Where the great highway of the Sierras nears the summit, and the pines
begin to show sterile reaches of rock and waste in their drawn-up files,
there are signs of occasional departures from the main road, as if the
weary traveller had at times succumbed to the long ascent, and turned
aside for rest and breath again. The tired eyes of many a dusty
passenger on the old overland coach have gazed wistfully on those sylvan
openings, and imagined recesses of primeval shade and virgin wilderness
in their dim perspectives. Had he descended, however, and followed one
of these diverging paths, he would have come upon some rude wagon track,
or “logslide,” leading from a clearing on the slope, or the ominous
saw-mill, half hidden in the forest it was slowly decimating. The
woodland hush might have been broken by the sound of water passing over
some unseen dam in the hollow, or the hiss of escaping steam and throb
of an invisible engine in the covert.
Such, at least, was the experience of a young fellow of five-and-twenty,
who, knapsack on back and stick in hand, had turned aside from the
highway and entered the woods one pleasant afternoon in July. But he
was evidently a deliberate pedestrian, and not a recent deposit of
the proceeding stage-coach; and although his stout walking-shoes were
covered with dust, he had neither the habitual slouch and slovenliness
of the tramp, nor the hurried fatigue and growing negligence of an
involuntary wayfarer. His clothes, which were strong and serviceable,
were better fitted for their present usage than the ordinary garments
of the Californian travellers, which were too apt to be either above or
below their requirements. But perhaps the stranger's greatest claim to
originality was the absence of any weapon in his equipment. He carried
neither rifle nor gun in his hand, and his narrow leathern belt was
empty of either knife or revolver.
A half-mile from the main road, which seemed to him to have dropped out
of sight the moment he had left it, he came upon a half-cleared area,
where the hastily-cut stumps of pines, of irregular height, bore an odd
resemblance to the broken columns of some vast and ruined temple. A few
fallen shafts, denuded of their bark and tessellated branches, sawn into
symmetrical cylinders, lay beside the stumps, and lent themselves to the
illusion. But the freshly-cut chips, so damp that they still clung in
layers to each other as they had fallen from the axe, and the stumps
themselves, still wet and viscous from their drained life-blood, were
redolent of an odor of youth and freshness.
The young man seated himself on one of the logs and deeply inhaled the
sharp balsamic fragrance--albeit with a slight cough and a later hurried
respiration. This, and a certain drawn look about his upper lip,
seemed to indicate, in spite of his strength and color, some pulmonary
weakness. He, however, rose after a moment's rest with undiminished
energy and cheerfulness, readjusted his knapsack, and began to lightly
pick his way across the fallen timber. A few paces on, the muffled whir
of machinery became more audible, with the lazy, monotonous command
of “Gee thar,” from some unseen ox-driver. Presently, the slow,
deliberately-swaying heads of a team of oxen emerged from the bushes,
followed by the clanking chain of the “skids” of sawn planks, which they
were ponderously dragging with that ostentatious submissiveness peculiar
to their species. They had nearly passed him when there was a sudden
hitch in the procession. From where he stood he could see that a
projecting plank had struck a pile of chips and become partly imbedded
in it. To run to the obstruction and, with a few dexterous strokes and
the leverage of his stout stick, dislodge the plank was the work not
only of the moment but of an evidently energetic hand. The teamster
looked back and merely nodded his appreciation, and with a “Gee up! Out
of that, now!” the skids moved on.
“Much obliged, there!” said a hearty voice, as if supplementing the
teamster's imperfect acknowledgment.
The stranger looked up. The voice came from the open, sashless,
shutterless window of a rude building--a mere shell of boards and beams
half hidden in the still leafy covert before him. He had completely
overlooked it in his approach, even as he had ignored the nearer
throbbing of the machinery, which was so violent as to impart a decided
tremor to the slight edifice, and to shake the speaker so strongly that
he was obliged while speaking to steady himself by the sashless frame
of the window at which he stood. He had a face of good-natured and alert
intelligence, a master's independence and authority of manner, in spite
of his blue jean overalls and flannel shirt.
“Don't mention it,” said the stranger, smiling with equal but more
deliberate good-humor. Then, seeing that his interlocutor still
lingered a hospitable moment in spite of his quick eyes and the jarring
impatience of the machinery, he added hesitatingly, “I fancy I've
wandered off the track a bit. Do you know a Mr. Bradley--somewhere
here?”
