HAIG'S ARGUMENT
When she had unsaddled Tuesday, and left him grazing near the "camp,"
Marion set out with Murray's hatchet and knife to cut splints for
Haig's broken leg. Haig watched her run across the meadow, leap the
brook, and hurry on to a grove of quaking aspens at the edge of the
forest. Then he lay back to consider the logic of the situation, with
the following result, which appeared to him unanswerable:
First. The girl yonder had already saved his life once, and was doing
her best, though against impossible odds, to save it again. Her motive
was one that need not be dwelt upon in this fatal crisis. The fact
remained that for him she was facing certain death, and he must do all
in his power to save her. That was the starting point from which all
reckonings must be made.
Second. His own case was hopeless. Long before he should be able to
move from where he lay, the valley would be buried in snow to half the
height of those pines yonder. If she remained with him her case would
be hopeless too. Death would be inevitable for both of them: death
from starvation, from exposure, from cold. They had neither food, nor
proper clothing, nor shelter of any kind. The hardiest mountaineer
would not dream, of attempting to pass eight or nine months of winter
in a place like that, even with his two arms and two legs free. He,
with his broken leg, and she, a woman, would not survive an eighth or
a ninth of that period.
Third. The chances of rescue. There would be no search for him, he
reflected with a grim smile. But for Marion, undoubtedly. To-morrow
morning, Marion not having returned, Murray would start out to find
her. There was not one chance in a thousand that, at this season,
there would be such another day as the one now ending, and ending in
storm. But suppose that Murray should make his way across the summit,
and find them. Murray could do nothing for a man with a broken leg at
the bottom of a gulch with a cliff on one side and miles on miles of
mountain forest on the other sides. As for Marion, if she would not go
at his, Haig's, command, she would certainly pay little heed to
Murray. So Murray would accomplish nothing. However, it would not come
to that. Murray would be driven back by the winds. He would ride down
to the Park and give the alarm. Search parties would be formed, and
they would assail the mountain. But fifty men would be no stronger
than one man on Thunder Mountain. It was just possible that some of
them might force their way across the flat between storms. But every
day that possibility, such as it was, would grow less. It would be
madness for the girl to wait. She had crossed the mountain once; she
knew the way; and if the winds should permit rescuers to come to her
they would permit her to go to them. It was her only chance, however
desperate; to remain where she was meant certain death.
Fourth. She would not, it was quite clear, stir from his side as long
as he was alive. Therefore he must do quickly what he had tried to do
before.
The idea was so familiar to him by now that it required no contemplation.
He raised his head, and looked toward the stone where his revolver lay;
and then toward the aspen grove where Marion labored. His gaze rested
on her for some minutes. It was too late for her to start to-night,
even if there were no storm on the mountain. And if he did it now she
would face a night of solitude and terror, perhaps would not live
through it. He would wait till morning; and when she should have gone
for wood, or water--
She came back presently with an armload of small limbs she had hacked
from the youngest trees. Her left hand bled where she had awkwardly
struck it with the hatchet; and there were tears in her eyes, which
she tried to conceal from him. He was sorry for her--and angry. It was
not his fault; he had done all he could, even to brutality.
"Did you tell Huntington, or his wife, what you were going to do?" was
his first speech.
"No. But I sent Mr. Smythe--he rode with me as far as Norton's--I sent
him back with a message that I was going to stop the night at
Murray's."
"And the Murrays? What did you tell them?"
"That I'd be back before night. But why do you ask?"
"I'm thinking that Smythe is a fool, and Murray is a blockhead."
"They did all they could to stop me," she answered quietly.
She had begun to strip the bark and twigs from the green limbs; and he
watched her crude efforts for a moment.
"I think I might manage that part of it," he said at length. "You must
build a fire."
She started to obey him, but stopped short, and looked at him in
sudden fear and suspicion.
"No, you can trust me with the knife," he said. "I promise."
She handed the limbs and the knife to him; and he saw that her hands
trembled.
"You'll find plenty of dead wood at the edge of the forest," he said.
"Don't venture far among the trees."
