The Forest Ranger's Story
Perhaps the motive that, in Fairlands, had restrained the artist from
seeking to know his neighbor was without force in the mountains. Perhaps
it was that, in the unconventional freedom of the hills, the man obeyed
more readily his impulse. Aaron King did not stop to question. As though
in answer to the call of that spirit which spoke in the tones of the
violin, he moved in the direction from which the music came.
Climbing out of the bed of the stream to the bench that slopes hack--a
quarter of a mile, perhaps--to the foot of the canyon wall, he found
himself in an old road that, where it once crossed the creek, had been
destroyed by the mountain floods. Wonderingly he followed the dimly marked
track that led through the chaparral toward a thicket of cedars, from
beyond which the music seemed to come. Where the road curved to find its
way through the green barrier he paused--the musician, undoubtedly, now,
was just beyond. Still acting upon the impulse of the moment, he
cautiously parted the boughs and peered through into a little, open glade
that was closed in on every side by the rank growth of the mountain
vegetation, by the thicket of dark cedars and by tangled masses of wild
rose-bushes. Opposite the spot where he stood, and half concealed by great
sycamore trees, was a small, log house with a thread of blue smoke curling
lazily from the chimney. The place was another of those old ranches that
had been purchased by the Power Company and permitted to go back to the
wilderness from which it had been won by some hardy settler. The little
plot of open ground--well sodded with firm turf and short-cropped by
roving cattle and deer--had evidently been, at one time, the front yard of
the mountaineer's home. A little out from the porch, and in full view of
the artist,--her graceful form outlined against the background of wild
roses,--stood Sibyl Andrés with her violin.
As the girl played,--her winsome face upturned to the mountain heights and
her body, lightly poised, swaying with the movement of her arm as easily
as a willow bough,--she appeared, to the man hidden in the cedars, as some
beautiful spirit of the woods and hills--a spirit that would vanish
instantly if he should step from his hiding place. He was so close that he
could see her blue eyes, wide and unmindful of her surroundings; her lips,
curved in an unconscious smile; and her cheeks, flushed with emotion under
their warm brown tint--as she appeared to listen for the music that she,
in turn,--seemingly with no effort of her will,--gave forth again in the
tones of the instrument under her chin.
Aaron King was moved by the beauty of the picture as he had never been
stirred before. The peculiar charm of the music; the loveliness of the
girl herself; the setting of the scene in the little glade with its wild
roses, giant sycamores, dark cedars, and encircling mountain walls, all in
the soft mystery of the twilight's beginning; and, withal, the
unexpectedness of the vision--combined to make an impression upon the
artist's mind that would endure for many years.
Suddenly, as he watched, the music ceased. The girl lowered her violin,
and, with a low laugh, said to some one on the porch--concealed from the
painter by the trunk of a sycamore--"O Myra, I want to dance. I can't keep
still. I'm so glad, glad to be home again--to see old 'San Berdo' and
'Gray Back' and all the rest of them up there!" She stretched out her arms
as if in answer to a welcome from the hills. Then, whirling quickly, she
gave the violin to her companion on the porch. "Play, Myra; please, dear,
play."
At her word, the music of the violin began again--coming now, from behind
the trunk of the sycamore. In the hands of the unseen musician, the
instrument laughed and sang a song of joyous abandonment--of freedom and
rejoicing--of happiness and love--while in perfect harmony with the spirit
and the rhythm of the melody, the girl danced upon the firm, green carpet
of grass. Here and there, to and fro, about the little glade shut in from
the world by its walls of living green, she tripped and whirled in
unstudied grace--lightly as if winged--unconscious as the wild creatures
that play in the depths of the woods--wayward as the zephyr that trips
along the mountainside.
It was a spontaneous expression of her spiritual and physical exaltation
and was as natural as the laughter in her voice or the flush upon her
cheeks. It was a dance that was like no dance that Aaron King had ever
seen.