The stranger's hesitation seemed to be more from some habitual
conscientiousness of statement than awkwardness. The man in the window
replied, “I'm Bradley.”
“Ah! Thank you: I've a letter for you--somewhere. Here it is.” He
produced a note from his breast-pocket. Bradley stooped to a sitting
posture in the window. “Pitch it up.” It was thrown and caught cleverly.
Bradley opened it, read it hastily, smiled and nodded, glanced behind
him as if to implore further delay from the impatient machinery, leaned
perilously from the window, and said,--
“Look here! Do you see that silver-fir straight ahead?”
“Yes.”
“A little to the left there's a trail. Follow it and skirt along the
edge of the canyon until you see my house. Ask for my wife--that's Mrs.
Bradley--and give her your letter. Stop!” He drew a carpenter's pencil
from his pocket, scrawled two or three words across the open sheet
and tossed it back to the stranger. “See you at tea! Excuse me--Mr.
Mainwaring--we're short-handed--and--the engine--” But here he
disappeared suddenly.
Without glancing at the note again, the stranger quietly replaced it
in his pocket, and struck out across the fallen trunks towards the
silver-fir. He quickly found the trail indicated by Bradley, although it
was faint and apparently worn by a single pair of feet as a shorter and
private cut from some more travelled path. It was well for the stranger
that he had a keen eye or he would have lost it; it was equally
fortunate that he had a mountaineering instinct, for a sudden profound
deepening of the blue mist seen dimly through the leaves before him
caused him to slacken his steps. The trail bent abruptly to the right;
a gulf fully two thousand feet deep was at his feet! It was the Great
Canyon.
At the first glance it seemed so narrow that a rifle-shot could have
crossed its tranquil depths; but a second look at the comparative size
of the trees on the opposite mountain convinced him of his error. A
nearer survey of the abyss also showed him that instead of its walls
being perpendicular they were made of successive ledges or terraces to
the valley below. Yet the air was so still, and the outlines so clearly
cut, that they might have been only the reflections of the mountains
around him cast upon the placid mirror of a lake. The spectacle arrested
him, as it arrested all men, by some occult power beyond the mere
attraction of beauty or magnitude; even the teamster never passed
it without the tribute of a stone or broken twig tossed into its
immeasurable profundity.
Reluctantly leaving the spot, the stranger turned with the trail that
now began to skirt its edge. This was no easy matter, as the undergrowth
was very thick, and the foliage dense to the perilous brink of the
precipice. He walked on, however, wondering why Bradley had chosen so
circuitous and dangerous a route to his house, which naturally would
be some distance back from the canyon. At the end of ten minutes'
struggling through the “brush,” the trail became vague, and, to all
appearances, ended. Had he arrived? The thicket was as dense as before;
through the interstices of leaf and spray he could see the blue void of
the canyon at his side, and he even fancied that the foliage ahead of
him was more symmetrical and less irregular, and was touched here and
there with faint bits of color. To complete his utter mystification,
a woman's voice, very fresh, very youthful, and by no means unmusical,
rose apparently from the circumambient air. He looked hurriedly to the
right and left, and even hopelessly into the trees above him.
“Yes,” said the voice, as if renewing a suspended conversation, “it
was too funny for anything. There were the two Missouri girls from
Skinner's, with their auburn hair ringleted, my dear, like the old
'Books of Beauty'--in white frocks and sashes of an unripe greenish
yellow, that puckered up your mouth like persimmons. One of them was
speechless from good behavior, and the other--well! the other was
so energetic she called out the figures before the fiddler did, and
shrieked to my vis-a-vis to dance up to the entire stranger--meaning ME,
if you please.”
The voice appeared to come from the foliage that overhung the canyon,
and the stranger even fancied he could detect through the shimmering
leafy veil something that moved monotonously to and fro. Mystified and
impatient, he made a hurried stride forward, his foot struck a wooden
step, and the next moment the mystery was made clear. He had almost
stumbled upon the end of a long veranda that projected over the abyss
before a low, modern dwelling, till then invisible, nestling on its
very brink. The symmetrically-trimmed foliage he had noticed were the
luxuriant Madeira vines that hid the rude pillars of the veranda; the
moving object was a rocking-chair, with its back towards the intruder,
that disclosed only the brown hair above, and the white skirts and small
slippered feet below, of a seated female figure. In the mean time, a
second voice from the interior of the house had replied to the figure in
the chair, who was evidently the first speaker:--
“It must have been very funny; but as long as Jim is always bringing
somebody over from the mill, I don't see how I can go to those places.
