Mr. Kenly Lounsbury, addressed affectionately as Uncle by his nephew's
fiancee, was in ill humor as he devoured his lunch. In the first place
he hadn't been getting the attention that he had expected. He was used
to being treated with a certain deference, an abject humility was as
fitting to a man of wealth and position. These northern people,
however, didn't seem to know how to fawn. They were courteous enough,
gave good service, but were inclined to speak to him as man to
man,--an inference of equality that he regarded with great displeasure.
His nephew's penniless fiancee, instead of himself, received all the
attentions. Even the burly ruffian who was to guide them looked at her
as if she were an angel.
The girl's voice rang over the table. "What's worrying you now, Uncle?"
she asked.
Lounsbury looked up angrily. "What's worrying me now is--that I was
such a fool as to come up into this country at the approach of winter.
I don't like the place, and I don't like the people, and I abominate the
service! Fancy eating on these great, thick plates for a month! I
don't trust that big outlaw who is going to take us into the woods,
either. Virginia, I have a distinct premonition of disaster."
"I rather think--that we'll be glad enough to have any china plates at
all before we get back. And Mr. Bronson----"
"By the way, don't call him _Mr._ Bronson. You must learn to teach
these beggars their places. Call him just Bronson. You'll get twice
the service."
"Yes, Uncle. I was just going to say that he seemed very trustworthy.
And it's hardly--well, the sporting thing to become discouraged so
soon."
All through the journey so far this had been Lounsbury's one
satisfaction--that he was doing the sporting thing. He knew perfectly
that many of his business associates, many of his city's great whom
he would have been flattered to know, came up into these gloomy
forests every year in pursuit of big game; and he had heard of
enduring hardships in a "sporting" way. But the term was already
threadbare,--and the journey only commenced. The reason went back to
the simple fact that Lounsbury was not a sportsman and never could be,
that the red corpuscle content in his blood was wholly within the law.
Yes, Virginia felt at a disadvantage. This man's money had financed the
trip; the fortune her own father had left had been almost depleted from
reverses resulting from the war, and only the most meager sort of an
income--according to her standards--was left. An orphan, she had
always looked up to her fiance's uncle as her guardian and adviser; to
see signs of discouragement in him now was a serious blow to her.
She had been somewhat surprised, in the first place, at his willingness
to undertake the journey. He usually did not care to go so far from the
White Way of his native city. The years had taught her to look for
selfish motives behind his every action; certainly, she told herself, he
was not of the unselfish mold of his nephew, Harold Lounsbury, the
sweetheart of her youth, but in this particular case the expedition
seemed entirely altruistic. She wondered now whether, after all her
dreams, she would be forced to turn back before her purpose was
accomplished.
They pushed back their chairs and started to leave the dining room. But
it was not written that Kenly Lounsbury should reach the door without
further annoyance. The waiter came shouting after them.
"Excuse me, Mister," he said kindly, holding out a quarter, "you left
some money on the table."
Virginia laughed with delight and pocketed the coin herself, but
Lounsbury's face became purple. These northern fools did not even know
the meaning of a tip.
A few minutes later the pack train emerged through the little alley at
the side of the hotel and halted in front. Bill Bronson led his own
bay, Mulvaney, and the pack horses were tailed,--the halter rope of
each tied to the tail of the horse in front, like elephants on parade.
The idea was simply to keep them in formation till they were launched
forth upon the trail. Vosper, the cook, led three horses with riding
saddles at the end of the line.
Virginia had changed to outing clothes when she emerged into the street,
leaving her tailored suit in charge of the innkeeper. Bill beamed at
her appearance. "Miss Tremont," he began, doing the honors, "this is
Mr. Vosper, who will cook the beans."
Both nodded, the girl smiling rather impersonally, and Bill noticed a
horrifying omission. Vosper actually lacked the intelligence to remove
his hat! The first instinct of the woodsman was to march toward him and
inflict physical violence for such an insult to his queen, but he caught
himself in time. Vosper, damaged in the encounter, would likely refuse
to make the trip, upsetting all their plans.
But at that instant Bill forgot all about it. He suddenly noticed his
employers' clothes. And he gazed in open-mouthed astonishment.
Both Virginia and Lounsbury were well gotten up according to their idea
of proper garb for outdoor people. The man wore knickerbockers with
gold stockings, riding habit and stock, the girl a beautifully tailored,
fine-textured lady's riding habit. Both were immediately conscious of
the guide's stare, and Virginia was aware of a distinct embarrassment.
Something, somewhere, had evidently gone wrong. Lounsbury took refuge
in hauteur.
"Well?" he demanded icily.
