THE CAMPING TRIP AND “PETER PAN”
It was several days after Bess’ thrilling adventure before her nerves
were again calm and steady and before her muscles had recovered from
their soreness. While she felt reluctant to lie in bed, and was sorry
because of the extra worry and work which she caused, still it was
delicious to experience a mother’s solicitude. No word of reproof
had Mrs. West given her, only kindness, attention and anxiety. Bess
secretly wished that some one would administer to her the censure which
she felt she richly deserved. And yet, how it smarted when it came one
morning, just before James and Henry West were about to start on the
fall round-up.
They had come into Bess’ sunlit room to say good-bye. Her soft, white
hand was enclosed for a moment firmly in West’s hard and sunburned
palm. He did not dare speak lest the tremor in his voice should betray
him to both sister and brother. As James bent over his sister, with a
kiss, he said, “Remember Bess, no more foolish escapades—,” but a firm
grasp on his arm checked the words and led him from the room before
he could see the welling, nervous tears fill her brown eyes—and then
splash on her tightly folded hands.
“What’s the use, Jim old boy—she has had all she can bear already!” she
heard the quarter-breed say as they went away.
James turned and quickly re-entered his sister’s room. Taking her in
his arms he kissed away her tears and left her consoled and happy once
more.
“Hurry and be yourself again, Bess, for the camping trip next week. I
only wish the round-up were over so that Henry and I might go, too.
We’ll see you and the Kalispell friends in camp as we go over by the
Big Arm. Guess we can find the place. So long—sister—” and throwing her
a kiss from the door he hurried to join West, who was already in the
saddle and anxious to be off.
Bess had been looking forward to the novelty of camp life ever since
the invitation had come to her from Mrs. West’s friends at Kalispell.
She was to meet them on the fifth of September on the south side of the
Big Arm of the Lake, directly opposite Wild Horse Island. Here they
were to camp and hunt small game and fish for ten days.
Bess arose with the sun on the morning of the fifth, and was soon ready
to start for camp, accompanied by one of the ranch-men whom Mrs. West
had ordered to ride with the girl and pack her baggage.
“I wish you were going too, little Mother,” said Bess earnestly as she
hurried about, finishing her preparations.
“It would be enjoyable I’m sure, but I cannot think of it this time,
dear. Come home strong and safe, won’t you?”
What a magnificent morning! Just a hint of autumn in the bracing air,
while a soft, hazy atmosphere veiled the mountains and nestled on the
ripples of the lake. The sun had not yet mounted high enough to dry the
dew which lay on the grass and dampened the trail. Fifteen miles toward
the north-west was the place where camp was to be made, the man had
told Bess in response to her question, how far would they ride?
As they crossed the ferry, all the events of the recent tragedy surged
over her, and as her hand clasped the beaded belt it sought the place
where the iron hold had broken the threads and loosened the beads. An
unknown and foreign sensation seemed to sweep over her; a sharp pain,
incomprehensible, clutched her heart as she again felt the embrace of
her rescuer. He stood out clear, full and bold before her mind’s eye in
a strange new light! The thought of another man forced itself into her
mind, and she was startled from her musings as the ferry touched the
shore by a well known voice.
“Good morning; this is a most unexpected pleasure! You seemed deeply
absorbed as I watched you coming across. I hope you were thinking of
me!”
“I was, Mr. Davis—just then,” answered Bess as she accepted the
outstretched hand.
“I had intended to call at the _HW_ Ranch this morning in the hope of
seeing you, and here I find you evidently going on a visit.”
The cowboy who was accompanying Bess led the horses off the ferry and
down the rocky beach for water.
“Bess—dear—it seems ages since I have seen you. Why have I not had a
line from you? Can’t you know that I am eating my heart out because of
your coldness!”
“Really, Mr. Davis—I have not been very well—and could not gather
enough energy to write. Wait until I return from my camping trip and
I’ll write and tell you all about it,” answered Bess as she turned to
leave, seeing that the horses had drank their fill and were waiting for
her.
“Stay a moment! Where are you going? May I go with you?”
“Ah, you were not invited,” she answered, laughingly. “Why, you see
I am to be in camp ten days with some friends from Kalispell who are
coming down for the fall birds.”
“Oh, yes—I sent a permit to Mr. George and party to hunt on the
reserve, and I also received an invitation to visit camp. Now that you
are to be there too, may I not hope for a second invitation from you,
dear?”
His voice took that fascinating tone which always sent an undefinable
thrill through her, and his eyes held her own in a long, steady look.
“We—camp on the Big Arm—perhaps—you can find it,” came from her lips
with an effort.
Davis felt hurt that his request was not answered more heartily, but he
concealed his chagrin with a smile of assurance that he would come.
The happy, alert girl saw a subtle change stealing over nature and knew
that autumn had come.
How delicious was the aroma of the firs and pines as the horses went
along the shaded road through the long stretch of timber! Occasionally
through the tangle of scrub-maples, whose bright green foliage was
splashed here and there by a scarlet leaf, one caught a glimpse of the
deep blue, glistening lake and the mountains on its east shore. Tiny
squirrels and chipmunks were scampering over fallen logs or chattering
high up in the tamarack branches. Every rock and stump was beautiful
with its creeping wreath of kinnikinick, whose glossy foliage and large
scarlet berries puts to shame the holly. On the buck-brush hung great,
white snow-drops, while the wild rose bushes were heavy with scarlet
fruit.
The whirr of a pheasant through the underbrush caused Mauchacho to
prick up his ears and quicken his pace. A blue grouse with her late
brood scurried across the road seeking the shelter of the thicket.
