Aw, git up ther, Ginger, git up, I tell you."

Lem rounded a fallen hemlock, tugging at the halter of the reluctant

pony, who, heavily laden with hampers, tinware and sundries, sidled this

way and that at the obstructions which culminated at the end of the new

trail. He lunged back from the long table, and rolling his eyes, came to

an immovable standstill.

Mose laid down his ax and walked over to the pony, "Saprie, it ees

not'ing to tek dese t'ings 'cross." And he waved his hand with

pardonable pride towards a small pavilion roofed in fir boughs.

"Guess we'll hev ter," answered Lem, surveying the scene with evident

satisfaction. "This here no 'count cayuse knows he ain't erlowed in

nobody's front room. No, sir, ther ain't no use tryin' ter make him

budge." And he lifted his bare foot and gave the horse a resentful

thrust, which was received with a slight flinching of the flanks, and

increased exhibition of the whites of his eyes.

"Hams?" enquired Mose, inhaling a deep breath while he unbuckled the

straps of a hamper.

"You bet," answered Lem. "Hams and chickuns. Ole Mother Girard cooked

'em."

"De ole madame ees be one good cook, for sure. It ees fine t'ing her

Baptiste ees die, an' dat she ees able sell de ranch, for it ees pos'ble

she can stay all tam to de cabane to work for de te'cher."

"This here," said Lem, lowering a second hamper to the ground, "is

prince-pally cake. An' you kin jes' bet ther ain't never be'n no sech

cake in ther hull deestrict. Ther schoolmarm made it herself, an' it's

full o' ceetron, an' raisins; I dunno what all. She gimme this here

knife fur takin' ther seeds out. I'd er done it fur nothin' but I

wa'n't goin' ter refuse no sech whittler's that." He took the knife

from his pocket and exhibited the blades. "I 'low it's ther same one I

hed my eye on down ter Yelm Station."

"Nawitka," answered Mose, returning the knife after deliberate

inspection, "it ees bran' new. But to me she ees give a'ready one piece

gold monies, for dat I ees work on de trail. For dese logs an' shakes,

an' dese posts dat I ees help Mill T'ornton mek, she ees lak give me one

gran' new gun."

"Les see ther gold piece," said Lem.

"But no, it ees not here. It ees bury in ver' good plas to my fader's

gardeen."

"I'll bet you was erfraid Mill er John Phiander'd git it erway from

you."

Mose flushed under the taunt and began to turn up his denim sleeve. "It

ees bes' you doan' say dat to me," he said slowly. "I am but 'fraid I

lose dat gold monies for it ees be so small. Sacre, I t'ink I doan'

have some trouble to trash dose boys." He doubled his arm, clinching

his hand. "Feel dare, Lem Myers, and dare. Since I ees work to dose

logs, Laramie, heemself doan' have so beeg muscle."

Lem laid his fingers on the tense cords with a gradually increasing

pressure, while his glance moved from the splendid forearm to the boy's

frowning face. "Oh, gee," he said reverently, "gee, but you've growed

some, Mose. I'd like ter see you tackle 'em both. I 'low you could lick

either one of 'em 'lone, 'ith jes' one hand, or mebbe 'ith your little

finger."

Mose smiled his fleeting smile and relaxed his arm. "Saprie," he said,

and turned again to the hamper, "I beli've A'm able, ya-as."

"She baked this here cake in ther cookstove down ter Yelm Station," said

Lem, "an' it filled ther hull oven." He unfastened the lid of the

basket and Mose came around and looked over his shoulder. The cake was

wrapped in a piece of muslin. Lem brushed his hand across the seat of

his jeans and lifted the end of the cloth with the tips of his thumb and

finger. "It ain't white clear through," he added softly; "she made er

kind o' whitewash out'n eggs an' reg'lar first class sugar."

"It ees ver' gre't, for sure," said Mose, and he raised a side of the

hamper as though it was something holy, and helped Lem carry it across

to the pavilion.

When the remainder of Ginger's pack had been stored they lingered in the

arbor, making conjectures, and certifying them, as to the contents of

various bags and bundles, until further investigation was stopped by the

voice of the teacher in the clearing.

It was a bright day at the end of February, the Puget Sound spring, and

she had found and fastened on her breast a first cluster of Oregon

currant. The heart of the blossoms was reflected on her cheeks; the

light of the early morning was in her eyes. "Oh," she said, "what a

splendid table, Mose." And turning to the town carpenter, who

accompanied her, "Isn't it fine? And this is the boy of whom I told

you. He has split all of the shakes, hewn flooring, cut logs. He has

done everything except what the young ranchers could do for me in a few

odd days."

The carpenter admitted that Mose had done "uncommon well." Then while

the boy, pleased and embarrassed, led away and picketed the horses, she

showed the man the building site and talked over the material and plans.

But, presently, there were voices on the trail, and here were the

Laramies, the Phianders, with Eben Myers and Martha and Mother Girard,

followed by the people from the prairie and many more. The men walking,

bearing axes, saws, sometimes a rifle; the young folk afoot also, while

the older women and children rode double and by threes on mules, draught

horses, steers and Indian ponies. Then, were not those the hoof-beats

of John Phiander's Baldy, timed by the rapid pace of Mill Thornton's

sorrel? And the plodders in the trail must press quickly forward or

crowd into the thicket, to give the young blood room.

But these gay fellows were capable of sobering down. They were ready to

"match muscle," urging each other with dares and taunts to set their

swelling chests and heaving shoulders to the heavy timbers. And surely

the Nisqually had never seen another such raising; never so great a

company. People from Yelm and Tenalquet were there, and from Tacoma, in

Pierce County beyond the Puyallup. The walls went up apace; the huge

fir rafters were swung into position, and then appeared a wondrous

gable, its sloping eaves arching a roomy balcony. Surely the settlement

had yet to see as fine a cabin. Wild things crept to cover. And the

soughing of the chinook in the branches, the distant thunder of the

falls, the falling of rock up the mountain, were not to be heard in this

tumult of construction, the babel of voices, multiplied by the answering

clamor of the speaking hills.