You were lucky, my dear, to escape from the new Division Superintendent
last night; he was insufferable to Jim with his talk of his friend the
San Francisco millionaire, and to me with his cheap society airs. I do
hate a provincial fine gentleman.”
The situation was becoming embarrassing to the intruder. At the
apparition of the woman, the unaffected and simple directness he had
previously shown in his equally abrupt contact with Bradley had fled
utterly; confused by the awkwardness of his arrival, and shocked at the
idea of overhearing a private conversation, he stepped hurriedly on the
veranda.
“Well? go on!” said the second voice impatiently. “Well, who else was
there? WHAT did you say? I don't hear you. What's the matter?”
The seated figure had risen from her chair, and turned a young and
pretty face somewhat superciliously towards the stranger, as she said in
a low tone to her unseen auditor, “Hush! there is somebody here.”
The young man came forward with an awkwardness that was more boyish than
rustic. His embarrassment was not lessened by the simultaneous entrance
from the open door of a second woman, apparently as young as and
prettier than the first.
“I trust you'll excuse me for--for--being so wretchedly stupid,” he
stammered, “but I really thought, you know, that--that--I was following
the trail to--to--the front of the house, when I stumbled in--in here.”
Long before he had finished, both women, by some simple feminine
intuition, were relieved and even prepossessed by his voice and manner.
They smiled graciously. The later-comer pointed to the empty chair. But
with his habit of pertinacious conscientiousness the stranger continued,
“It was regularly stupid, wasn't it?--and I ought to have known better.
I should have turned back and gone away when I found out what an ass I
was likely to be, but I was--afraid--you know, of alarming you by the
noise.”
“Won't you sit down?” said the second lady, pleasantly.
“Oh, thanks! I've a letter here--I”--he transferred his stick and hat
to his left hand as he felt in his breast-pocket with his right. But the
action was so awkward that the stick dropped on the veranda. Both women
made a movement to restore it to its embarrassed owner, who, however,
quickly anticipated them. “Pray don't mind it,” he continued, with
accelerated breath and heightened color. “Ah, here's the letter!” He
produced the note Bradley had returned to him. “It's mine, in
fact--that is, I brought it to Mr. Bradley. He said I was to give it
to--to--to--Mrs. Bradley.” He paused, glancing embarrassedly from the
one to the other.
“I'm Mrs. Bradley,” said the prettiest one, with a laugh. He handed her
the letter. It ran as follows:--
“DEAR BRADLEY--Put Mr. Mainwaring through as far as he wants to go, or
hang him up at The Lookout, just as he likes. The Bank's behind him, and
his hat's chalked all over the Road; but he don't care much about being
on velvet. That ain't his style--and you'll like him. He's somebody's
son in England. B.”
Mrs. Bradley glanced simply at the first sentence. “Pray sit down, Mr.
Mainwaring,” she said gently; “or, rather, let me first introduce my
cousin--Miss Macy.”
“Thanks,” said Mainwaring, with a bow to Miss Macy, “but
I--I--I--think,” he added conscientiously, “you did not notice that your
husband had written something across the paper.”
Mrs. Bradley smiled, and glanced at her husband's indorsement--“All
right. Wade in.” “It's nothing but Jim's slang,” she said, with a laugh
and a slightly heightened color. “He ought not to have sent you by that
short cut; it's a bother, and even dangerous for a stranger. If you had
come directly to US by the road, without making your first call at
the mill,” she added, with a touch of coquetry, “you would have had a
pleasanter walk, and seen US sooner. I suppose, however, you got off the
stage at the mill?”
“I was not on the coach,” said Mainwaring, unfastening the strap of his
knapsack. “I walked over from Lone Pine Flat.”
“Walked!” echoed both women in simultaneous astonishment.