The shadows were deepening along the other side of the meadow, and he
watched her a little anxiously while she made half a dozen trips for
dry limbs and small chunks of half-rotted logs. And now she felt a
curious thrill as she began to employ the knowledge she had gained on
her camping expedition. She had never dreamed that it would be so
useful to her! And she found new courage in thinking, while she
worked, how all her life she had been undergoing preparation,
training, education for this hour. She wished that she might run to
Philip and tell him all this--and of her faith! But he would not
understand her.
Soon a fine fire was crackling on the grass, against one of the
largest stones that had fallen from the cliff. Then she brought a
small package from her bundle, and made a cup of hot chocolate for
Haig and another for herself. This, with a small slice of bread for
each of them, made their supper for that day; for such provisions as
they possessed must be treasured scrupulously.
Haig had by this time finished trimming the aspen sticks; and by the
fading light of day and the red light of the fire they set to work to
mend the broken leg. Between them they knew something of surgery: she
by recollecting all that she had seen in her father's office, where
she had more than once helped Doctor Gaylord with his needles and
bandages; he by recalling experiences on battlefields, in lumber
camps, and in various rough places of the world. She brought his
blankets, and helped him to move until he lay flat on them, with his
head propped against a stone. Then the leg was stripped, and the
ordeal began.
It was not the pain so much as the uselessness of it that exasperated
Haig; and he was tempted to drive her away from him, and have no more
of it. But this, he realized, would only have caused more arguments,
and tears, and protestations, and perhaps the revelation of his
purpose. So he endured it to satisfy and divert her.
Luckily the fracture was a simple one; and with strips of linen for
which Marion sacrificed some of her scanty supply of clothing, and the
thin sticks of tough aspen wood, the leg was bound straight and firm.
"If we only knew!" said Marion at last, leaning back to contemplate
her work.
"Knew what?" he asked between his teeth.
"If it's right!"
Between pain and rage he could not answer her; and thinking that he
was near to a collapse, she ran for water and bathed his face, and
gave him a little of the precious whisky that remained in her flask.
After that he lay quiet, and she went to her preparations for the
night.
The vale now lay in deep blackness, impenetrable walls of it beyond
the red circle of firelight. The cliff made a dim, dark line against
the blue-black sky; the forest on the other side a ragged tracery. The
stars were few, and far. A low breeze murmured among the pines, and
swept softly, but very cold, across the meadow. Marion began to feel
the chill; and having wrapped Philip's blanket tight around him, and
spread over him the leather coat she had found in his bundle, she
heaped more wood on the fire, and sat down before it, with her
blankets around her, and her rifle at her side, to watch and wait.
She was very tired, but she dared not lie down to sleep. A long time
she sat there, glancing now and then at Haig, where he lay very still,
and oftener out into the blackness. But drowsiness gradually overcame
her, and her head sank forward on her uplifted knees.
She was awakened by a terrifying cry that rang shivering across the
valley. She started to her feet, and listened. It must have been a
dream, she thought. No! There it was again--a cry that started low,
like a child's peevish wail, and ended in a piercing scream. She
grabbed up her rifle, and stood peering into the darkness.
"Don't be afraid!" said the voice of Haig from the edge of the
firelight. "It's only a bobcat. He'll not come near the fire."
"Thank you--Philip!" she answered. Then, with a nervous laugh: "It did
frighten me, though!"
She stood a moment, still listening. But the cry came no more.
"Aren't you sleeping?" she asked softly.
"No."
With trembling limbs, and eyes fixed on the darkness from whence had
come the scream, she stepped cautiously to the pile of wood, and threw
more limbs and bits of logs into the blaze. Then she seated herself
again, resolved that she would not fall asleep. But presently she
started to her feet in another panic at sight of a dark form moving in
the blackness. But it was only Tuesday, coming nearer to the fire, as
if he too had been alarmed by the wild beast's cry. She settled down
once more to her vigil, her rifle across her lap.
In spite of her resolution, her head sank to her knees again, and she
was aroused at length by the cold. It bit through the blankets and
clothing into the flesh of her limbs; sharp shivers ran up and down
her back; and she was very miserable. Rising stiffly, she walked a
while before the fire until she stumbled from weariness; then sat down
again, and nodded, only to be waked by the frost gnawing at her flesh.