But while these experienced settlers, men who had themselves conducted

raisings and superintended the building of a score of cabins, moved

about, taking meekly the orders of the town carpenter, their wives

followed the novel directions of the young teacher. Never before had

the Nisqually looked on such a table. All the long board was fringed

with cedar and twigs of flowering dogwood; turkeys and chickens placed

on huge wooden platters were garnished with the glossy leaves of the

Washington holly; hams in big trenchers, bearing yet the fragrance of

pine, were decorated with crisp sprigs of salal; and there were haunches

of venison and rounds of bear meat, or at intervals a wild goose, a

brace of ducks, all decked with bright shoots of spruce or fir. But the

center of the board was given to the great white cake, throned on a bank

of moss and embellished, to Lem's delight, with small flags. Others, of

a larger size, intermingled with Japanese lanterns, were fastened in

groups and singly among the trees which bordered the clearing. The

boughs over the table flamed with them.

"I give it up, but I 'low ther's 'bout five hundred." Lem cast a final

calculating glance over the table and the surrounding decorations. He

was seated on a lofty stump, his arms folded, his bare heels beating a

slow tattoo on the bark. "Ther small ones down to Yelm sells fur ten

cents er half dozen." He paused, then added speculatively, "I wonder

what she's goin' ter do with 'em when she gits through?"

His reverie was broken by a summons to table, and in the general rush,

he slipped from his perch and ferreted into a place at the foot of the

board. Only the men were seated, while the women served; the children

played or loitered about, watchful of the chance attention that

sometimes fell to them. At last in her rounds the boy's mother detected

him. "Wal, ef you don't beat all," she said, stopping short with a huge

tray of carved venison in her hands. "You git right up an' make

yourself scarce tell ther men's through."

Lem sat with his head bent, hands folded meekly; Ginger himself had

never shown greater dejection, and, like Ginger, he did not move.

"Oh, let him erlone," said Mill Thornton, lifting his tankard and

including the company with a bland smile. "He's goin' ter sing ther Ole

Settler fur us."

"I ain't nuther; I dunno it. Ask Cousin Samanthy." Lem cast a sidelong

glance at the young man, who blushed hotly and put down his

embarrassment with a draught from the tankard. "She'd be mighty

diserpointed ef you didn't ask her; she's be'n gittin' ready fur a

week."

With this Lem helped himself liberally from the platter in his mother's

hands, and cast another look at Samantha, who, also flushing pinkly,

stood in amazement, while the coffee-pot which she carried poured a

brown stream on the earth.

"Pshaw, 'tain't so," she said, drawing her breath quickly. "Lem 'lowed

all along he'd sing it ef I'd learn him ther words. Fur ther land

sakes," she added, addressing the coffee-pot, which she speedily

righted; and at the same time she caught the skirt of her pink cotton

frock out of range.

"I dunno 'em all," said Lem, and boldly held out his empty cup.

"Guess you'll hev ter, Samanthy," said Eben, laughing. "Come, now, tune

up."

At this, a cry repeated warmly by a score of throats, the girl put down

the coffee-pot and darted away. It then became Mill Thornton's office

to pursue and bring her back. He was encouraged by shouts and laughter

as the pink dress appeared and disappeared among the trees.

She stopped at length all flushed and panting, and turned her face shyly

to her pursuer. "I guess I'll hev ter, Mill. I'm ready ter drop."

"You're mighty pretty that erway," he said softly, putting his hand on

her arm,--he felt its plump roundness through the thin sleeve,--"I'd

like ter kiss you, ef I 'lowed you could stand it to hev that ther

tiresome crowd laffin'."

"My stars, Mill," she said and all the imps in her eyes mocked him,

"ain't you good? You're most er an-gel. I'll bet under your shirt you

kin jest feel ther wings er sproutin'."

But even then his courage failed him. "Oh, kem on," he said, "ther

ain't er girl in this hull deestrict kin beat you singin'. I'm ready

ter lick ther fellow says so."

He led her back towards the waiting company, his grasp tightening on her

arm. She hung her head and came reluctantly, catching at a branch,

dragging her feet.

"Well," said Eben, putting down his mug and drawing his hand across his

whiskers, "ef you're done er bein' bashful, now, Samanthy, we're ready

ter listen."

She straightened herself with a little cough and looked at her audience.

Then her glance fell and she shrank behind her captor with a faint, "I

don't like ter."

But the young man did not relax his hold, and though his face crimsoned,

he impelled her forward, closing his lips firmly over locked teeth, and

watching her warily, as an athlete measures an uncertain antagonist.

And he confessed to her privately, afterwards, that it "took more nerve"

to make her sing than was required later "to put a head on Pete Smith."

She met his look helplessly, but straightened herself once more, with

that little cough, and commenced in a clear quavering soprano.

"I've travelled all over ther country, prospectin'

an' diggin' fur gold,

I've tunnelled, hydraulicked an' cradled, an' I

hev be'n frequently sold."

The men grew silent, those to whom the song was new giving attention

only to the singer, the others dividing interest between her and the

table. But the words appealed to most, and convinced that, well

started, she would brave out the ordeal, Thornton resumed his place. He

masked his face in a set expression of indifference, but when his glance

moved to Samantha, his bold young heart leaped and proclaimed itself

through the batteries of his eyes.

She finished the song and took up her interrupted work of pouring

coffee. Eben cleared his throat, and parted his beard, stroking it

gently. "That ther chase you jest hed, Mill, 'minds me of er time I hed

over to Montaner. I dunno's I ever let on 'bout that ther hunt o' mine."

He paused, still stroking his whiskers, while the audience grew

attentive. "It was er full grown grizzly," he went on, "an' I'd give

her a mighty mean shot, so't she was fightin' ugly. I hedn't another

catridge an' I dunno's I'd hed time ter load up ef I hed. I natu'ally

hed ter light out, an' ther wa'n't er tree in sight; nothin' but er few

scrub hazels. But I got ter circlin' round them, ther bear after me,

tell ther first thing I see we was wearin' er reg'lar ditch in ther

ground. When it got 'bout's high's my head he let up er minute ter get

his wind, an' I see my chanct ter climb out. I was jest dead beat an'

all I could do was ter lay down close ter that bank an' watch that ther

grizzly chase hisself--didn't seem ter miss me--tell he dropped."

There was a pregnant silence, then young Thornton said gravely, "It was

er mighty close call, Eben, sure; 'bout ther closest you ever hed. But

I 'low you never showed us that ther grizzly's skin."

There was another brief silence, during which Eben thoughtfully regarded

his empty plate. "You're right," he said at last, "you're right, Mill,

but that ther pelt wa'n't worth keepin'. You see when I clumb down

after it I see it was spoiled. That ther ditch was mighty narrer, an'

scrapin' round so long he jest natu'ally rubbed ther hair clean offn

both sides."

