THE DUNES OF THE COLUMBIA
Behind them, as Tisdale drove down, the heights they had crossed were
still shrouded in thunder-caps, but before them the end of the Wenatchee
range lifted clear-cut, in a mighty promontory, from the face of the
desert. Already the morning sun gave a promise of heat, and as the bays
rounded a knoll, Miss Armitage raised her hands to shade her eyes.
"What color!" she exclaimed. "How barbarous! How ages old! But don't say
this is the Columbia, Mr. Tisdale. I know it is the Nile. Those are the
ruins of Thebes. In a moment we shall see the rest of the pyramids and the
Sphinx."
Tisdale brought the horses around a sand-pit in the road which began to
parallel the river, rolling wide and swift and intensely blue, where the
rapids ceased, then he glanced at the other shore, where fantastic columns
and broken walls of granite rose like a ruined city through a red glory.
"It is worth coming from New York to see, but you have traveled abroad. Do
you know, that disappoints me. A true American should see America first."
"Then I confess." The girl laughed softly. "I haven't been nearer the Nile
than a lantern-slide lecture and the moving-picture show. But my father
knew Egypt when he was a boy; maybe I've inherited some memories, too."
Her enthusiasm was irresistible. Looking into her glowing face, the
mirth-provoking lines broke and re-formed at the corners of his own mouth
and eyes.
"But," he explained after a moment, "this desert of the Columbia is not
old; it's tremendously new; so new that Nature hasn't had time to take the
scaffolding away. You know--do you not--this was all once a great inland
sea? Countless glacial streams brought wash down from the mountains,
filling the shallows with the finest alluvial earth. Then, in some big
upheaval, one or perhaps several of these volcanic peaks poured down a
strata of lava and ash. As the ice tongues receded, the streams gradually
dried; only the larger ones, fed far back in the range, are left to-day."
"How interesting!" Her glance swept upward and backward along the heights
and returned to the levels. "And naturally, as the bed of the sea was laid
bare, these last streams found the lowest depression, the channel of the
Columbia."
Her quickness, her evident desire to grasp the great scheme of things,
which other women received with poorly veiled indifference, often hurried
to evade, warmed his scientist soul. "Yes," he answered, "Nature
remembered, while she was busy, to construct the main flume. She might as
well have said, when it was finished: 'Here are some garden tracts I
reclaimed for you. Now get to work; show what you can do.'"
"And are you going to?" Her voice caught a little; she watched his face
covertly yet expectantly, her breath arrested, with parted lips.
"Perhaps. I am on my way to find a certain garden spot that belonged to
David Weatherbee. He knew more about reclamation than I, for he grew up
among your California orchards, but I have the plans he drew; I ought to
be able to see his project through."
"You mean you may buy the land, Mr. Tisdale, if--things--are as you
expect?"
"Yes, provided I have Mrs. Weatherbee's price."
"What do you consider the tract is worth?"
"I couldn't make a fair estimate before I have been over the ground.
Seattle promoters are listing Wenatchee fruit lands now, but the
Weatherbee tract is off the main valley. Still, the railroad passes within
a few miles, and the property must have made some advance since he bought
the quarter section. That was over nine years ago. He was a student at
Stanford then and spent a summer vacation up here in the Cascades with a
party of engineers who were running surveys for the Great Northern. One
day he was riding along a high ridge at the top of one of those arid
gulfs, when he came to a bubbling spring. It was so cool and pleasant up
there above the desert heat that he set up a little camp of his own in the
shade of some pine trees that rimmed the pool, and the rest of the season
he rode to and from his work. Then he began to see the possibilities of
that alluvial pocket under irrigation, and before he went back to college
he secured the quarter section. That was his final year, and he expected
to return the next summer and open the project. But his whole future was
changed by that unfortunate marriage. His wife was not the kind of woman
to follow him into the desert and share inevitable discomfort and hardship
until his scheme should mature. He began to plan a little Eden for her at
the core, and to secure more capital he went to Alaska. He hoped to make a
rich strike and come back in a year or two with plenty of money to hurry
the project through. You know how near he came to it once, and why he
failed. And that was not the only time. But every year he stayed in the
north, his scheme took a stronger hold on him. He used to spend long
Arctic nights elaborating, making over his plans. He thought and brooded
on them so much that finally, when the end came, up there in the Chugach
snows, he set up an orchard of spruce twigs--"
"I know, I know," interrupted Miss Armitage. "Please don't tell it over
again. I--can't--bear it." And she sank against the back of the seat,
shuddering, and covered her eyes with her hands.