“Yes,” returned Mainwaring simply, laying aside his burden and taking
the proffered seat. “It's a very fine bit of country.”
“Why, it's fifteen miles,” said Mrs. Bradley, glancing horror-stricken
at her cousin. “How dreadful! And to think Jim could have sent you a
horse to Lone Pine. Why, you must be dead!”
“Thanks, I'm all right! I rather enjoyed it, you know.”
“But,” said Miss Macy, glancing wonderingly at his knapsack, “you must
want something, a change--or some refreshment--after fifteen miles.”
“Pray don't disturb yourself,” said Mainwaring, rising hastily, but not
quickly enough to prevent the young girl from slipping past him into the
house, whence she rapidly returned with a decanter and glasses.
“Perhaps Mr. Mainwaring would prefer to go into Jim's room and wash his
hands and put on a pair of slippers?” said Mrs. Bradley, with gentle
concern.
“Thanks, no. I really am not tired. I sent some luggage yesterday by the
coach to the Summit Hotel,” he said, observing the women's eyes still
fixed upon his knapsack. “I dare say I can get them if I want them.
I've got a change here,” he continued, lifting the knapsack as if with a
sudden sense of its incongruity with its surroundings, and depositing it
on the end of the veranda.
“Do let it remain where it is,” said Mrs. Bradley, greatly amused, “and
pray sit still and take some refreshment. You'll make yourself ill
after your exertions,” she added, with a charming assumption of matronly
solicitude.
“But I'm not at all deserving of your sympathy,” said Mainwaring, with
a laugh. “I'm awfully fond of walking, and my usual constitutional isn't
much under this.”
“Perhaps you were stronger than you are now,” said Mrs. Bradley, gazing
at him with a frank curiosity that, however, brought a faint deepening
of color to his cheek.
“I dare say you're right,” he said suddenly, with an apologetic smile.
“I quite forgot that I'm a sort of an invalid, you know, travelling
for my health. I'm not very strong here,” he added, lightly tapping
his chest, that now, relieved of the bands of his knapsack, appeared
somewhat thin and hollow in spite of his broad shoulders. His voice,
too, had become less clear and distinct.
Mrs. Bradley, who was still watching him, here rose potentially. “You
ought to take more care of yourself,” she said. “You should begin by
eating this biscuit, drinking that glass of whiskey, and making yourself
more comfortable in Jim's room until we can get the spare room fixed a
little.”
“But I am not to be sent to bed--am I?” asked Mainwaring, in half-real,
half-amused consternation.
“I'm not so sure of that,” said Mrs. Bradley, with playful precision.
“But for the present we'll let you off with a good wash and a nap
afterwards in that rocking-chair, while my cousin and I make some
little domestic preparations. You see,” she added with a certain proud
humility, “we've got only one servant--a Chinaman, and there are many
things we can't leave to him.”
The color again rose in Mainwaring's cheek, but he had tact enough to
reflect that any protest or hesitation on his part at that moment would
only increase the difficulties of his gentle entertainers. He allowed
himself to be ushered into the house by Mrs. Bradley, and shown to her
husband's room, without perceiving that Miss Macy had availed herself of
his absence to run to the end of the veranda, mischievously try to
lift the discarded knapsack to her own pretty shoulder, but, failing,
heroically stagger with it into the passage and softly deposit it at his
door. This done, she pantingly rejoined her cousin in the kitchen.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bradley, emphatically. “DID you ever? Walking fifteen
miles for pleasure--and with such lungs!”
“And that knapsack!” added Louise Macy, pointing to the mark in her
little palm where the strap had imbedded itself in the soft flesh.
“He's nice, though; isn't he?” said Mrs. Bradley, tentatively.
“Yes,” said Miss Macy, “he isn't, certainly, one of those provincial
fine gentlemen you object to. But DID you see his shoes? I suppose they
make the miles go quickly, or seem to measure less by comparison.”
“They're probably more serviceable than those high-heeled things that
Captain Greyson hops about in.”
“But the Captain always rides--and rides very well--you know,” said
Louise, reflectively. There was a moment's pause.
“I suppose Jim will tell us all about him,” said Mrs. Bradley,
dismissing the subject, as she turned her sleeves back over her white
arms, preparatory to grappling certain culinary difficulties.