The men, laughing, rose by twos and threes to return to their work. It

was then, while the women and children closed in around the table, that

Stratton rode into the clearing. Though he had travelled far that day

his person was not the worse for it; and Sir Donald's shining coat, his

long, lithe body, slender limbs and swelling chest, must have delighted

more critical eye than Alice Hunter's.

"This is very nice of you," she said, going to meet him. "I was just

feeling a little homesick for a face from the Sound. But Judge Kingsley

is in Washington, and no one else knew of the house-raising. What

happened to bring you?"

"Why, this quarter section caught my fancy the first time I saw it, last

summer, and I made up my mind to take it. But I heard, yesterday, an

entry had already been made, by a woman; probably one of these Canadian

daughters of the settlement, and the easiest course was to hurry

straight on to the headwaters, and ward off her improvements, and buy

her off."

"She is not to be bought."

"You think not? Then,"--he gave her a side glance and finished tying

the knot in Sir Donald's halter,--"I may decide to contest."

"Contest--this claim? you wouldn't do that?"

"Oh, yes I would." He paused to break a sword fern, with which he

flecked off nicely a remaining bit of dust from his riding-boot. "I

think I could make out a very good case. I should cover it with a

timber filing."

"A timber filing," she replied quietly, "doesn't hold over a homestead

right. At least, the exception is rare."

"But I should prove the exception. I should prove that the land is

worthless for agriculture, and the timber entry of the adjoining quarter

would strengthen the point. I might, however, find it advisable to make

the location under mineral rights."

"But there is no mineral, to my knowledge, on this tract; though beyond,

somewhere, in these hills, I have heard--there are indications."

"Then," and he waived that possibility, "it is enough that it is one of

the best timbered sections in the Puget Sound Basin. These are fine old

trees. And"-- He paused to fleck an ant from his sleeve--"I have

friends at court."

"Doubtless." Her patience was exhausted. "Such as those irreproachable

men of whom Phil Kingsley once told us." She flashed him a look with

that swift uplifting of her chin, and turned her face to the high

shoulder of the hill. Her lips closed firmly; her breath came a little

hard and quick; the ready color burned in her cheek.

Her retort brought the steel to his own eyes, but he had no answer. Her

glance returned. "How could you find a timber claim desirable in this

mountainous place? Twenty miles from a railroad, and on the Des Chutes,

where to raft logs, or even dream of it, is sheer madness?"

"But suppose I should wish to put up a sawmill, and cut the timber right

here on the ground? It would be a great thing for the settlement." His

smile, which always hinted of mockery, lingered, and he watched her with

the quiet enjoyment of the true angler, who is sure, but plays

cautiously, to lose nothing of the sport.

"It might benefit the settlement," she said, and flashed him another

look of fine scorn, though he saw her lip tremble, "but it would be

years before you could hope for returns on the investment."

At this he laughed outright. "I withdraw," he said, "I withdraw. You

are in fighting trim to your fingertips. You know too much about land

law, Miss Hunter; the Judge has been a thorough instructor, and what you

do not know about logging and milling, I am inclined to think is not

worth knowing. But the homestead is yours. Now please establish a

record for hospitality. I've had a long ride since breakfast."

"Do you mean--" She paused, flushing, then lifted her face to him all

sudden brightness and charm. "Oh, you do mean it; I see--I see. You

were only teasing me. It's hard, sometimes, to tell just where your jest

breaks off--or begins. But did you really want this section?

"Yes, I looked it up at the Land Office, as I came through Olympia,

intending to make a timber entry, and found the homestead filing under

your name." He had followed her to the table, taking the seat beside

her. And he stopped a moment, while he divided a roasted pheasant which

he shared with her, then he said, "I do not pretend to fathom your

reasons for burying yourself here in the wilderness; it is enough for me

to know that you want this land. And the next quarter, on the other

side of the cataract, is vacant. It is unsurveyed, but the squatter's

right will serve me as well. I only want the place now for a sort of

shooting-box; somewhere to stay in the hunting and fishing seasons, and,

incidentally, to carry on a little traffic with Laramie and one or two

other trappers, who have shown me already some very good furs."

She looked him over interestedly from this new point of view. "So," she

said, "So, you are to be my nearest neighbor, with just the river

between. Last autumn I thought I should have all the big heart of the

hills to myself, but since Christmas Mill Thornton has taken up the next

section but one on the school trail, and now you follow. The country is

being settled very fast." She turned her eyes again to that high spur.

After a moment she asked, "Have you been in Seattle lately, or at the

mills?"

"Yes, I was there two days ago and saw your sister. She was well, but I

think that the isolation wears on her, though she will not say so. She

admits, however, that she misses you, and she and the Captain are

planning a cruise among the islands. They are timing it for your spring

vacation, confident you will join them."

"Oh," she said, and delight shone in her eyes, "you don't know how that

tempts me; it's my favorite cruise."

"And you will arrange to go?"

She shook her head. "How can I? That short vacation means so much to

me; I've planned it all away. Mose is going to clear a strip towards the

river, for Colonel's pasture, and it must be big enough for the two

Jerseys which Judge Kingsley is sending me. And I must furnish the

cabin and take actual possession. But I don't know what to say to

Louise. She doesn't know about this homestead, Mr. Stratton; I don't

want her to know. You see it's all a venture; I might have to

relinquish; I might--fail."

"I understand," he answered, again laughing, "and I promise to keep the

secret from the Captain,--he can ridicule,--I promise, provided you go

that cruise."

"I'm afraid I must." She shook her head again, ruffling her brows.

"After all I ought to be able to spare this one week to my sister; she's

going to think I'm forgetting her, often enough, before I'm through."

While they were talking a man had entered the clearing from the river

side. He moved with a noiseless, sliding motion, and, seating himself

at the lower end of the table, aloof from the children, who still

loitered there, began unceremoniously to appease a prodigious appetite.

Alice watched him in half recognition. His face in the strong light of

midday was more than forbidding; it repelled while it also possessed the

fascination of extreme ugliness. His old ragged hatbrim, turned back

from a slanting forehead, left unshaded a pair of small, beadlike,

shifting eyes. Suddenly she remembered where she had seen him before.

It was at Laramie's cabin the time she had taken refuge from the storm.

He was that midnight visitor, Smith.

None of the settlers gave him special attention, though Samantha filled

his cup and Martha supplied him with an abundance of meat and bread.

