They had been a month on the Trail. Behind them lay a land of startling
contrast and grim beauty. They'd forded or ferried rivers and creeks
that wound out of fastnesses so remote and silent that they seemed to
have no end. Weird formations of varicolored rocks had formed desolate
little wildernesses all by themselves. Cloud-stabbing peaks with
snow-whitened summits had loomed in the distance. It was not a gentle
country nor was it a place for timid people. But to the hardy of soul
and the strong in heart who were able to face the challenges it flung,
it was good.
Tad loved it, and Joe responded to it. Emma did not like it. For her it
was too vast, too big and too grim, and while she appreciated its beauty
she hoped that Oregon would be more soft and gentle. Little Joe frowned
while he sought answers to problems which he felt must exist here and
the rest of the young children were merely curious. Tired of the
day-after-day riding, they wanted little now except to find the end of
the journey and to be suitably diverted en route.
Barbara and Ellis, aglow with love for each other, saw the land they
were passing through in a sort of happy daze. Each day was marvelous
because each day they could be together, but the most imposing scenic
view or the most majestic mountain meant less to them than a moon or
star-lit evening when they could walk beneath soft light and be away on
the magic wings that are granted all young lovers. While they were with
those in the wagon they were at the same time apart from them. To each,
the most important thing in the world was the other. A word, or a
gesture, which in ordinary living would be commonplace, acquired a
meaning and a significance all its own. Their private world was a
wonderful place which no one else could enter.
They had seen no Indians but they were in Indian country. The mules and
the cow were always staked close to the wagon and were never left
unwatched. Guard duty was a source of special delight to Tad who always
took the first watch in the first couple of hours after nightfall. Mike
beside him, the rifle Snedeker had given him clutched firmly in both
hands, Tad investigated every small sound that occurred and when there
weren't any he invented some. To Tad's great disappointment no Indians
had appeared yet, but he hadn't lost hope. Each night, at ten o'clock,
Tad went grudgingly to the bed while Joe took over until two. The third
watch was Ellis's.
Ellis lay prone in the grass, his head resting on cupped hands and his
rifle beside him. Near by, the mules had eaten as much as they wanted
and were standing close together. The tethered cow had lain down to chew
her cud, and the wagon's stained cover seemed pure white in the night's
unreal glow. Ellis's big horse stamped a hoof and switched flies with
its tail. Ellis raised his head to look at the horse and settled back to
watch the star-studded sky.
It seemed to him that his life had had three phases. The first was his
childhood, and he remembered his gay and gentle mother. She had soothed
his cut fingers, skinned knees, heartbreaks, all the little tragedies of
childhood that are unimportant to almost everyone except a child.
Vividly, Ellis remembered riding with her, she on a spirited horse while
he bestrode a pony. It had always seemed to him that they could ride
forever.
The second, which Ellis thought of as his sterile phase, came after his
mother died. His father was affectionate and kind, and in his own way he
had been proud of Ellis. But he had been too preoccupied with gambling
and his numerous enterprises to give enough attention to his son. Ellis
had been grief-stricken when he died, but it was not the complete
desolation he had known when his mother passed away.
The years when Uncle George had been in charge of him were the worst of
all--Uncle George, the sanctimonious cheat who had come into possession
of most of the family fortune, and by methods so legalistic and clever
that even Ellis's friends, who wanted to help him, could do nothing. But
that was all in the past. Ellis had hated George at the time, but later
events had made that hatred seem somehow dim and unimportant.
The third phase, a short one, had centered about Mary Harkness, a
vivacious, pretty, intelligent little brunette. Ellis had thrown himself
heart and soul at her feet. He knew now that she had never wanted him
there and had tried, as politely as possible, to tell him so. But
Ellis's whole world had crashed when Mary married another.
Now, Ellis felt, he was entering upon the fourth and most worth-while
phase of his life. It seemed to him that, until he met Barbara, he had
never known his capacity for feeling. It was almost like living for
twenty years without ever having been fully alive. In Barbara lay
fruition and in her was the only possible life. Ellis knew, and he was
grateful to Mary Harkness because she had helped him now. Ellis knew
also that Emma trusted him pretty much, though not entirely, and he had
a feeling that Joe trusted him not at all. At the thought of Joe's
worried and suspicious eyes watching him, Ellis felt the familiar rage
and resentment beginning to surge up in him, and he clamped down hard on
it because conquering his temper was the one thing he was determined to
do.
Suddenly he sat up and grasped his rifle in both hands. Out of the night
had come a sound that should not be. A moment later a shadow moved
before him and Ellis's heart leaped.
"Bobby!"
"I couldn't sleep," she said softly. "I came out to see you."
He rose, encircled her slim waist with his arms and kissed her. Their
lips parted but their arms remained about each other while they looked
at the stars and for the moment they were the whole world.