The artist--watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the old
wagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision should
vanish--forgot his position--forgot what he was doing. Fascinated by the
scene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had so
often heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude part
he was playing. He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand upon
his shoulder. As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and he
found himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many years
in the open.
The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist's attention stood
a little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, but
full-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred. He wore no coat.
At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full,
loosely buckled, cartridge belt. Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shield
of the United States Forest Service. From under the brim of his slouch
hat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly--in angry disapproval.
Instinctively, neither of the men spoke. A word would have been heard the
other side of the cedars. With a gesture commanding the artist to follow,
the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek.
When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girl
in the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, "Now, sir, perhaps
you will tell me who you are and what you mean by spying upon a couple of
women, like that."
The other could not conceal his embarrassment. "I don't blame you for
calling me to account," he said. "If it were me--if our positions were
reversed I mean--I should kick you down into the creek there."
The cold, blue eyes--that had been measuring the painter so
shrewdly--twinkled with a hint of humor. "You _do_ look like a gentleman,
you know," the officer said,--as if excusing himself for not following the
artist's suggestion. "But, all the same, you must explain. Who are you?"
"That part is easy, at least," returned the other. "Though the
circumstance of our meeting _is_ a temptation to lie."
"Which would do you no good, and might lead to unpleasant complications,"
retorted the Ranger, sharply.
The man under question, still embarrassed, laughed shortly, as he
returned, "I really was not thinking of it seriously. My name is Aaron
King. I am an artist. You are Mr. Oakley, I suppose."
The officer nodded--beginning to smile. "Yes, I am Brian Oakley."
The artist continued, "A month ago, Conrad Lagrange and I came into the
mountains for an outing. We stopped at the Station, but there was no one
at home. Most of the time, we have been just roaming around. Now, we are
camped down there, back of that old apple orchard."
The Ranger broke into a laugh. "Mrs. Oakley was visiting friends up the
canyon, the day you came in; but Morton told me. I've crossed your trail a
dozen times, and sighted you nearly as many; but I was always too busy to
go to you. I knew Lagrange didn't need any attention, you see; so I just
figured on meeting up with you somewhere by accident like--about meal
time, mebbe." He laughed again. "The accident part worked out all right."
He paused, still laughing--enjoying the artist's discomfiture; then ended
with a curious--"What in thunder were you sneaking around in the brush
like that for, anyway? Those women won't bite."
Aaron King explained how he had heard the music while fishing; and how,
following the sound, he had acted upon an impulse to catch a glimpse of
the unknown musician before revealing himself; and then, in his interest,
had forgotten that he was playing the part of a spy--until so rudely
aroused by the hand of the Ranger.
Brian Oakley chuckled; "If _I'd_ acted upon impulse when I first saw you
peeking through those cedars, you would have been more surprised than you
were. But while I was sneaking up on you I noticed your get-up--with your
creel and rod--and figured how you might have come there. So I thought I
would go a little slow."
"And you wear rather heavy boots too," said the artist suggestively. Then,
more at ease, he joined in the laugh at himself.
"Catch any fish?" asked the Ranger--lifting the cover of the creel.
"Whee!" as he saw the contents. "That's bully! And I'm hungry as a she
wolf too! Been in the saddle since sunup without a bite. What do you say
if I make that long deferred social call upon you and Lagrange this
evening?"
"I say, good! Mr. Oakley," returned the artist, heartily. "I guess you
know what Lagrange will say."
"You bet I do." He whistled--a low, birdlike note. In answer, a beautiful,
chestnut saddle-horse came out of the chaparral, where it had not been
seen by the painter. "We're going, Max," said the officer, in a
matter-of-fact way. And, as the two men set out, the horse followed, with
a business-like air that brought a word of admiring comment from the
artist.
