Mose rose from his lounging position and drew his blanket close.
"Clak-la-sum-kah ees say 'no.' You mus' un'stan' Tyee Sahgalee ees same
you all tam call God. Dat top of Rainier ees His plas. He doan' lak it
for sure, we go dare. Sacre, dat mountain ees goin' shake an' smoke an'
mek mooch fire we go dare, you can beli've it. But ya-as, Yelm Jim ees
see it do dat long tam 'go. He ees say Tyee Sahgalee, ees be mad,
because de firs' white man ees come."
Kingsley threw back his head and laughed. "I see," he said, "I see.
And your Indian God wanted to reserve this country for his favorite
people. But it's all foolishness, Mose; you ought to know it. That
priest of your father's, who has been coming out here every month from
Olympia, must have taught you different. You don't believe any such
heathen nonsense. And you will show us over the trail. You aren't
afraid to try the summit with me, though I doubt there's another boy in
the settlement would dare."
"I ees hunt on dat mountain, si-yah, to de red snow," answered the boy
slowly; "no Indian ees go pas' de red snow."
There was another silence. Kingsley ran his hand lightly down a tawny
pelt that hung in the doorway. "Miss Hunter showed me that other cougar
skin," he said. "She thinks you saved her life." He paused a grave
moment, still stroking the fur. "And I know the story of this one.
It's the pelt of the one you faced on that log crossing over the Des
Chutes. You stopped to take careful aim, with the brute snarling, and
the log dipping and heaving to the freshet underneath. And when he
dropped no one else would have plunged into the flood as you did; not
even to save this skin."
Mose's lips parted in his fleeting smile. "Dat ees not good plas to
swim by Laramie's claim; monjee, no."
Yelm Jim shook his head slowly, and for the first time broke his silence
with a profound, "Ugh."
"It was all the woods afloat that day," said Kingsley, "Myers told
me,--and the drift tearing down a current gone mad." He paused again
and his glance moved to a great shaggy trophy against the matting on the
farther wall. "And that," he added, "must be the pelt of the cinnamon
bear you met up in the hills, single-handed, with just your knife."
"Nawitka." A sudden fire leaped in the old chief's eyes. "Hy-as close
peltry. Mose hy-as shookum tumtum. Hy-as skookum."
"Mose has the strong heart," interpreted Kingsley. "Strong heart, yes.
I tell you I'd have paid a stiff price to see that encounter."
"It ees good skin," said Mose, simply. "Oh, ya-as, for sure."
"See here, Mose,--" the young man drew nearer,--"in the face of all this
you can't make me believe you're afraid of Rainier."
"A'm not 'fraid anyt'ing dese woods; bear, cougar, hi-yu water, snow,
doan' mek me 'fraid. But Tyee Sahgalee, ugh." Mose drew his shoulders
high in eloquent conclusion, and resuming his place on the couch, turned
his face.
Kingsley laughed once more. "Oh, well, think it over. We shall start
for the mountain anyway, whether we have a guide or not. We shall break
camp the day after to-morrow. Let me know if you make up your mind to
go, Mose; and you had better look at those blankets. They are pretty
fine."
He turned away then, taking the river trail, and, as he went, his lips
shaped a gay whistle. Once, as he approached his camp, he turned from
the path and stepped out on a fallen fir that served as a footbridge to
a green island, and looking up-stream saw the splendor of a northern
sunset on the mighty dome. "I don't wonder they believe it," he said.
"I don't wonder."
Almost an hour later Mose also stopped at this crossing and lifted his
eyes to the mountain. It loomed, vast, white, symmetrical against the
darkening east, its consecrated summit touched with a holy fire. He
waited while the glory paled to opal and to a cold silver. When he
turned from the log his lips set in a thin line; his eyes narrowed; his
face hinted of cruelty.
Laramie's hounds had followed him; they crept through the underbrush at
heel. But suddenly, on the edge of the mam trail, he stopped and laid
his hand on one of them. "Back, Pichou," he said. "Monjee, down, down,
so."
He remained almost hidden by a tangle of alder, while two riders passed.
Neither noticed him; the teacher was talking, and Stratton, though he
might have lifted his arm and touched the boy, turned his head to watch
her face. They moved slowly, at a walk, until the thoroughbred,
sighting the waiting figure, started, and, dancing, crowding the black,
circled suspiciously by. Then, directly, both horses broke into a light
canter, taking advantage of the bit of wider track.
Mose stepped out into the trail and stood looking after them, but his
gaze rested on Stratton's mount. He loved the thoroughbred, coveted
him, every inch of the long sleek body, the slender limbs, the swelling
chest, the dappled shading, that, like a reflection of leaves on a
forest pool, ran through the shining, chestnut coat. Surely there was
never another like him. Even among those fine herds of which Yelm Jim
boasted this horse must stand the chief, the glory of the whole Palouse
plains, the envy of the proudest Yakima.
He walked on towards the bend around which the horses had disappeared.
The noise of the river was in his ears. After a while the air grew
resinous with burning firboughs, and finally, through the trees, he
caught the glow of Kingsley's camp-fire. He and his wife had chosen to
pitch their tents here on the bank of the Nisqually, rather than to
share the cramped quarters of the settler.
She was seated with the teacher on a log in the full light of the
blazing boughs, when Mose stopped on the edge of the open to
reconnoiter, and he saw instantly their resemblance to each other. The
two men, resting a little apart, listened amusedly to their eager
conversation, while nearer, but to the right, Mill Thornton stood with
his hand at the bit of the young sorrel, waiting for a last word with
Samantha Myers.
She had joined the camp to "help an' hev er little fun." And she was a
slim, graceful girl,--"all tech an' go," Eben would have told you,--with
the beautiful color that is as delicate as the tints of a seashell, and
yet impervious to life out-of-doors. Her hair, as fine as corn silk,
was pale red, and when she bent over the tin reflector, in which she was
cooking some very light rolls, her head seemed to catch the vital charm
of the flames.
"But," Thornton was saying, "kem to think of it, I never see er Myers
yet that wasn't er good cook. Ther's your Uncle Eben, when he's driv to
it, he kin stir up a flapjack, an' turn her at eggsactly ther minute.
Beats all. Yes," he resumed in afterthought, "take 'em as er fambly,
ther Myerses is er pretty smart crowd; but you, well, I don't keer how
many's on ther tree, Samanthy, you're ther peach."
She stood erect and flashed him a look that startled the boldness from
his young eyes. "Mebbe I am, Mill," she said, gently, "but I bet, even
ef you do think so, you wouldn't spare the sorrel long 'nough fur me to
ride ter Rainier."
"No," he answered, flushing, "no, I wouldn't. She ain't well 'nough
broke. You oughter not ask me."
"I'd resk her," she urged still, sweetly, and smiled into his troubled
face; "I'd love ter ride her, Mill. But," she went on after a pause,
and shrugging her shoulders, drew herself aloof, "you're jest like Jake.
He's turrible 'fraid I'd get Ketchem killed."
"And yourself, too," he said warmly.
"But Uncle Eben," she added, "he 'lows I kin ride. He ain't so powerful
scared 'bout--_Ginger_."
With this she laughed, her hands on her hips, her elbows shaking, and
Thornton, himself laughing deeply, in keen appreciation, turned to set
his foot in the stirrup. "You're all right, Samanthy," he said. "You're
all right, but I 'low it wa'n't a peach I meant; it was jest er sassy
sweetbrier rose. It's so blame' innercent lookin' an' soft, but er
feller can't tech it 'ithout feelin' ther thorns."
The horse started, but she tripped after him a step to say softly, "Say,
Mill, why don't you call it eglantine?"