"Excuse me," Bill replied. "But those aren't--are those the clothes
you're going to wear on the trip?"
"We're not parading for any one's benefit, I hope," was the sarcastic
answer. "These are our rough clothes. Have you any objections to 'em?"
The guide's eyes puckered about the corners. "No, sir--not any
objections--and they'd be all right for a day or two--until bad
weather. But they are hardly the togs for the North. What you want is
a good pair of slicker pants, both of you, and plenty of wool inside.
Also a rubber coat of some kind, over sheepskin. In the first good snow
those clothes would just melt away. If you'll come with me, I'll help
you lay in some--and I'll pack 'em right on one of the horses for the
time of need. There's a store adjoining the hotel----"
Virginia's confusion had departed, giving way to mirth, but Lounsbury
was swollen and purple with wrath. "You--you----" he began. His face
grew crafty. "I suppose you get a commission on every garment you
sell."
Bill turned rather quiet eyes on the man; and for one little instant the
craven that dwelt under Lounsbury's skin told him he had said one
sentence too many; but he took heart when Bill looked away. "I'll keep
what I've got on," he announced. "I'm not used to being told what kind
of clothes to wear. Virginia, we'll start on."
"Wait just a minute, Uncle," the girl replied coolly. She turned to
Bill. "You say these won't do at all?"
"They'll be torn off of you in the brush, Miss Tremont. And they won't
turn the cold and the snow, either. This is the North, you know."
"Then I, for one, am going to take your advice. Please help me pick out
the things, Bronson."
They left Lounsbury fuming in the road, and they had a rather enjoyable
ten minutes searching through Fargo's stock for suitable garb. He
selected a pair of slicker pants to wear over riding trousers, a coat
lined with sheepskin, boy's size, and an awkwardly made but effective
rubber coat for outside wear when the snow lay on the branches. It was
not, Virginia decided, quite like choosing gowns at her modiste's; yet
she was bright-eyed and laughing at the end.
Bill unhitched a pack, inserted the bundle of clothes, then bracing his
boots against the horse's side pulled and tugged until the pack was
right again. "You'll be glad you've got these things before the trip is
done," he prophesied. He pointed to the North, an unlooked for sobriety
upon his face.
Far against the horizon the clouds were beginning to spread, dark and
gray and strange, over the northern hills. These were not the clouds of
summer rains. They were the first banners of an enemy--a grim and
dreadful foe who had his ramparts in the wilds, and his ambush laid for
such feeble creatures as would dare to brave his fastness.
* * * * *
Bill Bronson gave his last directions, tightened the last cinch, and
slipped his rifle into the saddle scabbard. "There's just one thing
more--the choice of horses," he said. "Miss Tremont, of course you
can take your pick." His tone was trustful. "Of course that will be
all right with the other gentlemen--for you to have the best and
safest horse."
Strangely, neither of the two men seemed to greet this suggestion with
especial enthusiasm. "I want a good and a safe horse," Lounsbury said
evenly. "Of course you must provide Miss Tremont with the same."
The woodsman sighed, ever so softly. He returned to Vosper, but if the
latter had any suggestions to offer, the hard eyes of the guide caused
him to think better of them. "I'm sorry to say that good horses--and
safe horses--aren't to be found in the same animal up here," Bill
explained. "If you have a good horse--one that'll take the mud and
swim the river and stand up under the day's march--he'll likely have
too much sense and spirit to be safe. He'll more than likely prance
around when you get on and buck you off if he thinks he can get away
with it. If you've got a safe horse, one that's scared to death of you,
he won't be a good horse--a yellow cuss that has to be dragged through
every mud-puddle. These are all Indian ponies, the best that can be got
up here, but they're not old ladies' driving mares. Miss Tremont, the
best horse in this bunch is my bay, Mulvaney--but nobody can ride him
but me. I'd love to let you ride him if you could, and after a day or
two I'd be willing for you to try it. But he doesn't know what fear is,
and he doesn't know when to give up."
The man spoke soberly. It was wholly plain that Mulvaney was very dear
to his heart. Men do not ride over the caribou trails without
engendering strong feelings toward their mounts. Sometimes it is love.
And not unusually it is detestation.
"That little black there--Buster, we call him--is the next best bet.
It's an important choice you're making, and I'll tell you about him. He
threw a man off once, and when I got him he was supposed to be the most
vicious animal in the Northwest. The truth is, he hasn't got a vicious
hair on his head. But he will try to get away, and he will dance a bit
when you first get on and wheel in circles, and he's hard to catch in
the morning. But he's sure-footed and courageous and strong; he'll take
you up hills where the others can't go. The other two horses--Colt
and Scotty--maybe seem safer, but they haven't got the life Buster
has, nor the sense."