That Aaron King had won the approval of the Ranger was evidenced by the
mountaineer's inviting himself to supper the camp in the sycamores. The
fact that the officer considerately told Conrad Lagrange only that he had
met the artist with his creel full of trout, and so had been tempted to
accompany him, won the enduring gratitude of the young man. Thus the
circumstances of their meeting introduced each to the other, with
recommendations of peculiar value, and marked the beginning of a genuine
and lasting friendship. But, while, out of delicate regard for the
artist's feelings, he refrained from relating the--to the young
man--embarrassing incident, Brian Oakley could not resist making, at every
opportunity, sly references to their meeting--for the painter's benefit
and his own amusement. Thus it happened that, after supper, as they sat
with their pipes, the talk turned upon Sibyl Andrés and the woman with the
disfigured face.
The Ranger, to tease the artist, had remarked casually,--after
complimenting them upon the location of their camp,--"And you've got some
mighty nice neighbors, less than a mile above too."
"Neighbors!" ejaculated Conrad Lagrange--in a tone that left no doubt as
to his sentiment in the matter.
The others laughed; while the officer said, "Oh, I know how _you_ feel!
You think you don't want anybody poaching on your preserves. You're up
here in the hills to get away from people, and all that. But you don't
need to be uneasy. You won't even see these folks--unless you sneak up on
them." He stole a look at the artist, and chuckled maliciously as the
painter covertly shook his fist at him. "You may _hear_ them though."
"Which would probably be as bad," retorted the novelist, gruffly.
"Oh, I don't know!" returned the other. "You might be able to stand it. I
don't reckon you would object to a little music now and then, would
you?--_real_ music, I mean."
"So our neighbors are musical, are they?" The novelist seemed slightly
interested.
"Sibyl Andrés is the most accomplished violinist I have ever heard," said
the Ranger. "And I haven't always lived in these mountains, you know. As
for Myra Willard--well--she taught Sibyl--though she doesn't pretend to
equal her now."
Conrad Lagrange was interested, now, in earnest He turned to the artist,
eagerly--but with caution--"Do you suppose it could be our neighbors in
the orange grove, Aaron?"
Brian Oakley watched them with quiet amusement.
"I know it is," returned the artist.
"You know it is!" ejaculated the other.
"Sure--I heard the violin this afternoon. While I was fishing," he added
hastily, when the Ranger laughed.
The novelist commented savagely, "Seems to me you're mighty careful about
keeping your news to yourself!"
This brought another burst of merriment from the mountaineer.
When the two men had explained to the Ranger about the music in the orange
grove, Conrad Lagrange related how they had first heard that cry in the
night; and how, when they had gone to the neighboring house, they had seen
the woman of the disfigured face standing in the doorway.
"It was Miss Willard who cried out," said Brian Oakley, quietly. "She
dreams, sometimes, of the accident--or whatever it was--that left her with
those scars--at least, that's what I think it is. Certainly it's no
ordinary dream that would make a woman cry like that. The first time I
heard her--the first time that she ever did it, in fact--she and Sibyl
were stopping over night at my house. It was three years ago. Jim Rutlidge
had just come West, on his first trip, and was up in the hills on a hunt.
He happened along about sundown, and when he stepped into the room and
Myra saw him, I thought she would faint. He looked like some one she had
known--she said. And that night she gave that horrible cry. Lord! but it
threw a fright into me. My wife didn't get over being nervous, for a week.
Myra explained that she had dreamed--but that's all she would say. I
figured that being upset by Rutlidge's reminding her of some one she had
known started her mind to going on the past--and then she dreamed of
whatever it was that gave her those scars."
"You have known Miss Willard a long time, haven't you, Brian?" asked
Conrad Lagrange, with the freedom of an old comrade--for men may grow
closer together in one short season in the mountains than in years of
meeting daily in the city.
"I've known her ever since she came into the hills. That was the year
Sibyl was born. All that anybody knows is what has happened since. Sibyl's
mother, even--a month before she died--told me that Myra's history, before
she came to them, was as unknown to her as it was the day she stopped at
their door."
"I can't get over the feeling that I ought to know her--that I have seen
her somewhere, years ago," said the novelist, by way of explaining his
interest.
"Then it was before she got those scars," returned the Ranger. "No one
could ever forget her face as it is now."