Again and again she slept and woke in accentuated misery. But finally
she saw, with unspeakable relief, that the stars were paling in their
blue-black vault. She turned toward Thunder Mountain, and watched the
dim line of the cliff sharpening against the whitening sky. Yet all
was blackness in the gulch, and it seemed a long time before a soft
gray light began to steal in upon the red light of the fire, and a new
crispness came into the air. She waited until she could make out the
forms of trees across the valley, shrouded in thin morning mist,
before she threw the last few sticks of wood on the dying fire, and
crept to the side of Haig, where she lay down close beside him, with
her blankets wrapped around her. There she fell into a heavy sleep,
and did not waken until the sun, rising above Thunder Mountain, shone
warm in her face.
For some seconds she lay luxuriating in the warmth that seemed
incredible after that night of cold and terror. Then she moved softly,
raised herself on one elbow, and looked at Philip. He slept. His face
was haggard under his three days' growth of beard. She leaned over
him, and pressed her lips ever so lightly to his forehead. He did not
stir.
Tuesday grazed a few yards away; the vale lay green and peaceful in
the sunlight; and from the pine woods, where that hideous cry had
lifted in the night, came now only the gentle murmur of the breeze in
the massed foliage. By contrast with the chill horror of the night,
the scene was positively exhilarating; and Marion rose to her work
with hope throbbing through every vein, and courage singing along
every nerve of her body.
First she fetched wood to renew the fire, now only a heap of
smouldering embers. That done, she went to make her toilet in the
brook, with the soap and towel she had stowed in her bundle for the
shooting trip. Poor Seth! she thought, with a momentary pang; he would
not get the deer he wanted, after all. And by this thought was set in
motion a little current of regrets that filled her mind until it was
diverted by the stream. She had intended only to wash her face and
hands, now grimy after her labors at the fire. But chance led her to
a deep, still pool with a bottom of fine sand and a tiny shore of
pebbles that seemed to have been designed for bathing. Temptation
seized her, and on the very impulse, seeing that a clump of willows
screened her from the camp, she eagerly undressed, and plunged into
the water, uttering quick gasps at the cold contact, and short-clipped
shrieks of pleasure.
And so, behold a marvel! Three days ago, in the security and
familiarity of the Park, where no hardships or perils threatened, and
where she knew that Philip was safe in his cottage across the ridge,
and that her own pink bedroom awaited her at night, so deep was she in
dejection that nothing could have induced an outburst of mere physical
enjoyment such as this. But now, while Philip lay on his blankets, a
prisoner in that narrow vale, and death stood at her side uncovered
and undisguised, her spirits rose as they had never risen since her
confession, on Mount Avalanche, and if Haig had been listening he
might have heard her low laughter across the meadow.
Had she yet failed to realize her situation? Or was it that tragedy
had put on its comic mask, and laughed at death? The truth is simple.
Her faith had triumphed over what seemed to be insuperable obstacles;
and she was with Philip, for better or for worse. A miracle had been
wrought; and miracles are not meaningless, or idle, or without
purpose. It was a feeling perhaps unknown to man, who is merely a
reasoning creature, much given to material consideration of natural
causes and effects, and so compelled by his limitations to grope in
outer darkness. And it was not so much a feeling as an instinct, and
not so much an instinct as a law, of which she was the involuntary
instrument. Her purpose was so strong within her that there was no
need of thought; and so she did not think.
Leaping to the pebbly bank, she rubbed herself swiftly with the towel,
and felt the glow of health rushing through her body, all pink and
gleaming in the sun. Then she dressed, and combed her hair; rinsed and
wrung out the towel, and hung it on the willow-limbs to dry; and
started back toward the camp in the highest spirits, and eager for
service. And then, at twenty paces, she was stricken cold and rigid by
the sight that met her unsuspecting eyes.
Haig had left his blankets, and was now dragging himself like a
wounded animal along the earth. Already he had covered more than half
the distance to the rock on which his revolver lay; and it seemed as
if she would stand rooted there in helpless horror until he reached
it. Then, with an incautious cry, she bounded forward. Haig heard her,
and flung himself toward the stone with reckless determination. Where
he had inches, Marion had yards to go; it was a race that might, in
another age, have done credit to the ingenuity of a Roman emperor. If
Philip was mad with pain and anger, Marion was frantic with fear and
love. It seemed to her that the turf gripped her feet, that the wind
in her face would strangle her, that her skirts were leaden sheets
around her knees. And she barely resisted falling in a senseless heap
when, at ten yards from the goal, she saw that she would be too late.