Tisdale looked at her, puzzled. "Again?" he repeated. "But I see you must
have heard the story through Mr. Feversham. I told it at the clubhouse the
night he was in Seattle."
"It's impossible to explain; you never could understand." She sat erect,
but Tisdale felt her body tremble, and she went on swiftly, with little
breaks and catches: "You don't know the hold your story has on me. I've
dreamed it all over at night; I've wakened cold and wet with perspiration
from head to foot, as though I--too--were struggling through those frozen
solitudes. I've been afraid to sleep sometimes, the dread of facing--it--
is so strong."
Watching her, a sudden tenderness rose through the wonder in Tisdale's
face.
"So you dreamed you were fighting it through with me; that's strange. But
I see the story was too hard for you; Feversham shouldn't have told it."
He paused and his brows clouded. "I wish I could make Weatherbee's wife
dream it," he broke out. "It might teach her what he endured. I have gone
over the ground with her in imagination, mile after mile, that long trek
from Nome. I have seen her done for, whimpering in a corner, like the
weakest husky in the team, there at the Aurora mine, and at her limit
again up in Rainy Pass. And once lately, the night of the club supper,
while I was lying awake in my room, looking off through the window to the
harbor lights and the stars, I heard her crying deeply from the heart. She
did not seem like herself then, but a different woman I was mighty sorry
for."
Miss Armitage turned and met his look, questioning, hardly comprehending.
"That sounds occult," she said.
"Does it? Well, perhaps it is. But a man who has lived in the big spaces
has his senses sharpened. He sees farther; feels more."
There was a silent moment. The colts, topping a low dune, felt the
pressure of the fills on the down-grade, and the nigh horse broke, turning
the front wheel into a tangle of sage. "Mr. Tisdale," she cried a little
tremulously, "do you think this is a catboat, tacking into a squall?
Please, please let me drive."
Her effort was supreme. It relieved the tension, and when the change was
made, she drew to the edge of the seat, holding her head high like that
intrepid flower to which he had compared her.
"You mean," she said evenly, "the terrible silence of your big spaces keys
up the subjective mind. That, of course, was the trouble with Mrs.
Barbour's husband. He allowed it to dominate him. But a man like you"--and
she gave him her swift, direct look, and the shadow of a smile touched her
mouth--"well-balanced, strong, would have kept the danger down. I should
never be afraid--for you. But," she hurried on, "I can understand too how
in the great solitudes some men are drawn together. You have shown me. I
did not know before I heard your story how much a man can endure for a
friend--and sacrifice."
Tisdale looked off over the desert. "Friendship up there does mean
something," he answered quietly. "Mere companionship in the Alaska
wilderness is a test. I don't know whether it's the darkness of those
interminable winters, or the monotony that plays on a man's nerves, but I
have seen the closest partners get beyond speaking to each other. It's a
life to bring out the good and the bad in a man; a life to make men hate;
and it can forge two men together. But David Weatherbee never had an
enemy. He never failed a man. In a crisis he was great. If things had been
reversed"--he set his lips, his face hardened--"if Weatherbee had been in
my place, there at Nome, with a letter of mine in his hands, he wouldn't
have thrown away those four days."
