Hanscom rode away up the trail in a singularly exalted mood. The girl
with whom he had been so suddenly related in a coroner's inquest filled
his mind to the exclusion of all else. He saw nothing, heard nothing of
the forest. Helen's sadness, her composure, her aloofness, engaged his
imagination.
"She's been sick and she's been in trouble," he decided. "She's out
here to get away from somebody or something."
Over and over again he recounted her words, lingering especially upon
the sweetness of her voice and the searching quality of that last look
she had given him. He unsaddled his horse mechanically, and went about
his cabin duties with listless deftness.
Lonely, cut off from even the most formal intercourse with marriageable
maidens, he was naturally extremely susceptible to the charm of this
cultivated woman. The memory of her handsome foot, the clasp of her
strong fingers, the lines of her lovely neck--all conspired to dull his
appetite for food and keep him smoking and musing far into the night,
and these visions were with him as he arose the next morning to resume
his daily duties in the forest. They did not interrupt his work; they
lightened it.
As the hours went by, the desire to see her grew more and more intense,
and at last, a couple of days later while riding the trail not far above
the Kauffman ranch, he decided that it was a part of his day's work to
"scout round" that way and inquire how they were all getting on. He was
strengthened in this determination by the reports which came to him from
the ranchers he met. No other clue had developed, and the Kitsongs,
highly incensed at the action of the jury, not only insisted that the
girl was the murderess, but that the doctor was shielding her for
reasons of his own--and several went so far as to declare their
intention to see that the Kauffmans got their just punishment.
It is true, the jury admitted that they were divided in their opinion,
but that the coroner's attitude brought about a change of sentiment. The
fact that the woman didn't wear and couldn't wear so small a shoe was at
the moment convincing. It was only later, when the Kitsong sympathizers
began to argue, that they hesitated.
Mrs. Abe Kitsong was especially bitter, and it was her influence which
brought out an expression of settled purpose to punish which led to the
ranger's decision to go over and see if the old German and his daughter
were undisturbed.
As he turned in at the Kauffman gate he caught a glimpse of the girl
hoeing in the garden, wearing the same blue sunbonnet in which she had
appeared at the inquest. She was deeply engaged with her potatoes and
did not observe him till, upon hearing the clatter of his horse's hoofs
upon the bridge, she looked up with a start. Seeing in him a possible
enemy, she dropped her hoe and ran toward the house like a hare seeking
covert. As she reached the corner of the kitchen she turned, fixed a
steady backward look upon him, and disappeared.
Hanscom smiled. He had seen other women hurrying to change their
workaday dress for visitors, and he imagined Helen hastily putting on
her shoes and smoothing her hair. He was distinctly less in awe of her
by reason of this girlish action--it made her seem more of his own
rough-and-ready world, and he dismounted at her door almost at his ease,
although his heart had been pounding furiously as he rode down the
ridge.
She surprised him by reappearing in her working-gown, but shod with
strong, low-heeled shoes. "Good evening, Mr. Forest Ranger," she said,
smiling, yet perturbed. "I didn't recognize you at first. Won't you
'picket' and come in?" She said this in the tone of one consciously
assuming the vernacular.
"Thank you, I believe I will," he replied, with candid heartiness. "I
was riding one of my lower trails to-day, so I just thought I'd drop
down and see how you were all coming on."
"We are quite well, thank you. Daddy's away just this minute. One of our
cows hid her calf in the hills, and he's trying to find it. Won't you
put your horse in the corral?"
"No; he's all right. He's a good deal like me--works better on a small
ration. A standing siesta will just about do him."
A gleam of humor shone in her eyes. "Neither of you 'pear to be
suffering from lack of food. But come in, please, and have a seat."
He followed her into the cabin, keenly alive to the changes in her dress
as well as in her manner. She wore her hair plainly parted, as at the
hearing, but it lay much lower about her brow and rippled charmingly.
She stood perfectly erect, also, and moved with a fine stride, and the
lines of her shoulders, even under a rough gray shirtwaist, were strong
and graceful. Though not skilled in analyzing a woman's "outfit," the
ranger divined that she wore no corset, for the flex of her powerful
waist was like that of a young man.
Her speech was noticeably Southern in accent, as if it were a part of
her masquerade, but she brought him a chair and confronted him without
confusion. In this calm dignity he read something entirely flattering to
himself.