“Jim,” observed Miss Macy, shortly, “in my opinion, knows nothing more
than his note says. That's like Jim.”
“There's nothing more to know, really,” said Mrs. Bradley, with a
superior air. “He's undoubtedly the son of some Englishman of fortune,
sent out here for his health.”
“Hush!”
Miss Macy had heard a step in the passage. It halted at last, half
irresolutely, before the open door of the kitchen, and the stranger
appeared with an embarrassed air.
But in his brief absence he seemed to have completely groomed himself,
and stood there, the impersonation of close-cropped, clean, and
wholesome English young manhood. The two women appreciated it with
cat-like fastidiousness.
“I beg your pardon; but really you're going to let a fellow do something
for you,” he said, “just to keep him from looking like a fool. I really
can do no end of things, you know, if you'll try me. I've done some
camping-out, and can cook as well as the next man.”
The two women made a movement of smiling remonstrance, half coquettish,
and half superior, until Mrs. Bradley, becoming conscious of her bare
arms and the stranger's wandering eyes, colored faintly, and said with
more decision:--
“Certainly not. You'd only be in the way. Besides, you need rest more
than we do. Put yourself in the rocking-chair in the veranda, and go to
sleep until Mr. Bradley comes.”
Mainwaring saw that she was serious, and withdrew, a little ashamed at
his familiarity into which his boyishness had betrayed him. But he had
scarcely seated himself in the rocking-chair before Miss Macy appeared,
carrying with both hands a large tin basin of unshelled peas.
“There,” she said pantingly, placing her burden in his lap, “if you
really want to help, there's something to do that isn't very fatiguing.
You may shell these peas.”
“SHELL them--I beg pardon, but how?” he asked, with smiling earnestness.
“How? Why, I'll show you--look.”
She frankly stepped beside him, so close that her full-skirted dress
half encompassed him and the basin in a delicious confusion, and,
leaning over his lap, with her left hand picked up a pea-cod, which,
with a single movement of her charming little right thumb, she broke at
the end, and stripped the green shallow of its tiny treasures.
He watched her with smiling eyes; her own, looking down on him, were
very bright and luminous. “There; that's easy enough,” she said, and
turned away.
“But--one moment, Miss--Miss--?”
“Macy,” said louise.
“Where am I to put the shells?”
“Oh! throw them down there--there's room enough.”
She was pointing to the canyon below. The veranda actually projected
over its brink, and seemed to hang in mid air above it. Mainwaring
almost mechanically threw his arm out to catch the incautious girl, who
had stepped heedlessly to its extreme edge.
“How odd! Don't you find it rather dangerous here?” he could not help
saying. “I mean--you might have had a railing that wouldn't intercept
the view and yet be safe?”
“It's a fancy of Mr. Bradley's,” returned the young girl carelessly.
“It's all like this. The house was built on a ledge against the side of
the precipice, and the road suddenly drops down to it.”
“It's tremendously pretty, all the same, you know,” said the young man
thoughtfully, gazing, however, at the girl's rounded chin above him.
“Yes,” she replied curtly. “But this isn't working. I must go back to
Jenny. You can shell the peas until Mr. Bradley comes home. He won't be
long.”
She turned away, and re-entered the house. Without knowing why, he
thought her withdrawal abrupt, and he was again feeling his ready color
rise with the suspicion of either having been betrayed by the young
girl's innocent fearlessness into some unpardonable familiarity, which
she had quietly resented, or of feeling an ease and freedom in the
company of these two women that were inconsistent with respect, and
should be restrained.
He, however, began to apply himself to the task given to him with his
usual conscientiousness of duty, and presently acquired a certain manual
dexterity in the operation. It was “good fun” to throw the cast-off
husks into the mighty unfathomable void before him, and watch them
linger with suspended gravity in mid air for a moment--apparently
motionless--until they either lost themselves, a mere vanishing black
spot in the thin ether, or slid suddenly at a sharp angle into unknown
shadow. How deuced odd for him to be sitting here in this fashion! It
would be something to talk of hereafter, and yet,--he stopped--it was
not at all in the line of that characteristic adventure, uncivilized
novelty, and barbarous freedom which for the last month he had sought
and experienced. It was not at all like his meeting with the grizzly
last week while wandering in a lonely canyon; not a bit in the line of
his chance acquaintance with that notorious ruffian, Spanish Jack, or
his witnessing with his own eyes that actual lynching affair at Angels.