"Yes, he would. Consider. He must have taken time to prepare for that
terrible journey. How else could he have carried it through?" She leaned
forward a little, compelling his glance, trying to reason down the tragedy
in his face.
"How can you blame yourself?" she finished brokenly. "You must not. I will
not--let you."
"Thank you for saying that." Tisdale's rugged features worked. He laid his
hand for an instant over hers. "If any one in the world can set me right
with myself, it is you."
After that they both were silent. They began to round the bold promontory
at the end of the Wenatchee range; the Badger loomed on the rim of the
desert, then Old Baldy seemed to swing his sheer front like an opened
portal to let the blue flood of the Columbia through. The interest crept
back to her face. Between them and those guardian peaks a steel bridge,
fine as a spider web, was etched on the river, then a first orchard broke
the areas of sage, the rows of young trees radiating from a small, new
dwelling, like a geometrical pattern. Finally she said: "I would like to
know a little more about Mrs. Barbour. Did you ever see her again, Mr.
Tisdale? Or the child?"
"Oh, yes. I made it a point the next winter, when I was in Washington, to
run down into Virginia and look them up. And I have always kept in touch
with them. She sends me new pictures of the boy every year. He keeps her
busy. He was a rugged little chap at the start, did his best to grow, and
bright!"--Tisdale paused, shaking his head, while the humorous lines
deepened--"But he had to be vigorous to carry the name she gave him. Did I
tell you it was Weatherbee Tisdale? Think of shouldering the names of two
full-sized men on that atom. But she picked a nice diminutive out of it--
'Bee.'
"It was a great christening party," he went on reminiscently. "She
arranged it when she passed through Seattle and had several hours to wait
for her train. The ceremony was at Trinity, that stone church on the first
hill, and the Bishop of Alaska, who was waiting too, officiated. I was in
town at the time, getting my outfit together for another season in the
north, but Weatherbee had to assume his responsibilities by proxy."
"Do you mean David Weatherbee was the child's godfather?"
"One of them, yes." Tisdale paused, and his brows clouded. "I wish the boy
had been his own. That would have been his salvation. If David Weatherbee
had had a son, he would be here with us now, to-day."
Miss Armitage was silent. She looked off up the unfolding watercourse, and
the great weariness Tisdale had noticed that hour before dawn settled
again on her face.
He laid his hand on the reins. "You are tired out," he said. "Come, give
the lines to me. You've deceived me with all that fine show of spirits,
but I've been selfish, or I must have seen. The truth is, I've been
humoring this hand."
"You mean," she said quickly, "this vixen did hurt you yesterday more than
you would admit?"
"Oh, no, but the friction of the reins can make even a scratch
uncomfortable after a while, and my glove is getting tight. A little
peroxide, when we reach a pharmacy, will fix it all right."
But Miss Armitage watched him doubtfully. She assured him she was not
tired and that she loved to drive. Had she not told him so at the start?
Then, as they left the promontory, her glance followed the road ahead. The
bridge was no longer fine as a spider web; it was a railroad crossing of
steel, and the long eaves of the Great Northern depot lifted near, flanked
by the business blocks of a town. "Wenatchee!" she exclaimed; and
wavering, asked: "_Isn't_ this Wenatchee?"
"Yes, Miss Armitage, I am afraid that it is. You are back to civilization.
A few minutes more and, if you will give me their address, you will be
safe with your friends."
"I did not say I had any friends in Wenatchee, Mr. Tisdale. I am going on
to Hesperides Vale. But please leave me at any quiet hotel. I can't thank
you enough for all your kindness and patience," she went on hurriedly.
"For making this trip possible. All I can hope to do is share the
expense." And she found the inside pocket of her coat and drew out a small
silver purse.
Tisdale, driving slowly, divided his attention between his team and the
buildings on either side. "There is a public garage," he said, "and a
rival establishment opposite. You will have no trouble to finish your trip
by automobile, as you planned. It will be pleasant making the run up the
valley this evening, when it is cool."