"Evidently she considers me a friend as well as an officer," he
reasoned.
"I hope you are a little hungry," she said. "I'd like to have you break
bread in our house. You were mighty kind to us the other day."
"Oh, I'm hungry," he admitted, meeting her hospitality half-way. "Seems
like I'm always hungry. You see, I cook my own grub, and my bill of fare
isn't what you'd call extensive, and, besides, a man's cooking never
relishes the way a woman's does, anyhow."
"I'll see what I can find for you," she said, and hurried out.
While waiting he studied the room in which he sat with keenest interest.
It was rather larger than the usual living-room in a mountain home, but
it had not much else to distinguish it. The furniture was of the kind to
be purchased in the near-by town, and the walls were roughly ceiled with
cypress boards; but a few magazines, some books on a rude shelf, a
fiddle-box under the table, and a guitar hanging on a nail gave evidence
of refinement and taste and spoke to him of pleasures which he had only
known afar. The guitar especially engaged his attention. "I wonder if
she sings?" he asked himself.
Musing thus in silence, he heard her moving about the kitchen with rapid
tread, and when she came in, a few minutes later, bearing a tray, he
thought her beautiful--so changed was her expression.
"I didn't wait for the coffee," she smilingly explained. "You said you
were hungry and so I have brought in a little 'snack.' The coffee will
be ready soon."
"Snack!" he exclaimed. "Lady! This is a feast!" And as she put the tray
down beside him he added: "This puts me right back in Aunt Mary's house
at Circle Bend, Nebraska. I don't rightly feel fit to sit opposite a
spread like that."
She seemed genuinely amused by his extravagance. "It's nothing but a
little cold chicken and some light bread. I made the bread yesterday;
and the raspberry jam is mine also."
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AND A FOREST RANGER]
"It's angels' food to me," he retorted, as he eyed the dainty napkins
and the silver spoons and forks. "You don't know what this means to a
man who lives on rice and prunes and kittle bread. I have a guilty
feeling; I do, indeed. Seems like I'm getting all this thanksgiving
treat under false pretenses. Perhaps you think I'm an English nobleman
in disguise. But I'm not--I'm just a plain dub of a forest ranger,
ninety dollars a month and board myself."
She laughed at his disclaimer, and yet under her momentary lightness he
still perceived something of the strong current of bitter sadness which
had so profoundly moved him at the inquest and which still remained
unexplained; therefore he hesitated about referring to the Watson case.
As he ate, she stood to serve him, but not with the air of a
serving-maid; on the contrary, though her face was bronzed by the winds,
and her hands calloused by spade and hoe, there was little of the rustic
in her action. Her blouse, cut sailor fashion at the throat, displayed a
lovely neck (also burned by the sun), and she carried herself with the
grace of an athlete. Her trust and confidence in her visitor became more
evident each moment.
"No," she said in answer to his question. "We hardly ever have visitors.
Now and then some cowboy rides past, but you are almost the only caller
we have ever had. The settlers in the valley do not attract me."
"I should think you'd get lonesome."
She looked away, and a sterner, older expression came into her face. "I
do, sometimes," she admitted; then she bravely faced him. "But my health
is so much better--it was quite broken when I came--that I have every
reason to be thankful. After all, health is happiness. I ought to be
perfectly content, and I am when I think how miserable I once was."
"Health is cheap with me," he smilingly replied. "But I get so lonesome
sometimes that I pretty near quit and go out. Do you intend to stay here
all winter?"
"We expect to."
He thought it well to warn her. "The snow falls deep in this
valley--terribly deep."
She showed some uneasiness. "I know it, but I'm going to learn to
snow-shoe."
"I wish you'd let me come over and teach you."
"Can you snow-shoe? I thought rangers always rode horseback."
He smiled. "You've been reading the opposition press. A forest ranger
who is on the job has got to snow-shoe like a Canuck or else go down the
valley after the snow begins to fall. It was five feet deep around my
cabin last year. I hate to think of your being here alone. If one of you
should be sick, it would be--tough. Unless you absolutely have to stay
here, I advise you to go down the creek."
"Perhaps our neighbors and not the snow will drive us out," she replied.
"They've already served notice."