Bill reached to pet the black Buster, and the animal shied nervously.
Virginia walked up to him and seized his bridle rein. In an instant she
had vaulted into the saddle.
He wheeled and plunged at first, but soon she quieted him. In none too
good humor, Lounsbury made his selection, and Vosper took what was left.
Bill led his animal to Virginia's side.
"And are there any special instructions--before we start?" he asked.
"I can give you some special instructions," Lounsbury interrupted. "I
didn't come up here to risk my life on a wild mustang in the mountains.
I want you to pick easy trails--you can if you've just got energy
enough to try."
A half-smile lingered a moment at the woodsman's lips. There was no
choice of trails into Clearwater. He might have told Lounsbury that
once they were out of sight of the roofs of the town they were venturing
into the Unknown, a land where the caribou and the moose made trails
through the forest but where men came not, a land of beasts rather than
men, of primeval grandeur but savage might. "Have you any orders to
give?" he asked the girl again.
"None. All I can do is tell you what I have already done--and then
let you do the best you can. As you know, he left six years ago."
"I know. I saw him when he came through."
His eyes were fast upon her, and he saw her start. Her face seemed to
flame. Stranger as he was to the hearts of women, Bill could
understand. It was word of her lover, a message from the dead, and it
moved her to the depths. But he couldn't understand the curious weight
of depression that descended upon him.
"You did?" she answered quickly. "Was he all right--then?"
"All right, but that was just after he came to the North. I was camping
on this side of Grizzly River, and he stayed to eat with me. He said
his name was Lounsbury. I've never heard of him since."
The surface lights died in her eyes. "Then that doesn't help us much,
except to know that he got that far, at least," she went on. "I'll tell
you the whole thing, simply; maybe it will help you in deciding where to
look for him. He was twenty-seven then--and he'd spent the fortune
his father left him. He had to have more, and he came up here--to
look for gold.
"Like many other men--before him," Bill interrupted gravely.
"He had some sort of definite plan--a vacation place to go--but he
never told me what it was. He told me he was going into Clearwater. He
had to have money--he was in debt and besides, he was engaged to marry
me. The last word I ever heard of him was a note he wrote from
Bradleyburg. I was just a girl then--and I've waited ever since.
His friends, his aunt, sometimes even his uncle thought that he was
dead. I've always felt, just as sure as I am here, that he was still
alive--and in some trouble--and he couldn't come back. Mr. Lounsbury
has hired detectives, but none of them have ever made a real search.
He's financing this trip now--I've been able to persuade him at last to
make one great try to find him. What's what we've hired you to do."
"It's a big order," Bill spoke softly. "There's just one thing we can
do--to look into the country where he's gone and try to trace him.
Every man who goes through Clearwater leaves his mark--there's not so
many of them that their trails get crossed. My plan would be to watch
for the camps he made--there'd be some sign of 'em yet--the trees he
cut and the trails he blazed--and trace him clear to the Valley of the
Yuga."
"And what is there?"
Bill's ears, trained to the silences of the woodland, caught the almost
imperceptible tremor in her voice. "There are a few Indians who have
their tents there--trappers and fishers--and I know how to get
things out of 'em. If he's passed that way, they'd know about it. If
he hasn't--something has happened to him--somewhere between here and
there. He couldn't have remained out of sight so long."
"I want you to make every try. I can't bear--to give up."
Even this woodsman, knowing men to the heart but stranger to the world
of women, knew that she meant what she said. She wasn't of the mold
that gives up quickly. For all her cool exterior, her impersonal voice,
the grace and breeding that went clear to her finger tips, he had some
measure of understanding of an ardor and an intensity that might have
been native to his own wilderness. Not often has girlhood love stood
such a test as this,--six years of silence. He could not doubt its
reality; no small or half-felt emotion could have propelled her forth
into these desolate wastes. Her love had gone deep and it lived.
He answered very gravely and humbly, perhaps a even a little sadly:
"I'll do everything I can to find him for you, Miss. I'll get your
sweetheart for you if it can be done."
To Vosper and Lounsbury the two little sentences were just the
assurances of a hired employee, half-felt and forgotten soon. But
Virginia heard more clearly. She had a vague feeling that she was a
witness to a vow. It seemed to her that there was the fire of a zealot
in his dark eyes, and by token of some mystery she did not understand,
this strong man had seen fit to give her his oath. She only knew that
he spoke true, that by a secret law that only strong men know he would
be as faithful to this promise as if he had given bond.