Some weeks had passed since Ingleby took over Tomlinson's claim, when
one lowering evening Grace Coulthurst pulled up her cayuse pony in the
depths of the Green River valley. Leaden cloud had veiled the peaks
since early morning, and now the pines were wailing dolefully beneath a
bitter breeze. A little dust of snow, fine and dry as flour, whirled
about her, and the trail was hard as adamant beneath her pony's feet.
The beast pricked its ears and stamped impatiently, for it had been bred
in the wilderness and knew what was coming.
Grace, whose fingers were growing stiff, relaxed her grasp on the
bridle, and looked about her observantly, but without uneasiness. She
was some distance from home, and daylight was dying out unusually early,
while few horses unaccustomed to the mountains could have scrambled over
either of the trails. There were two of them, foot-wide tracks which
climbed up and down steep hollows and twisted round great fallen trees,
and she had stopped at the forking, though there was, she knew, very
little to choose between them.
The bush was a little thinner just there, but she could see nothing
beyond dim colonnades of towering trunks that were rapidly fading into
the gloom. The cold was nipping, and she shivered when the breeze
dropped a moment. The silence was startling, and she felt it almost a
relief when a low crescendo murmur like the sound of distant surf rose
from the pines as the wind awoke again. Then a puff of powdery snow
stung her tingling cheeks, and she shook the bridle and turned the
cayuse into the lower trail.
She had ridden to the mines at the head of the valley early in the
afternoon, while her father walked by her stirrup, which, considering
the nature of the trail, he had no difficulty in doing. Indeed, he had
led, and now and then dragged, the horse up parts of it. There had, as
not infrequently happened, been a dispute concerning the boundaries of a
placer claim, and the commissioner had gone over to adjudicate. He was
not a brilliant man, but he showed no one favour, and the whimsically
expressed decisions which he apparently blundered upon gave general
satisfaction and are still remembered in the Green River valley. It was
also characteristic of him that he had saved more than one difficult
situation, in which a logical exposition of the mining laws would
probably have been unavailing, by a little free badinage.
In the meanwhile his daughter, whom he had bidden ride home, realized
without any undue anxiety that it might be advisable to reach there as
soon as she could. She was at home in the saddle, and rightly thought
herself secure from any difficulty that might not be occasioned by the
weather. The free miner is a somewhat chivalrous person, which is going
far enough by way of appreciation, since the epithet which might suggest
itself to those acquainted with his characteristics has little meaning
in the land to which he belongs, where men have outgrown the need of
meretricious titles. Still, when a thin white haze blotted out the dim
colonnades and obscured the firs beside the trail she strove to quicken
the cayuse's pace a trifle. The beast was apparently already doing what
it could, clambering up slopes of gravel, sliding down them amidst a
great clatter of stones, and turning and twisting amidst tangled
undergrowth.
Now and then a drooping branch whipped the girl as she went by or shook
the snow that was gathering on it into her face, and the withered fern
smote smears of white powder across her skirt. Winter was closing in
earlier than any one had expected, and that night an Arctic cold
descended suddenly upon the lonely valley. Her hands grew numb on the
bridle, all sense of feeling seemed to go out of the foot in the
stirrup, and at last it was with difficulty she pulled up the cayuse,
which appeared as anxious to get home as she was. They had floundered
round the spreading branches of a great fallen tree, and now there no
longer appeared to be a trail beneath them.
Grace shivered all through as she looked about her. The pines were
roaring in the sliding haze; the air was thick with dust, not flakes, of
snow. Here and there she could dimly see a tree, but the white powder
obscured her sight and stung her face when she lifted it. She could not
remember having passed that fallen tree when riding out, nor could she
recall how long it was since she had seen the narrow trail in front of
her. Where it was now she did not know, but there was, at least, the
sound of the river on one side of her, when she could hear it across the
moaning of the trees. In heading for it she would probably strike the
trail again, and once more she spoke to the cayuse and shook the bridle.
She was becoming distinctly anxious now.
Then a hazy object appeared suddenly a few yards in front of her, and
stopped at her cry, while in another moment Ingleby was standing by her
stirrup, and her apprehensions melted away. It was significant that she
was by no means astonished. She felt that it was only fitting that when
she wanted him he should be there. The mere sight of his face, of which
she caught a faint glimpse, was reassuring.
"Do you know that I am very glad I met you? Where is the trail?" she
said.
Ingleby did not protest that it afforded him an equal gratification,
and if he had done so it would probably not have pleased her. Grace was
critical, and rather liked the reticence which was, it seemed, in
harmony with his character--that is, since he had, fortunately, grown
out of the evil habit of discussing social economics.
"I don't think it can be far away. In fact, I was Just trying to cut off
a bend of it," he said, with a little laugh.
"It isn't exactly a pleasant night for a stroll through the bush," said
Grace suggestively.
"No," replied Ingleby, who fell into the snare. "Still, you see, they
were expecting me at the bakery."
Grace was by no means pleased at this. Certain observations Esmond had
once let fall with a purpose had not been without their effect on her,
and she remembered that the girl at the bakery was, it had to be
admitted, pretty. It also appeared likely that she was what is now and
then termed forward. Grace's displeasure, which she did not, of course,
express, might, however, have been greater had there been any delay in
the man's answer.
"Then if you will show me the trail I will not keep you. I am getting
cold," she said.
Ingleby took the bridle, and he and the cayuse floundered through what
appeared to be a horrible maze of fallen branches and tangled
undergrowth. In fact, Grace fancied she heard her skirt rip as they
struggled in it. Then the bush became a little clearer, and they went on
more briskly, up and down steep slopes and past dim blurs of trees,
while soil and gravel alike rang beneath the cayuse's feet. How long
this continued Grace did not exactly know, nor had she any notion as to
where they were. The only reassuring thing was the glimpse she had of
Ingleby plodding on beside her horse's head, which was, however, quite
sufficient. Still, civility demanded something, and at last she bade him
stop.
"I'm afraid I must be taking you away from the bakery," she said.