I
Freeman Ward, geologist for the government, was not altogether easy in
his mind as he led his little pack-train out of Pinedale, a frontier
settlement on the western slope of the Rocky Mountain divide, for he had
permitted the girl of his deepest interest to accompany him on his
expedition.
Alice Mansfield, accustomed to having her way, and in this case
presuming upon Ward's weakness, insisted on going. Outwardly he had
argued against it, making much of the possible storms, of the rough
trails, of the cold and dampness. But she argued that she was quite as
able to go as Mrs. Adams, the wife of the botanist of the expedition. So
Ward had yielded, and here these women were forming part of a cavalcade
which was headed for Fremont Peak, concerning whose height and formation
the leader wished to inform himself. Alice was, however, a bit dashed by
Ward's change of manner as he laid upon his train his final
instructions.
"There is to be no skylarking," he said, "and no back-tracking. Each one
is to exercise great care. We cannot afford to lose a horse nor waste
our provisions. This is not a picnic excursion, but a serious
government enterprise. I cannot turn back because of any discomfort you
may encounter in camp."
"I am ready for what comes," Alice answered, smilingly.
But she rode for the rest of the day remarkably silent. There had been
times when she was certain that Ward cared a great deal for her--not in
the impersonal way indicated by his reprimand--but in the way of a
lover, and she was very fond of him, had indeed looked forward to this
trip in his company as one sure to yield hours of delightful intimacy.
On the train he had been very devoted, "almost lover-like," Peggy Adams
insisted. But now she was dismayed by his tone of military command.
Their first day's march brought them to a beautiful water called Heart
Lake, which shone dark and deep amid its martial firs at the head of one
of the streams which descended into the East Fork, and there the guides
advised a camp. They were now above the hunters, almost above the game,
in a region "delightfully primeval," as the women put it, and very
beautiful and peaceful.
After the tents were in order and the supper eaten, Alice, having tuned
up her little metal banjo, began to twitter tender melodies (to the
moon, of course), and the long face of the man of science broadened and
he seemed less concerned about rocks and fauna and flora.
The camp was maintained at Heart Lake for a day while Ward and his men
explored the various gorges in order to discover a way into Blizzard
Basin, which was their goal. They returned to camp each time more and
more troubled about the question of taking the women over the divide
into the "rough country" which lay to the north.
"It is a totally different world," Adams explained to his wife. "It is
colder and stormier over there. The forest on the north slopes is full
of down-timber and the cliffs are stupendous. I wish you girls were back
in the settlement," and in this wish Ward heartily joined.
However, the more they talked the more determined the women were to go.
It was like a May day the following noon as they left timber-line and,
following the row of tiny monuments set up by the foresters, entered
upon the wide and undulating stretch of low edges which led to the
summit. The air was clear and the verdureless shapes of the monstrous
peaks stood sharp as steel against the sky. The tender grass was filled
with minute glistening flowers. The wind was gentle, sweet, moist, and
cool.
"Pooh!" said Alice, "this is absurdly easy. Freeman has been telling us
dreadful tales all along just to be rid of us."
But she began to admit that her escort of four strong men was a comfort,
as the guide explained that this "rough country" had long been known as
the retreat of cattle-thieves and outlaws.
"Do you think there are any such men in here now?" asked Mrs. Adams.
"Undoubtedly," Ward said; "but I don't think, from the condition of this
trail, that they come in on this side of the range. I suspect it's too
lonely even for a cattle-thief."
They unsaddled that night on the bank of a stream near a small meadow,
and around the camp-fire discussed the trail which they were to take
next day. The guides agreed that it was "a holy terror," which made
Alice the more eager to traverse it.
"I like trails that make men quake. I welcome adventure--that's what I
came for," she said.
Early the next forenoon, as they were descending the steep north-slope
trail, Alice gave out a cry of pain, and Adams called to Ward:
"Hold on! Allie's horse is down."
Ward was not surprised. He rode in continual expectation of trouble. She
was forever trying short cuts and getting snared in the fallen logs.
Once she had been scraped from her saddle by an overhanging bough, and
now, in attempting to find an easier path down a slippery ridge, her
horse had fallen with her. Ward was ungracious enough to say:
"Precisely what I've warned her against," but he hurried to her relief,
nevertheless.
"Are you badly hurt?" he asked, as she stood before him, striving to
keep back her tears of pain.
"Oh no, not at all badly. My foot was jammed a little. Please help me on
to my horse; I'll be all right in a minute."
She put so good a face on her accident that he helped her into her
saddle and ordered the train to move on; but Peggy perceived that the
girl was suffering keenly.
"Sha'n't we stop, Allie?" she called, a few minutes later.
"No. I'll be all right in a few minutes."
She rode on for nearly half an hour, bravely enduring her pain, but at
last she turned to Mrs. Adams and cried out: "I can't stand it, Peggy!
My foot pains me frightfully!"
Adams again called to Ward and the procession halted, while Ward came
back, all his anger gone.
"We'll go into camp," he said, as he examined her bruised foot. "You're
badly hurt."
"It's a poor place to camp, Professor," protested Gage. "If she can go
on for about fifteen minutes--"
"I'll try," she said; "but I can't bear the stirrup, and my shoe is full
of blood."