That was the unwritten code of the wilderness; no man was ever turned

away hungry. And this man, though an escaped criminal, convicted of

some crime against a remote Government, belonged to the community; as

long as he respected its primitive laws he might come and go unmolested.

But to pillage his neighbor--that was the unpardonable sin. And

presently, at the moment of his departure, Smith crossed this line.

A short cruiser's ax, which young Thornton always carried in his belt

over a new trail, was lying on a fallen tree directly in the outlaw's

way. He was hampered by his gun, as he vaulted the log, but, by some

sleight of hand, he slipped the ax under his blouse. Instantly there

was a loud outcry, and before he could reach the cover of the jungle a

cordon of settlers cut him off.

He swung about to break for the thicket at another point, but there the

crowd closed. He stood motionless, weighing the odds, then he put his

gun aside, setting the stock against a stump, and the ax reappeared,

resting in the hollow of his arm. He caressed the edge of the blade

lightly, with his long nervous fingers, and at the same time raised his

shifting eyes to the owner, who confronted him. "A'm have some look at

your ax, Mill," he said at last in a thick, choppy voice; "mebbe I lak

to buy heem, ya-as, you want to sell heem, hey?"

Thornton drew a step nearer. "I 'low," he answered with slow emphasis,

"you've examined that ther little ax of mine mighty close, Pete."

Smith understood. There was little use of subterfuge or denial. This

cordon of men had become a tribunal, that, having already condemned,

awaited the transgressor's punishment. His only escape hung on action,

swift, sure. He swung the ax lightly, in a flash, but the instant it

left his hand, the young rancher dipped his great shoulder, and rushing

under the hurled blade, grappled with him. The confusion he had

expected to create failed; his chances of reaching the friendly jungle

shrank again. He writhed, twisted out of Thornton's grasp, and,

snakelike, struck. Harder pressed, he fought, without system,

ferociously, like a cornered rat, squeaking horribly and using his

teeth.

There could be no doubt of the outcome. Nature, in creating Thornton,

had made an athlete, and the great primal passions, latent in every man,

sprang unleashed to meet the beast with whom he had to deal. His quick

blows gathered impetus. His victim gave back slowly, snapping,

snarling, steps he made no effort to regain. And the human ring moved

with them, riverwards. It was miserable, but very swift, and the finish

came when the retreating man tripped backward over a root and went down.

Laramie sprang to raise him, but at the same instant the teacher,

throwing off Stratton's detaining arm, pushed into the circle and stood

before the fallen man. She did not speak at once; the words, struggling

in her throat, choked. But Thornton's great doubled forearm relaxed and

dropped at his side. He met the command, the reproach in her brave eyes

and the fury in his own died.

"I will not have it," she said at last, and her voice rang.

"Remember,"--her look swept the cordon,--"from this day I will not have

fighting on _my land_."

There was a brief silence. Laramie moved back to his place. Behind her

the outlaw rolled on his side, then to his stomach, and began to worm

himself towards a cedar that had broken the ring. No one stopped him.

He covered the ground with incredible swiftness, with a writhing motion,

learned of necessity and long contact with the jungle, and like some

hideous goblin crawled under the dragging boughs of the tree.

Myers cleared his throat. "Pete orter kep' erway," he said mildly. "I

'low he didn't get mor'n was due him. Tell you, I've seen er man over in

Montaner catch it er sight worse fur doin' less. That ther's a mighty

good little ax o' Mill's."

Stratton, who had followed Alice closely, lifted Smith's rifle and

walked coolly over to the cedar and passed it between the boughs. The

outlaw was on his feet, and he clutched the gun and ran across the

remaining bit of open, and dropped out of sight in the dense

undergrowth.

"Of course," she said, replying to Eben, "I understand that. The man

must be punished; but there are better ways."

"Ther nighest sheriff," said Eben, still mildly, "lives to Olympia,

sixty miles straight. That's ther closest jedge, too, an' court."

"Still, here are men enough to hold him," and her voice deepened to a

dominant note; "lock him in his cabin, guard him until the right

officers can arrive. He should have been turned over to the Government

long ago, you all know it, for greater crimes. It must be done now."

She set her lips and turned, and for the first time realized Smith was

gone. Stratton stood waiting near the cedar. He saw the sudden relief

flash through the consternation in her face. "You let him go," she said

slowly. "You could have stopped him. It was your duty."

"Yes," he came towards her, "I let him go. I even helped him off.

Pardon me or--punish me."

She stood for a moment looking up into his face, but he bore the

scrutiny easily enough, smiling, with a tinge of mockery. "Oh," she

said, "how could you? How could you? But I know the reason; it was an

impulse--of the heart--to take the losing side. It was wrong--but

I--like you for it."

"You like me?" he laughed softly, "You like me?" He paused, enjoying

the confusion in her face. She turned it away. "So," he went on, "So

you think I sided with the under dog? No, no, Miss Hunter, I am not

that kind of a man. It just seemed the quickest way to terminate that

miserable row. You should never have witnessed it; you should not have

been here. This wilderness is no place for you."

Instantly her confusion was gone. "Oh," she said, "surely this has been

proof enough. It is the one place, the right place; the settlement

needs me. But--it's going to be the hardest work," she shook her head

gravely, "and I want you to help me." She stood another moment

searching his face, then, "You are a strange man," she added. "Why is

it you cover your best and delight in showing your worst side?"

"There is no best," he answered quickly. "I am past appeal." And he

turned and walked swiftly away towards the river and that section of

land he had come to see.

Smith was gone; the episode was closed, and the men had resumed their

interrupted work. Then, presently, the teacher called Mose and the

older children to her assistance, and an arch was formed of stout

saplings twined with hemlock and cedar. And when Stratton had returned

and it had been set up on the finished floor, he helped to decorate it

with flags and yards on yards of gay ribbon, in loops and bows and

streamers. There were also, nodding under the smartest twigs,

mysterious little packages wrapped in bright papers with fringed ends,

so that Lem with increasing difficulty held his wonder. Garlands strung

from the rafters, were studded with other flags and supported every

variety of Japanese lantern.

The day drew to a close. On the ashes of last year's camp-fire, Mose

kindled a new blaze, and the people gathered around it for a brief

interval of rest. They discussed the gabled roof, the roomy balcony,

and then the conditions of the soil. And afterwards Myers spun a

grizzly yarn, rivaled by Laramie's recital of the elk hunt from which he

had lately returned. And the women, brought together from remote

solitudes, exchanged small personalities, sure of a sympathetic ear.

