin. Don't look at it,
then. You have been frightened. I see how you have suffered. Wait.
There--no, don't put your foot to the ground. Sit on this hillock
while I take it away."
But she only clung to him the more, and sobbed convulsively. "I am
afraid--'Arry King. Oh, if--if--they are there still! Those Indian! Do
not go there."
"But they are gone; I have been in and they are not there. I won't
take you into that place until I have made it fit for you again. Sit
here awhile. Amalia Manovska,--I can't see you weep." So tenderly he
spoke her name, with quivering lips, reverently. With all his power he
held himself and would dare no more. If only once more he might touch
her lips with his--only once in his renunciation--but no. His
conscience forbade him. Memory closed upon him like a deadening cloud
and drenched his hurt soul with sorrow. He rose from stooping above
her and looked back.
"Your mother is coming. She will be here in a moment and then I will
set that room in order for you, and--" his voice shook so that he was
obliged to pause. He stooped again to her and spoke softly: "Amalia
Manovska, stop weeping. Your tears fall on my heart."
"Ah, what have happen, to you--to Amalia--? Those terrible men
'rouge'!" cried Madam Manovska, hurrying forward.
"Oh, Madam, I am glad you have come. The Indians are gone, never fear.
Amalia has hurt her foot. It is very painful. You will know what to do
for her, and I will leave her while I make things more comfortable in
there."
He left them and ran to the cabin, and hastily taking the hideous pelt
from the wall, hid it, and then set himself to cleaning the room and
burning the litter of bones and scraps left from the feast. It was
horrible--yes, horrible, that they should have had such a fright, and
alone there. Soon he went back, and again taking her in his arms,
unresisted now, he laid her on the bunk, then knelt and removed her
worn shoe.
"Little worn shoe! It has walked many a mile, has it not? Did you
think to ask Larry Kildene to bring you new ones?"
"No, I forgot my feet." She laughed, and the spell of tears was
broken. The long strain of anxiety and fear and then the sudden
release had been too much. Moreover, she was faint with hunger.
Without explanation Harry King understood. He looked to the mother for
help and saw that a change had come over her. Roused from her apathy
she was preparing food, and looking from her to Amalia, they exchanged
a glance of mutual relief.
"How it is beautiful to see her!" Amalia spoke low. "It is my hurt
that is good for her mind. I am glad of the hurt."
He sat with the shoe in his hand. "Will you let me bind your ankle,
Amalia? It will grow worse unless something is done quickly." He spoke
humbly, as one beseeching a favor.
"Now it is already better, you have remove the shoe." How he loved her
quaint, rapid speech! "Mamma will bind it, for you have to do for
those horse and the mule. I know--I have seen--to take them to drink
and eat, and take from them the load--the burden. It is the box--for
that have you risk your life, and the gladness we feel to again have
it is--is only one greater--and that is to have you again with us. Oh,
what a sorrow and terror--if you had not come--I can never make you
know. When I see those Indian come walking after each other so as they
go--my heart cease to beat--and my body become like the ice--for the
fear. When fearing for myself, it is bad, but when for another it is
much--much--more terrible. So have I found it."
Her mother came then to attend to her hurt, interrupting Amalia's flow
of speech, and Harry went out to the animals, full of care and
misgiving. What now could he do? How endure the days to come with
their torture of repression? How shield her from himself and his
love--when she so freely gave? What middle course was possible,
without making her suffer?
That afternoon all the events of his journey were told to them as they
questioned him keenly, and he learned by little words and looks
exchanged between them how great had been their anxiety for him, and
of their night of terror on the mountain. But now that it was past and
they were all unhurt except for Amalia's accident, they made light of
it. He dragged in the box, and before he left them that night he
prepared Larry's gun, and told Amalia to let nothing frighten her.
"Don't leave the bunk, nor put your foot to the ground. Fire the gun
at the slightest disturbance, and I will surely hear. I have another
in the shed. Or I will roll myself in my blanket, and sleep outside
your door. Yes, I will do that."
Then the mother turned on him and spoke in her deep tones: "Go to your
bed, 'Arry King, and sleep well. You have need. We asked of the good
God your safety, and our fear is gone. Good night."
"Good-night."