Ward, who was now keenly sympathetic, put her on his own horse and
walked beside her while they slowly crawled down into the small valley,
which held a deep and grassy tarn. Here they went into camp and the day
was lost.
Alice was profoundly mortified to find herself the cause of the untimely
halt, and as she watched the men making camp with anxious, irritated
faces she wept with shame of her folly. She had seized the worst
possible moment, in the most inaccessible spot of their journey, to
commit her crowning indiscretion.
She was ill in every nerve, shivering and weak, and remained for that
day the center of all the activities of the camp. Ward, very tender even
in his chagrin, was constantly at her side, his brow knotted with care.
He knew what it meant to be disabled two hundred miles from a hospital,
with fifty miles of mountain trail between one's need and a roof, but
Alice buoyed herself up with the belief that no bones were broken, and
that in the clear air of the germless world her wound would quickly
heal.
She lay awake a good part of that night, hearing, above the roar of the
water, the far-off noises of the wild-animal world. A wolf howled, a cat
screamed, and their voices were fear-inspiring.
She began also to worry about the effect of her mishap on the
expedition, for she heard Ward say to Adams: "This delay is very
unfortunate. Our stay is so limited. I fear we will not be able to
proceed for some days, and snow is likely to fall at any time."
What they said after that Alice could not hear, but she was in full
possession of their trouble. It was not a question of the loss of a few
days; it meant the possible failure of the entire attempt to reach the
summit.
"Peggy," she declared, next morning, "the men must push on and leave you
with me here in the camp. I will not permit the expedition to fail on my
account."
This seemed a heroic resolution at the moment, with the menacing sounds
of the night still fresh in her ears, but it was the most natural and
reasonable thing in the world at the moment, for the sun was rising warm
and clear and the valley was as peaceful and as beautiful as a park.
Mrs. Adams readily agreed to stay, for she was wholly free from the
ordinary timidities of women, but Ward, though sorely tempted, replied:
"No. We'll wait a day or two longer and see how you come on."
At this point one of the guides spoke up, saying: "If the women would be
more comfortable in a cabin, there's one down here in the brush by the
lake. I found it this morning when I was wranglin' the horses."
"A cabin! In this wild place?" said Alice.
"Yes, ma'am--must be a ranger's cabin."
Ward mused. "If it's habitable it would be warmer and safer than a tent.
Let's go see about it."
He came back jubilant. "It doesn't seem to have been occupied very
recently, but is in fair shape. We'll move you right down there."
The wounded girl welcomed the shelter of a roof, and it was good to feel
solid logs about her helpless self. The interior of the hut was untidy
and very rude, but it stood in a delightful nook on the bank of a pond
just where a small stream fell into the valley, and it required but a
few minutes of Mrs. Adams's efforts to clear the place out and make it
cozy, and soon Alice, groaning faintly, was deposited in the rough pole
bunk at the dark end of the room. What an inglorious end to her exalted
ride!
Ward seemed to understand her tears as he stood looking down upon her,
but he only said: "I dislike leaving you, even for the day. I shall give
up my trip."
"No, no! you must go on!" she cried out. "I shall hate myself if you
don't go on."
He reluctantly yielded to her demand, but said: "If I find that we can't
get back to-morrow I will send Gage back. He's a trusty fellow. I can't
spare Adams, and Smith and Todd--as you know--are paying for their
trip."
Mrs. Adams spoke up firmly. "You need not worry about us. We can get
along very well without anybody. If you climb the peak you'll need Gage.
I'm not afraid. We're the only people in this valley, and with this
staunch little cabin I feel perfectly at home."
"That's quite true," replied Ward in a relieved tone. "We are above the
hunters--no one ever crosses here now. But it will be lonely."
"Not at all!" Alice assured him. "We shall enjoy being alone in the
forest."
With slow and hesitating feet Ward left the two women and swung into his
saddle. "I guess I'll send Gage back, anyhow," he said.
"Don't think of it!" called Peggy.
As a matter of fact, Alice was glad to have the men pull out. Their
pity, their reproach, irritated her. It was as if they repeated aloud a
scornful phrase--"You're a lovely and tempting creature, but you're a
fool-hen just the same."
The two women spent the day peacefully, save now and then when Alice's
wounded foot ached and needed care; but as night began to rise in the
canyon like the smoke of some hidden, silent, subterranean fire, and the
high crags glowed in the last rays of the sun, each of them acknowledged
a touch of that immemorial awe of the darkness with which the race
began.
Peggy, seating herself in the doorway, described the scene to her
patient, who could see but little of it. "Oh, but it's gloriously
uncanny to be here. Only think! We are now alone with God and His
animals, and the night."
"I hope none of God's bears is roaming about," replied Alice,
flippantly.
"There aren't any bears above the berries. We're perfectly safe. My
soul! but it's a mighty country! I wish you could see the glow on the
peaks."
"I'm taking my punishment," replied Alice. "Freeman was very angry,
wasn't he?"
"If it breaks off the match I won't be surprised," replied Peggy, with
resigned intonation.
"There wasn't any match to break off."
"Well!" replied the other, and as she slowly rose she added: "I won't
say that he is perfectly distracted about you, but I do know that he
thinks more of you than of any other woman in the world, and I've no
doubt he is worrying about you this minute."