They took up the misfortunes of Slocum's family, left without a head,

and the fatal accident that had befallen young Girard, soothing his

mother with a reminder of the good bargain she had made in selling the

ranch, and the comfortable home she was to find with the teacher.

But when the round moon looked over the high shoulder of the slope, and

the lighted lanterns began to show blue or red or orange spheres along

the edge of the clearing, and filled the cabin with a soft illumination,

Eben brought his violin, and with various trials of the bow upon the

strings, led the way into the building. Then, when Mill Thornton had

danced a hornpipe, and all the young folk had warmed their blood to the

tune of Money Musk, followed by a stirring jig, the teacher led them a

new step, fitting to the music of the settlement the qualities of the

cotillion. She came under the arch, and reaching, took one of the small

flags. But it was not to Stratton that she gave it, but to Laramie, who

stood frowning in the doorway. Laramie, who had not danced these many

years. And to the astonishment of everybody the Canadian answered the

salutation of her pretty head, and sticking the flag in his buttonhole,

commenced with much shuffling of the cowskin boots, a series of

gyrations and curvetings that filled the newer generation with amazement

and delight.

It was an easy matter for Samantha to learn that little novelty as to

the flags, and the more difficult methods with the ribbons. Lem, there

in the corner, with folded arms and watchful eyes imitating Laramie's

wild motions, saw the teacher open that first package with the fringed

ends, and still with that swaying movement, unfold and place on her head

a yellow tissue hat. Then here were all of these large girls following

her example, and Laramie himself pulling off his old squirrel-skin cap,

and flinging it aside for a red bonnet. Mill Thornton too, and all the

boys from Yelm and Tenalquet, were rigging themselves out in every kind

of head-gear, and with flags and ribbons; making their best steps, and

cheered on by the shouts and laughter of the older people ranged along

the walls.

The bow ran faster and faster, as though it laughed in its sleeve at the

wild figures they cut. Then, at length, the teacher slipped aside to

relieve Eben. It was a different music, sweeter, softer, that she drew

from the old cracked instrument, and she kept time with one foot, thrust

a little forward; a smile played on her lips, there was a shining light

in her eyes, and the yellow hat was pale against her ruddy hair.

But finally the measure changed. The revellers quieted under the

unfamiliar strain. It was no longer dance music but Schubert's

Serenade. A far-away look came over her face; a sweet tenderness. Her

soul was in her touch; she called a speaking sadness from the strings. A

great hush fell over the room.

*CHAPTER XII*

*A FACE IN THE NIGHT*

Mason, the watchman at the Freeport mills, stood as was his habit when

off duty, quite at the end of the dock, his red hair blowing in the

wind, his hands thrust in the pockets of his oily brown jeans, and his

feet planted firmly apart, notwithstanding one was an insecure wooden

peg around which the leg of his trousers fluttered loosely. It was

after the hour of closing, and about the doorways of the cabins, which

nestled well under the bluff. groups of workmen loitered, or like Mason,

enjoyed the breezier, salter atmosphere of the wharf. The sound of

bagpipes came from a distant quarter up the beach, and the rival notes

of an accordion floated over from a passing fishing-smack. But above

all rose the deep wash of the sea. A lumber ship, with the light lines

of her deckload showing above her low black hull, swung out from the

upper dock and took on a boatful of tuneful sailors who had crossed the

harbor from the town. Her tug, lying to the northward, awaited her

cable. And out beyond the headland and its black reflection, the late

sun reddened the _Phantom's_ sails.

Mason's nautical gaze rested on the yacht, and he said, addressing Hop

Sing, the cook, who had been transferred from the Judge's house to the

mills, "A fine craft, ay, sir; a bit too narrer at ther beam, but a fine

craft, sir."

Sing smiled blandly and tucked his long yellow finders into his wide

sleeves. "_Phlantom_, she all lit-e," he admitted. "Mlisser Phil, he

all lit-e."

The yacht swung into the shadow of the Head; the lightening cable

between the ship and tug crossed her bows. The steamer with increased

belching of smoke and pounding of machinery forged away and the vessel

slowly answered the straining line. Mason leaned forward with a low

exclamation; then, no longer able to hold himself, he lifted his voice

in a hoarse shout. "Luff, luff 'er."

Even as he spoke the _Phantom_ veered suddenly, and came around

close-hauled, all but grazing the stern of the ship. And Mason saw the

master at the helm, his cap pushed back, his eyes on the flapping

canvas, while his lips coolly shaped the end of a chorus. A woman,

young and pretty, with a cloud of blond hair, was seated near him,

strumming time on a banjo, and, as Mason moved to take the line, she

looked up at him with a gay laugh.

Stratton relieved Kingsley of the tiller while he went into the bows

with the coiled line. The old sailor caught it and made a twist around

a pile, hauling taut. "It wore neatly done," he said with the pride

glowing in his homely face; "ay, sir, but it wore a close call, sir."

Philip laughed. "Not much of a trick if you know the _Phantom_, Mason.

No, I'm not coming ashore. Here, give these packages to Mr. Forrest.

Tell him I'm taking a run over to Tacoma. Will look in at the camp

about those logs. That's all. Cast off."

Mason watched the _Phantom_ swing out, then went up the wharf to the

store. It was a long, low building with few windows and a massive door.

The interior was gloomy, musty; sacks of flour piled in great lines

partitioned the room; hams and bacon hung from the ceiling. At one side

of the entrance the office was separated from the main floor by a

latticed railing, and gave the manager an opportunity to work at his

desk, and at the same time see those who entered. The window at his

elbow overlooked the dock and informed him if an arriving vessel

demanded his attention there.

Several men sauntered after Mason and joined the group gathered at the

door. One entered, and Forrest turned from his desk to take the day's

tally from him. Presently Hop Sing slipped through the idle and jeering

crowd to collect an allowance of groceries. Mason laid his packages

down and waited, leaning on the railing. His glance moved from the cook

to the sawyer, a heavy, burly fellow, who stood in the entrance. As the

Chinaman passed out this man turned with a sudden thrust of his powerful

shoulder and Hop Sing plunged headlong on to the dock. There was a

round of applause while he floundered in a broken crock of molasses and

a burst bag of buckwheat, and the sawyer moved back with a gruff laugh.