Bess wished she too were some dainty feathered creature, happy in the
solitude of the woods, free from all restraint, secure within the
sheltering arms of the earth. Oh! to creep away off under the tender
green branches; to clasp her arms about the rough bark of the pine
trees; to rest her cheek upon the redolent grasses! On the outstretched
limb of a charred pine tree sat a large, blinking owl. Great tufts of
grey feathers covered his legs and claws, while at his throat shone the
purest white.
Bess raised an imaginary gun with a deliberate aim, and immediately Mr.
Owl stretched his large white and grey wings and was out of sight.
“Oh, see!” cried the girl, as only a few yards ahead of them there
sprang across the trail a white-tailed doe and fawn! Only for a brief
instant did they pause, then went crashing through the timber and
brush, flirting defiant good-byes with their white flags. The cowboy
was watching surreptitiously from the corner of his eye the pleasure
and animation which Bess was enjoying. Her brown eyes danced and
filled; her cheeks flamed as if touched with an Indian’s paintbrush,
suggesting an autumn leaf through her brown, fluffy hair. Her enjoyment
was keen because of a sweet and sensitive temperament alive to the
surroundings and susceptible to the wonders of nature.
“Did you hear that?” asked Bess of her companion.
“Yes—that was the boat whistle. Your party are probably near their
landing place. Guess we have about three miles more to go before we
reach there.”
In a short time they again came into full view of the great, blue lake.
How immense it was! The Great Arm alone was a lake. To the right lay
Wild Horse Island; the camping ground must be very near. Had it not
been for the sound of voices or the driving of tent-stakes the camp
would have been hard to locate, so snugly was it concealed among the
trees and by a thicket of cottonwoods and small pines.
It was a busy scene which Bess saw as she rode into camp. Already the
tents were being pitched; boxes and bundles and guns were being carried
from the beach; beautiful setters were sniffing at every leaf and twig;
while over near the branches of an overhanging cedar, Joe, the colored
cook, with white cap, coat and apron deftly donned had already lighted
a fire preparatory for the first meal. Cheery greetings of welcome were
exchanged as Bess slid from her saddle and each one of the girls seemed
bent upon talking loudest and longest.
“Oh! girls—girls—save a little breath or else you won’t have enough to
last ten days!” called Mrs. Bland, with the authority of a chaperon,
but her voice was not heard above the laughing and chattering of the
other three. Such a time pumping up the air-beds, shaking blankets,
unpacking satchels, arranging rugs and adjusting the other things in
the ladies’ boudoir!
“Little Honey” (as Mrs. Bland’s little daughter had been nicknamed) was
too engrossed trying to attire herself in new, blue overalls and a
boy’s “really” shirt, to be interested in her surroundings. Tucking her
braids under a big, straw hat, then thrusting her tiny fists deep into
the spacious pockets, she cried gleefully,—“Well, Mother—Here’s Peter
Pan.” Undaunted by the teasings and laughter of the other girls “Peter
Pan” strode out of the tent to show herself to the “other boys.”
“Oh, you dogs! Charge! Lady! Jack Down! Charge, Gladstone! Didn’t you
dogs ever see a boy before!” she cried amid frantic efforts to ward off
the playful, eager animals. Just then she heard the rattle of wheels
and ran to meet Mr. George who had driven down from Kalispell so that
the horses and light wagon could be used in going to the good hunting
fields each day.
“I’m ‘Peter Pan,’ and these pockets are so handy, and it is so much
easier to climb that I guess I’ll just stay a boy,” she announced as
she clambered into the seat beside Mr. George and reached for the reins.
Such a hungry, hearty “bunch” as sat down to dinner! How the aroma
of the forest and the sweet, pine laden air whetted their appetites!
“Peter Pan” could not get enough bread with its thick layer of
apple-sauce. Joe, the cook, looked on with trepidation and wondered how
long the larder would supply the demand.
“Never mind, Joe; don’t look so worried, we’ll have birds for supper,”
said one of the men, as he arose from the table and began filling his
hunting vest with shells. The snap of the barrel of a shotgun brought
all three dogs up with a bound, so eager were they to feel the feathers
of a retrieve. At sundown, when the tired men and still more weary
dogs came dragging themselves back into camp, each bore evidence of
his spoils. Through the carriers were hung the limp-stretched necks of
a covey, while the several feathers still sticking to the dogs’ jaws,
proved how faithfully and well they had done their work.
“Come with me Miss—Miss Flet—”
“Just call me Bess, it’s easier.”
“Miss Bess, if you will come with me we’ll give the dogs their supper,”
said “Peter Pan,” as she led the way to where the dog biscuits had been
placed. The dogs were all seated on their haunches waiting with hungry
stomachs for their meal.
“These are dreadfully hard things to feed you, poor dogs,” said the
tiny girl, as she tried in vain to break the biscuits. “I’m glad I’m
not a dog, aren’t you, Miss Bess? But then, this kind of biscuit is
good for a dog, ’cause they make him take aim better. Charge, Jack!”
she cried to the hungry dog who could not wait for her discourse to be
finished as he took his supper out of her hand and hurried away to find
an undisturbed place to enjoy it.
It was dark before the birds were ready for the table, and supper was
eaten by the aid of numerous candles and lanterns. All were weary, so
after the plans for the morrow had been made and everything made secure
in camp for the night, each sought his couch and slept; some to dream,
perhaps of feasts and plenty, or of ringing shots and pointing dogs;
one to dream of “comfy” trousers and handy pockets; another to see in
her sleep’s vision, the flaming, dilated nostrils of a fleeing horse
and the dark, determined face of his relentless rider.