The big Pine was gone. He had seen it first, one morning at daybreak,
when the valley on the other side was a sea of mist that threw soft,
clinging spray to the very mountain tops--for even above the mists, that
morning, its mighty head arose, sole visible proof that the earth still
slept beneath. He had seen it at noon--but little less majestic, among
the oaks that stood about it; had seen it catching the last light at
sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow, and like a dark, silent,
mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon. He had
seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring,
had seen it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of winter
trees and still green in a shroud of snow--a changeless promise that the
earth must wake to life again. It had been the beacon that led him into
Lonesome Cove--the beacon that led June into the outer world. From it
her flying feet had carried her into his life--past it, the same feet
had carried her out again. It had been their trysting place--had
kept their secrets like a faithful friend and had stood to him as the
changeless symbol of their love. It had stood a mute but sympathetic
witness of his hopes, his despairs and the struggles that lay between
them. In dark hours it had been a silent comforter, and in the last year
it had almost come to symbolize his better self as to that self he came
slowly back. And in the darkest hour it was the last friend to whom he
had meant to say good-by. Now it was gone. Always he had lifted his eyes
to it every morning when he rose, but now, next morning, he hung back
consciously as one might shrink from looking at the face of a dead
friend, and when at last he raised his head to look upward to it, an
impenetrable shroud of mist lay between them--and he was glad.
And still he could not leave. The little creek was a lashing yellow
torrent, and his horse, heavily laden as he must be, could hardly swim
with his weight, too, across so swift a stream. But mountain streams
were like June's temper--up quickly and quickly down--so it was noon
before he plunged into the tide with his saddle-pockets over one
shoulder and his heavy transit under one arm. Even then his snorting
horse had to swim a few yards, and he reached the other bank soaked to
his waist line. But the warm sun came out just as he entered the woods,
and as he climbed, the mists broke about him and scudded upward
like white sails before a driving wind. Once he looked back from a
“fire-scald” in the woods at the lonely cabin in the cove, but it gave
him so keen a pain that he would not look again. The trail was slippery
and several times he had to stop to let his horse rest and to slow the
beating of his own heart. But the sunlight leaped gladly from wet leaf
to wet leaf until the trees looked decked out for unseen fairies, and
the birds sang as though there was nothing on earth but joy for all its
creatures, and the blue sky smiled above as though it had never bred a
lightning flash or a storm. Hale dreaded the last spur before the little
Gap was visible, but he hurried up the steep, and when he lifted his
apprehensive eyes, the gladness of the earth was as nothing to the
sudden joy in his own heart. The big Pine stood majestic, still
unscathed, as full of divinity and hope to him as a rainbow in an
eastern sky. Hale dropped his reins, lifted one hand to his dizzy head,
let his transit to the ground, and started for it on a run. Across the
path lay a great oak with a white wound running the length of its mighty
body, from crest to shattered trunk, and over it he leaped, and like a
child caught his old friend in both arms. After all, he was not alone.
One friend would be with him till death, on that border-line between the
world in which he was born and the world he had tried to make his own,
and he could face now the old one again with a stouter heart. There
it lay before him with its smoke and fire and noise and slumbering
activities just awakening to life again. He lifted his clenched fist
toward it:
“You got ME once,” he muttered, “but this time I'll get YOU.” He turned
quickly and decisively--there would be no more delay. And he went back
and climbed over the big oak that, instead of his friend, had fallen
victim to the lightning's kindly whim and led his horse out into the
underbrush. As he approached within ten yards of the path, a metallic
note rang faintly on the still air the other side of the Pine and down
the mountain. Something was coming up the path, so he swiftly knotted
his bridle-reins around a sapling, stepped noiselessly into the path
and noiselessly slipped past the big tree where he dropped to his
knees, crawled forward and lay flat, peering over the cliff and down
the winding trail. He had not long to wait. A riderless horse filled the
opening in the covert of leaves that swallowed up the path. It was gray
and he knew it as he knew the saddle as his old enemy's--Dave. Dave had
kept his promise--he had come back. The dream was coming true, and they
were to meet at last face to face. One of them was to strike a trail
more lonesome than the Trail of the Lonesome Pine, and that man would
not be John Hale. One detail of the dream was going to be left out, he
thought grimly, and very quietly he drew his pistol, cocked it, sighted
it on the opening--it was an easy shot--and waited. He would give that
enemy no more chance than he would a mad dog--or would he? The horse
stopped to browse. He waited so long that he began to suspect a trap.