"At the same time," commented the artist, "the scars would prevent your
identifying her if she received them after you had known her."
"All the same," said Conrad Lagrange,--as though his mind was bothered by
his inability to establish some incident in his memory,--"I'll place her
yet. Do you mind, Brian, telling us what you _do_ know of her?"
"Why, not at all," returned the officer. "The story is anybody's property.
Its being so well known is probably the reason you didn't hear it when you
were up here before.
"Sibyl's father and mother were here in the mountains when I came. They
lived up there at the old place where Myra and Sibyl are camping now, and
I never expect to meet finer people--either in this world or the next. For
twenty years I knew them intimately. Will Andrés was as true and square
and white a man as ever lived and Nelly was just as good a woman as he was
a man. They and my wife and I were more like brothers and sisters than
most folks who are actually blood kin.
"One day, along toward sundown, about a month before Sibyl was born, Nelly
heard the dogs barking and went to see what was up. There stood Myra
Willard at the gate--like she'd dropped out of the sky. Where she came
from God only knows--except that she'd walked from some station on the
railroad over toward the pass. She was just about all in; and, of course,
Nelly had her into the house and was fixing her up in no time. She wanted
to work, but admitted that she had never done much housework. She said,
straight out, that they should never know more about her than they knew,
then; but insisted that she was not a bad woman. At first, Will and I were
against it for, of course, it was easy to see that she was trying to get
away from something. But the women--Nelly and my wife--somehow, believed
in her, and--with the baby due to arrive in a month and any kind of help
hard to get--they carried the day. Well, sir, she made good. If twenty
years acquaintance goes for anything, she's one of God's own kind, and I
don't care a damn what her history is.
"We soon saw that she was educated and refined, and--as you can see for
yourself--she must have been remarkably beautiful before she got so
disfigured. When the baby was born, she just took the little one into her
poor, broken heart like it had been her own, until Sibyl hardly knew which
was her own mother. When the girl was old enough for school, Myra begged
Will and Nelly to let her teach the child. She was always sending for
books and it was about that time that she sent for a violin. The girl took
to music like a bird. And--well--that's the way Sibyl was raised. She's
got all the education that the best of them have--even to French and
Italian and German--and she's missed some things that the schools teach
outside of their text-books. She has a library--given to her mostly by
Myra, a book at a time--that represents the best of the world's best
writers. You know what her music is. But, hell!"--the Ranger interrupted
himself with an apologetic laugh--"I'm supposed to be talking about Myra
Willard. I don't know as I'm so far off, either, because what Sibyl
is--aside from her natural inheritance from Will and Nelly--Myra has made
her.
"When Will was killed by those Mexican outlaws,--which is a story in
itself,--Nelly sold the ranch to the Power Company, and bought an orange
grove in Fairlands--which was the thing for her to do, as she and Myra
could handle that sort of property, and the ranch had to go, anyway.
Before Nelly died, she and I talked things over, and she put everything in
Myra's hands, in trust for the girl. Later, Myra sold the grove and the
house where you men live, now, and bought the little place next
door--putting the rest of the money into gilt-edged securities in Sibyl's
name; which insures the girl against want, for years to come. Sibyl helps
out their income with her music. And that's the story, boys, except that
they come up here into the mountains, every summer, to spend a month or so
in the old home place."
The Ranger rose to go.
"But do you think it is safe for those women to stay up there alone?"
asked Aaron King.
Brian Oakley laughed. "Safe! You don't know Myra Willard! Sibyl, herself,
can pick a squirrel out of the tallest pine in the mountains with her
six-shooter. Will and I taught her all we knew, as she grew up. Besides,
you see, I drop in every day or so, to see that they're all right." He
laughed meaningly as he added,--to Conrad Lagrange for the artist's
benefit,--"I'm going to tell them, though, that Sibyl must be careful how
she goes dancing around these hills--now that she has such distinguished
but irresponsible neighbors."
He whistled--and the chestnut horse was at his side before the echo of
their laughter died away.
With a "so-long," the Ranger rode away into the night.