No! Nor was it at all characteristic, according to his previous ideas of
frontier rural seclusion--as for instance the Pike County cabin of the
family where he stayed one night, and where the handsome daughter asked
him what his Christian name was. No! These two young women were very
unlike her; they seemed really quite the equals of his family and
friends in England,--perhaps more attractive,--and yet, yes, it was
this very attractiveness that alarmed his inbred social conservatism
regarding women. With a man it was very different; that alert, active,
intelligent husband, instinct with the throbbing life of his saw-mill,
creator and worker in one, challenged his unqualified trust and
admiration.
He had become conscious for the last minute or two of thinking rapidly
and becoming feverishly excited; of breathing with greater difficulty,
and a renewed tendency to cough. The tendency increased until he
instinctively put aside the pan from his lap and half rose. But even
that slight exertion brought on an accession of coughing. He put his
handkerchief to his lips, partly to keep the sound from disturbing the
women in the kitchen, partly because of a certain significant taste
in his mouth which he unpleasantly remembered. When he removed the
handkerchief it was, as he expected, spotted with blood. He turned
quickly and re-entered the house softly, regaining the bedroom without
attracting attention. An increasing faintness here obliged him to lie
down on the bed until it should pass.
Everything was quiet. He hoped they would not discover his absence from
the veranda until he was better; it was deucedly awkward that he should
have had this attack just now--and after he had made so light of his
previous exertions. They would think him an effeminate fraud, these two
bright, active women and that alert, energetic man. A faint color came
into his cheek at the idea, and an uneasy sense that he had been in some
way foolishly imprudent about his health. Again, they might be alarmed
at missing him from the veranda; perhaps he had better have remained
there; perhaps he ought to tell them that he had concluded to take their
advice and lie down. He tried to rise, but the deep blue chasm before
the window seemed to be swelling up to meet him, the bed slowly sinking
into its oblivious profundity. He knew no more.
He came to with the smell and taste of some powerful volatile spirit,
and the vague vision of Mr. Bradley still standing at the window of
the mill and vibrating with the machinery; this changed presently to a
pleasant lassitude and lazy curiosity as he perceived Mr. Bradley smile
and apparently slip from the window of the mill to his bedside. “You're
all right now,” said Bradley, cheerfully.
He was feeling Mainwaring's pulse. Had he really been ill and was
Bradley a doctor?
Bradley evidently saw what was passing in his mind. “Don't be alarmed,”
he said gayly. “I'm not a doctor, but I practise a little medicine and
surgery on account of the men at the mill, and accidents, you know.
You're all right now; you've lost a little blood: but in a couple of
weeks in this air we'll have that tubercle healed, and you'll be as
right as a trivet.”
“In a couple of weeks!” echoed Mainwaring, in faint astonishment. “Why,
I leave here to-morrow.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind” said Mrs. Bradley, with smiling
peremptoriness, suddenly slipping out from behind her husband.
“Everything is all perfectly arranged. Jim has sent off messengers to
your friends, so that if you can't come to them, they can come to you.
You see you can't help yourself! If you WILL walk fifteen miles with
such lungs, and then frighten people to death, you must abide by the
consequences.”
“You see the old lady has fixed you,” said Bradley, smiling; “and she's
the master here. Come, Mainwaring, you can send any other message you
like, and have who and what you want here; but HERE you must stop for a
while.”
“But did I frighten you really?” stammered Mainwaring, faintly, to Mrs.
Bradley.
“Frighten us!” said Mrs. Bradley. “Well, look there!”
She pointed to the window, which commanded a view of the veranda. Miss
Macy had dropped into the vacant chair, with her little feet stretched
out before her, her cheeks burning with heat and fire, her eyes partly
closed, her straw hat hanging by a ribbon round her neck, her brown
hair clinging to her ears and forehead in damp tendrils, and an enormous
palm-leaf fan in each hand violently playing upon this charming picture
of exhaustion and abandonment.
“She came tearing down to the mill, bare-backed on our half-broken
mustang, about half an hour ago, to call me 'to help you,'” explained
Bradley. “Heaven knows how she managed to do it!”