Miss Armitage opened her purse. "The rates must be considerably higher on
a rough mountain road than on the Seattle boulevard, and, of course, one
couldn't expect to hire Nip and Tuck at ordinary rates."
Tisdale drew in, hesitating, before a hotel, then relaxed the reins. "The
building seems modern, but we may find a quiet little inn up some side
street with more shade."
"I presume you will drive on up the valley," she said, after a moment,
"and start back to Kittitas to-morrow. Or will it be necessary to rest the
team a day?"
"I shall drive on to that tract of Weatherbee's this afternoon; but I
expect to take the westbound train to-night, somewhere up the valley."
"I see," she said quickly and tried to cover her dismay, "you intend to
ship the team back to Kittitas by way of Seattle. I'm afraid"--her voice
broke a little, the color flushed pinkly to her forehead, her ears, and
her glance fell to the purse in her lap--"but please tell me the charges."
"Madam," and the ready humor crinkled the corners of his mouth, "when I
ship these horses back to Lighter, he is going to pay the freight."
She drew a quick breath of relief, but her purse remained open, and she
waited, regarding Tisdale with an expectant, disconcerting side-glance of
her half-veiled eyes. "And the day rates for the use of the team?" she
asked.
For a moment he was busy turning the horses. They had reached a second
hotel, but it proved less inviting than the first, and the side streets
they had crossed afforded no quiet inn, or indeed any dwelling in the
shade. "After all," he said, "a room and bath on the north side, with
windows looking up the Columbia, should make you fairly comfortable
through the heat of the day." But the girl waited, and when his eyes fell
to that open purse, his own color burned through the tan. There was no
help for it; she must know the truth. He squared his shoulders, turning a
little toward her. "There are no expenses to share, Miss Armitage. I--
happened to own this team, and since we were traveling the same way, I was
glad to offer you this vacant seat."
"Do you mean you bought these horses--outright--at Kittitas?"
"Yes, the opportunity was too good to miss." He tried to brave the
astonishment in her eyes, but his glance moved directly to the colts.
"And, you see, if I should buy that tract of Weatherbee's, I am going to
need a team."
"Doubtless," answered Miss Armitage slowly. "Still, for breaking wild land
or even cultivating, one would choose a steadier, heavier team. But they
are beauties, Mr. Tisdale, and I know a man in Seattle who is going to be
disappointed. I congratulate you on being able to secure them." She closed
the purse at last and reluctantly put it away, and she added, with the
merriment dimpling her lips: "Fate certainly was with me yesterday."
They had reached the hotel, and as he drew up to the curb, a man came from
the lobby to hold the bays. Several traveling salesmen stood smoking and
talking outside the entrance, while a little apart a land promoter and his
possible capitalist consulted a blue print; but there was a general pause
as Tisdale sprang out, and the curious scrutiny of wayfarers in a small
town was focussed on the arrivals.
"It looks all right," he said quietly, helping her down, "but if you find
anything wrong, or should happen to want me, I shall be at that other
hotel until two o'clock. Good-by!"
He saw the surprise in her face change to swift appreciation. Then
"Good-by," she answered and walked towards the door. But there she stopped.
Tisdale, looking back as he gave her suitcase to a boy, saw her lips part,
though she did not speak. Then her eyelids drooped, the color played
softly in her face, and she turned to go in. There had been no invitation
in her attitude, yet he had felt a certain appeal. It flashed over him she
did not want to motor up the valley; she wished to drive on with him. Too
proud, too fine to say so, she was letting her opportunity go. He hurried
across the pavement.
"Miss Armitage," he said, and instantly she turned; the sparkles leaped in
her eyes; she came towards him a few steps and stopped expectantly. "If I
start up the valley at two"--and he looked at his watch--"that will be a
rest of nearly three hours. It means the heat of the day, but if it seems
better than motoring over a country road with a public chauffeur, I would
be glad to have you drive for me."