At the same instant something was thrown behind him, and he, too, fell,

sprawling on the floor. The cry of derision was transferred to him, and

Mason, having recovered his equilibrium, stooped and gravely felt of his

wooden leg. "When a man's er peg like this," he said aggressively,

forestalling the sawyer's anger, "he aren't to be walked over. I've

known 'um to crack."

And the crowd cheered, for there was a story current at the mills that

Mason had once, in an emergency, unstrapped this leg and used it for a

weapon; not only to the discomfiture of his antagonist, but to the

serious damage of the instrument, both having been laid up, afterwards,

for extensive repairs.

The amusement shone for a moment in Forrest's eyes, but his face was

tired and worn; the line between his brows had grown habitual. It

deepened when the old sailor repeated Kingsley's message. He took a

small packet of mail which the watchman had brought with the bundles,

and hastily cut the string. "Here, Mason," he said, "take these letters

over to Mrs. Kingsley.

"Ay sir." The answer was hearty, but Forrest caught the consternation

in the tone. He knew that it took less courage for this crippled sailor

to brave the sawyer than face a woman; and he understood, when Mason

stopped at the corner outside to light his pipe, it was a subterfuge to

gain time.

The Captain's house, like the cabins, stood in an enclosure filled with

slabs and sawdust and covered with rough planking. The board walk,

which led from the store to the cookhouse and mills, branched to this

building, and, raised on higher piling, extended on around the headland

to an old abandoned hotel. It was there, going slowly with her toddling

baby in the direction of the ruin, that Mason discovered Mrs. Kingsley

as he crossed up from the store.

The waves broke in a continuous swash under the planking, casting at

intervals a piece of wreckage or rope of seaweed on the shore. The

collection of drift there was wet from the ebbing tide. Far out, beyond

the shadow of the Head, a pink flush still rested on he water, and the

_Phantom_, moving into this glow with all her white sails set, heeled

gently, a golden craft on a painted sea. And it was in that direction,

towards the receding yacht, Louise's face was turned. She had stopped

and the child, steadying himself with his hand on her skirt, stood

dropping pebbles slowly between the rails.

Mason slackened his pace, setting his wooden peg lightly. It was

difficult to approach any woman, but this one, young, pretty and with

her back turned-- He halted, waiting, with a forlorn hope that she

would look around. But she did not. He coughed softly and pulled off

his cap. Still she stood with her eyes towards the _Phantom_. He put

on his cap and removed his pipe from his mouth, regarding her in mild

helplessness. The small, proud head, the high, soft knot of dark hair,

the graceful, slender figure in its trim gown, the shapely hand that

rested on the railing; he noted all with growing awe. Then his clutch

tightened on the letters and he cleared his throat with a gentle thump

of the wooden peg.

She turned, startled, and looked at him. Her eyes were full of tears.

He thrust the letters into her hand in speechless haste and fled.

"Mason," she said, "oh, Mason." But he failed to hear. She did not

repeat the call; she waited, listening to the thump, thump, of the

receding peg, then her glance fell to the articles he had given her.

One of the letters was pencilled and unstamped. She read it first.

"DEAR LOUISE:--

"I am sorry, but business kept me in town again last night, and I am on

my way now to Tacoma. I have to hunt up a boom near there, and am

taking a little crowd along for company. We will look in on the Yacht

Club's dance and I wish you were coming. You really ought to find some

sort of a nursemaid. I would stop off half an hour to see you, but must

make the most of this wind. Will be back tomorrow evening.

"Yours,

"PHIL."

The hand holding the note trembled a little, and she lifted her clouding

eyes again to the _Phantom_. "It is of no use," she said slowly, "I

might as well be any piece of drift thrown here out of the tide. But--I

had to try it. It was the only way."

She stood for a long time watching the yacht. It moved a lessening

shape on the fading sea, and swung at last behind a point into the long

southward sweep of the Sound. Then she was conscious that the child had

left her. He was toddling to the ruin. She ran to overtake him.

"Silas," she called. "No, Silas, no." But her voice and her rapid

steps only hurried him laughing and crowing through the open bar-room

door.

The broad floor of fine planking was still firm and smooth except about

the place where the pool table had stood, and in front of the bar. The

baby ran to hide there, peeping out at his mother with little exultant

bursts of delight.

But this old bar, the last remaining bit of furniture in the place,

guarded the sagging door of a small ell evidently once used as a

tap-room. It stopped at the first story, and the flooring, made of

rougher, wider lumber than that in the main building, was laid in short

patched strips. It was rotting about the rusty nailheads; sometimes

there were breaks. All this was lighted dimly by one small window, high

up in the unfinished wall and curtained by the bluff, and she saw a

dozen pitfalls in the ruin, yawning for her baby's feet. She drew the

door shut, but it was without a lock and dragged back a foot or more.

The great rear door of the bar-room also stood open; it was loose on its

hinges and grounded on the floor. The threshold dipped to a balcony,

dismembered of railing and stairs. She caught the child up in her arms

and hurried out through the front entrance back along the walk.

It was twilight when she entered her gate. A first star glimmered over

the mills, and on the water front across the harbor Seattle's lamps

shone whitely. Close at hand the burning slabpile at the end of the

waste-chute took on a redder glow, sending long searching tongues of

flame into the gloom of the bluff. She went in and lighted a swinging

lamp. Its crimson shade sent a pleasing warmth through the room, which

possessed the attractive element that follows the touch of a refined and

orderly woman. There were no housemaids in that milling camp; no other

women. The few men who had wives made their homes over in the town,

where they spent the week-end. Once during the day Mason came in to

make things "ship-shape," but he took the hour when she was at the

cook-house, where the meals for the Captain's family, which included

Forrest, were served in a small private dining-room off the main hall.

The night was cool and she lighted the fire in the grate and seated

herself in a low wicker chair to read her remaining letter. It was from

her sister, briefer than usual, for she expected to follow it within the

week to go that promised cruise among the islands.

"... The country is being settled very fast," she wrote. "Mill Thornton

is clearing on his new homestead for a cabin, and Mr. Stratton has built

a charming little lodge of cedar shakes thatched with bark, on his

timber claim up the headwaters. It is tucked away in a clump of fine

old trees, and the first time I saw him there, leaning in the doorway,

with one of Laramie's dogs fawning over him, and bargaining with the

trapper over a beaver pelt at his feet, I couldn't help calling, 'Good

morning, Robin Hood.' It was so pleasant to find the place unspoiled,

for most of the settlers set up their homes in a great burn, with not

even an alder saved; not a flower or blade of grass left to ease the

eyes."