He beat her to the rock by merely a few seconds; but he was fairly
spent. His fingers bled where he had dug them into the sand; the sweat
rolled down his face; and exhaustion bound him as with bands of iron.
Yet he was able to reach for the gun, and clutch it; and with a final
effort that seemed to tear the heart from his breast, he dragged the
weapon under him, pressed the muzzle upward, pulled the trigger, at
the very instant that Marion threw herself upon him.
There was a muffled report, the fumes stung their eyes and nostrils,
and for a moment both lay still. Then Marion felt a movement under
her, and guessed that Haig was fumbling with the revolver. An
indescribable energy seized her, something tigerish in its fury, and
beyond her own proper powers, so that she flung him over on his back
as if he had been a child in strength and size. With both hands she
gripped the wrist below the clutched revolver, and while she held it
away from his body she drew her own body over his, and threw herself
on his extended arm, between his hand and his breast.
There was a savage struggle still, the man affirming his right to die,
and the woman denying it. But the issue could not be long in doubt;
for Haig's strength was at the ebb, while Marion's flowed in from
earth and air and sky, from the future and from the past. And she wore
him down at last, until the revolver dropped from his grasp, his
eyelids closed, his limbs relaxed, and he lay still. Waiting a moment
for certainty, she cautiously loosened one of her hands from his
wrist, and grabbed the revolver, and flung it with all her might.
Then, seeing it land twenty feet away on the grass, she rolled away
from him, and sat up panting, hollow-eyed, disheveled, and trembling
on the verge of a collapse.
For some seconds there was no sound but their labored breathing; and
not until Haig opened his eyes and looked at her, with a hunted,
baffled, and still defiant expression in their somber depths, did
Marion break down. Then suddenly, after a premonitory quivering of her
chin, she buried her face in her hands, and wept without more effort
at restraint, in utter abandonment to her agony. Haig watched, at
first in anger, and then in some confusion of emotions. Once before he
had looked upon her thus bowed and shaken; and now as then he felt a
strange upheaval, and an unfathomable sensation that had no likeness
to anything he had ever before experienced. He wanted very much to
speak to her, but could not trust himself; and after all, what was
there to be said?
It was she who rescued him from irresolution. She dropped her hands
from her face, and cried out in a voice that was broken with sobbing:
"Why, Philip, why did you do that?"
"Why?" he asked, in something like amazement.
"Yes."
"I've already told you why."
"But--no--you haven't told me!"
"It was to save you--for one thing."
"To save me?"
"I told you that your only chance is to go at once."
"But I told you I wouldn't go!"
"I know. That's the reason."
"But--don't you know, Philip, that--don't you see that--if you killed
yourself you'd--kill me too?"
There should have been no necessity for these words. Perhaps any other
man in the world, certainly most men of far less intelligence and less
acuteness of feeling, would have known long ago just what she meant.
He knew, indeed, that this girl loved him; but he did not believe that
she or any other woman was capable of the sacrifice implied in her
answer.
"You mean that--you would have--" He hesitated.
"Yes."
There ensued a silence that fell like a mist between them, through
which neither knew the way. She saw that he had begun, by ever so
little, to understand; and she feared to say more lest a wrong word
should overtake a right one. As for Haig, his incredulity persisted
notwithstanding the unquestionable sincerity of her speech. He did not
doubt that she contemplated, in this moment of emotion, the complete
and final sacrifice. But he was quite convinced that she would take a
different view of the situation when the test should come. She did not
yet appreciate, he argued, the peril of their position; she had not
realized the hazard of her adventure or she never would have
undertaken it; and undoubtedly she still thought there would be a way
out for them. Under such a delusion it was easy for her, he concluded,
to talk about dying with him. But she was tragically in error. His
eyes lifted to the cliff. She should have been up there on her return
hours ago. Now it was too late again; for the clouds were black and
ugly on the summit, and a distant roaring came to his ears; and he
knew what was happening or in preparation in the middle of the flat.
But he must find a way to send her up that trail at dawn the next day;
and his gaze dropped to where the revolver lay just visible in the
thin grass into which she had thrown it.