He withdrew his head and looked about him on either side and
behind--listening intently for the cracking of a twig or a footfall. He
was about to push backward to avoid possible attack from the rear, when
a shadow shot from the opening. His face paled and looked sick of a
sudden, his clenched fingers relaxed about the handle of his pistol
and he drew it back, still cocked, turned on his knees, walked past
the Pine, and by the fallen oak stood upright, waiting. He heard a low
whistle calling to the horse below and a shudder ran through him. He
heard the horse coming up the path, he clenched his pistol convulsively,
and his eyes, lit by an unearthly fire and fixed on the edge of the
bowlder around which they must come, burned an instant later on--June.
At the cry she gave, he flashed a hunted look right and left, stepped
swiftly to one side and stared past her-still at the bowlder. She had
dropped the reins and started toward him, but at the Pine she stopped
short.
“Where is he?”
Her lips opened to answer, but no sound came. Hale pointed at the horse
behind her.
“That's his. He sent me word. He left that horse in the valley, to
ride over here, when he came back, to kill me. Are you with him?” For
a moment she thought from his wild face that he had gone crazy and she
stared silently. Then she seemed to understand, and with a moan she
covered her face with her hands and sank weeping in a heap at the foot
of the Pine.
The forgotten pistol dropped, full cocked to the soft earth, and Hale
with bewildered eyes went slowly to her.
“Don't cry,”--he said gently, starting to call her name. “Don't cry,” he
repeated, and he waited helplessly.
“He's dead. Dave was shot--out--West,” she sobbed. “I told him I was
coming back. He gave me his horse. Oh, how could you?”
“Why did you come back?” he asked, and she shrank as though he had
struck her--but her sobs stopped and she rose to her feet.
“Wait,” she said, and she turned from him to wipe her eyes with her
handerchief. Then she faced him.
“When dad died, I learned everything. You made him swear never to
tell me and he kept his word until he was on his death-bed. YOU did
everything for me. It was YOUR money. YOU gave me back the old cabin in
the Cove. It was always you, you, YOU, and there was never anybody else
but you.” She stopped for Hale's face was as though graven from stone.
“And you came back to tell me that?”
“Yes.”
“You could have written that.”
“Yes,” she faltered, “but I had to tell you face to face.”
“Is that all?”
Again the tears were in her eyes.
“No,” she said tremulously.
“Then I'll say the rest for you. You wanted to come to tell me of the
shame you felt when you knew,” she nodded violently--“but you could have
written that, too, and I could have written that you mustn't feel that
way--that” he spoke slowly--“you mustn't rob me of the dearest happiness
I ever knew in my whole life.”
“I knew you would say that,” she said like a submissive child. The
sternness left his face and he was smiling now.
“And you wanted to say that the only return you could make was to come
back and be my wife.”
“Yes,” she faltered again, “I did feel that--I did.”
“You could have written that, too, but you thought you had to PROVE it
by coming back yourself.”
This time she nodded no assent and her eyes were streaming. He turned
away--stretching out his arms to the woods.
“God! Not that--no--no!”
“Listen, Jack!” As suddenly his arms dropped. She had controlled her
tears but her lips were quivering.
“No, Jack, not that--thank God. I came because I wanted to come,” she
said steadily. “I loved you when I went away. I've loved you every
minute since--” her arms were stealing about his neck, her face was
upturned to his and her eyes, moist with gladness, were looking into his
wondering eyes--“and I love you now--Jack.”
“June!” The leaves about them caught his cry and quivered with the joy
of it, and above their heads the old Pine breathed its blessing with the
name--June--June--June.