But, though she had so much to tell about these matters, of her own

homestead there was not a word. Louise folded the letter, puzzled, and

laid it aside. She sat for an interval looking absently into the fire.

"I don't understand," she said at last. "I don't understand why she is

staying up there in the wilderness. She has promised to marry Uncle

Silas, and yet she has let him go to Washington without her. She is

willing to have the whole continent between them; and when a woman

loves, as she should love the man she is going to marry, she is ready to

shape her plans and interests to his. She wants to give him her

companionship, to be at hand to help him the first moment he may need

her. But Alice seems happy. I wonder what her reason is."

She had learned in this solitude to think aloud, gathering comradery

from the sounds of her voice, and young Silas, growing tired of his

playthings, came over to her knee. He looked up into her face gravely,

trying to fathom her meaning. She laughed softly and lifted him to her

lap. He was a lovely child; a little copy of Philip Kingsley in form

and gesture; he had the same close-curling blond hair. He returned his

mother's caress warmly, putting his stout arm about her neck and kissing

her mouth, her cheek, again and again. Presently she undressed him, but

she deferred the bed-going, enticing him, with surprise and frolic, to

stay awake. She dreaded the silence that was to follow; the

interminable loneliness of the slow night. But at last he went to sleep

in her arms.

When she had tucked him away in his bed in an inner room and returned,

she moved about restlessly, giving housewifely touches to things already

arranged. "After all, it is the business," she said. "It must

be--nearly always--the business. I am too exacting. I expect too

much."

She reached the window and lifted her hand to draw the blind. But she

started and dropped her arm, letting the shade spring back to the

roller. Someone stood on the walk without. His long figure rose in the

square of light which, blocked on the piazza, included the breadth of

fence where he leaned. His dark, repulsive face was raised to her, and

he seemed to fix her with his small, snakelike eyes. The next instant

he dropped his goblin shape and shrank writhing away into the gloom.

She shivered and her fingers trembled when she reached again for the

cord and drew the blind. She went into the hall and pushed the heavy

bolt above the lock on the front door. When she had gone through the

house and secured every door and window, she came back, still shivering,

to the fire. "It is nothing," she told herself, and put her hand on the

mantel, reassuring herself as a woman must when denied human support,

"it was nothing. The man stopped a moment in passing, attracted by the

light. I must have some--courage. But his face--was terrible."

Presently she went over to the piano and began to sound the keys; she

struck loud, clarion chords, martialling forces to put down her fears.

Her shaking fingers grew surer; she commenced to shape a bit of Wagner,

and then a fragment of Schubert. That was the music she loved. She

opened a folio of sonatas. She played with ease and skill and her frame

swayed with a slight, rhythmic motion. Her soul was in her touch and in

her eyes, grown large and misty. It was then her face was beautiful.

At last she turned a page and a loose sheet fluttered out. It was that

sea song of Barry Cornwall's, that had been a favorite quartette in the

old days aboard the _Phantom_. She began to play it, and presently her

voice flooded the night.

"For the white squall rides on the surging wave,

And the bark is 'gulfed in an ocean's grave,

In an ocean's grave; in an ocean's grave."

Forrest, coming that way from his customary rounds of the mills, heard

it, and the passion, the despair of it, held him at the gate. But he

dropped his hand from the latch at the end and turned away. "There is

nothing I can do for her." he told himself. "She is past feeling the

solitude now. She is past being afraid."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE PRESSURE OF THE THUMB-SCREW*

The following night Forrest was seated near the open fire in his room

off the store. His journal and ledger were on the table before him, and

opposite Kingsley tilted his chair comfortably, and clasping his hands

at the back of his head, lifted his glance to the lamp-lighted ceiling.

He was smoking and looked a trifle bored.

"It amounts to this," said Forrest; "lumber has dropped to eight dollars

a thousand and we've simply got to cut down expenses." He paused with

his hands on the arms of his chair, his body slightly inclined forward,

and looked at Philip with clear, stern eyes. "I am running the lightest

possible force; I have dispensed with a bookkeeper and am doing his work

nights. But here are still unpaid bills for machinery, saw-logs and

towing; some weeks it even comes to a question of the wages of the men.

I could, though, have met these demands better if I hadn't been so

handicapped. For instance, in the matter of the _Corona_. I made out

the bills of lading; I relied on the funds at a certain time and gave

promises of payment. And then found out you had received the checks and

had them cashed, and put most of the money to personal use. It not only

places me in a difficult position but weakens the credit, the standing

of the mills."

"I suppose so," said Kingsley, knocking the ashes carefully from his

cigar. "I suppose so; I hadn't looked at it in that way. But the

_Enterprise_ will be here in a few days and her shipment ought to make

things straight."

"Temporarily, yes. But see here, why can't you limit yourself to a

salary? Say two hundred a month? If you could do this, and devote a

definite time to work, I should know what to depend on, and we could

pull through the year without calling on the Judge."

"Two hundred a month?" repeated Philip, and laughed.

"Yes. You know the Judge advised a regular salary."

"You seem to forget I have practically a half interest in this

property."

"On the other hand, it is that I remember," answered Forrest dryly. "If

the mills should go under it would bar me, of course, from another

position of trust; but for you it would mean financial ruin."

Kingsley smoked for a brief interval in silence. Then he said, "I don't

see the necessity of all this. There's Stratton, now, talks

differently. He thinks I have a sure thing; that another year or two

will see the opening of a great lumber traffic with the Orient. He

calls Puget Sound the Gateway of the Pacific. I wish you could hear

him."

"I have heard him," answered Forrest, again dryly. "But with me, his

opinion doesn't count for much. To hold my faith a man has got to do

the things he talks about. And Stratton isn't a man who works. In

short, it's a problem where he gets his money. My friend Bates, of the

Customs Service, has been in Victoria a good deal; he knows something

about Stratton's family. His father, before he died, made a fortune in

the fur trade, but his mother, who lived a rather smart life over there,

spent it faster. Stratton is like her."

"He has taken up his father's business," said Kingsley warmly. "He is

building a fine coasting schooner, now, to carry on an extensive trade,

northward, with the Indians."

Forrest shook his head. "That's just it. A man dabbling spasmodically

in furs, and living extravagantly most of the time about town, is hardly

expected to have capital to invest in a fine steam-schooner."

Philip watched a puff of smoke rise and expand in blue haze above him.

"I know what you're driving at," he said. "You're referring to his

possible connection with a smuggling ring. Stratton told me all about

it. There's nothing in it. Bates happens to have a grudge against

him."

"Bates is hardly the man to satisfy a personal grudge in that way. He

merely answered a question or two I asked him." Forrest paused and went

on in a slightly deepened tone. "It seems to me incredible that you

should let a fellow like Stratton manage you."

"Manage?" The Captain's chair came down abruptly on its front legs.

"See here, even you can't say that, Paul. Stratton is my friend; I'm

fond of him, but I do as I damn please."

Forrest was silent.

Kingsley rose to his feet and threw his cigar in the fire. "It's time I

went up to the house," he said. "The crowd will be ready to go on to

town, soon, and I've hardly seen Louise."

Forrest pushed back his chair and rose. "You agree, then, to the two

hundred," he said quietly.

"Oh, come, you are worse than thumb-screws." He laughed a short,

constrained laugh and looked at his watch.

"The Judge, you remember, takes it for granted."

"Oh, well,"--he ran his fingers swiftly through his close-cropped hair,

and repeated the movement,--"I don't see how I can do it--but--I suppose

so for awhile--yes."

He picked up his cap and started out through the store. Forrest followed

him to the outer door. But there Philip stopped. "Come up to the house

with me," he said, "and bring your violin. I've been telling them about

you."

He stood jingling his keys in his pockets, and whistling in snatches,

much like a schoolboy who tries to forget, yet remembers the unpleasant

ending of a scrape, while Forrest went back to his room for the

instrument.

It was a moonless night, but in the direction of the mills the burning

slabpile brought out the lines of the bluff. It lighted the upper wharf

and the great piles of finished or rough lumber. The whitewashed walls

of the cabins reflected the glare. Everywhere, in the open doorways,

seated on timbers or blocks in the vicinity of the fire, wherever there

was protection from the north wind, or the flames threw heat, groups of

workmen loitered. Suddenly Kingsley said, "I would like to see the whole

thing dumped into that slabfire."

Forrest put his hand on Philip's shoulder. Both stopped and the light

shone on the manager's face. The laugh lurked in his eyes, and the

lines about his mouth softened. "And you'd like to see me at the bottom

of the heap."

"I'm sick of these mills," said Philip petulantly. "I hate the place."

"And me. Come, say so."

"Well, then, yes, and you, since you are determined to put me through."

He threw off Forrest's hand, and seeing the old watchman approaching on

the branch walk, went a step to meet him. "I want you to go over to the

cookhouse, Mason," he said, "and tell Sing to bring a little supper up.

Take him down to the _Phantom_ and get a dozen of champagne from the

port cabin locker. Here's the key."

He rejoined Forrest and they finished the distance in silence. But when

they entered the parlor, where Kingsley's friends awaited him, his

manner changed. "You must blame Paul for keeping me," he said lightly;

"he was determined to talk. When he has a point to gain he has the grip

of a vise; never lets go. You've simply got to yield through sheer

weariness."

Every one laughed, and he crossed the room to seat himself beside the

girl with a small blond head, who had accompanied him the previous day

with a banjo. But his glance moved again and again to his wife. For

the first time it nettled him to see another man interested in her. And

Stratton was interested; Stratton, who was undeniably hard to please.

It is the way of some men to appraise their wives according to the value

placed on them by other men, and Kingsley began to make an inventory of

her points; that was a nice flush in her cheeks, and he had nearly

forgotten about that lighting of her dark eyes. And, too, that was a

pretty way she wore her hair. Then he remembered how splendid it was

unbound, for it rippled to her knees, and was soft as a black velvet

cloak. And when she sang, presently, to the accompaniment of Forrest's

violin, the Captain told himself she had never been in better voice. He

resolved to be at the mills oftener; on the whole, if he had not just

been forced into that miserable limit of two hundred dollars, he would

like to set up an establishment over in town.

When she went from the room to consult Sing about that little supper,

Philip followed her. She believed he had come to look in at little

Silas, and she quietly threw open the inner door. The light streamed

into the dark interior, showing the small white bed, the charming face

of the sleeping child. There was a rosy glow on the round cheek, and

one stout, dimpled arm, bared to the elbow, encircled his curly head.

Kingsley stood watching him a silent moment, then he put his arm around

his wife and said softly, "He's all right; yes, he's fine. But he's

been growing since I saw him; I hadn't thought it was so long. I must

get home oftener. Do you know you were in great voice to-night; I never

heard you sing so well."

"Yes?" she answered, smiling, "I am glad you think so. I sang for you."

"And this color in your cheeks; is it for me, too?"

"You know that I am glad to have you home."

He bent and kissed her. Her head rested an instant on his breast; he

brushed his cheek against her hair. "You miss me, then, when I'm away?"

"Yes." She lifted her face. An intensity of expression that he had

seen rarely, and always disliked, came over it; the force in her low

voice jarred. Why couldn't she stay pleasant, as she had been there in

the crowd. "I would do anything to keep you at home, Philip. Anything,

if you would spend your evenings with me; your nights, as you used to."

His arm fell. "I thought you understood the outside business would keep

me away," he said coolly. "I explained it at the first when you wanted

to live here at the mills."

She moved a step away. Her heart cried, "It is not the business," but

she said aloud, turning to him again with a smile, "A woman doesn't

often reason; she only feels."

"That's the trouble; you feel too much; more than most women. When you

are not serious, though, you are a very attractive woman."

She stood quite still, with her slender fingers locked, and that

intensity growing in her eyes. "Do you know, Philip, sometimes I wonder

how you ever could have cared for me; for the best that is in me is what

you have overlooked. I should think,"--she paused and forced again that

brave little smile,--"I should think that you might be--happier, if you

had married a different kind--of woman."

At this he laughed. So she was a little jealous, that explained things,

and of that flyaway, there in the other room. "There's the woman one

marries," he answered lightly, "and the woman with whom one has a good

time; they are seldom alike."

She was silent. There is nothing so cuts a proud and refined woman as

the enforced knowledge of her husband's coarser grain; but her

disappointment finds no expression; she covers her shame.

"But I don't blame you," he went on, still lightly, "I don't blame you;

I don't deny you've had cause. I'm coming home oftener, after this,

though; or, perhaps, before long, I can arrange to take a house in town.

You would like that?"

"Yes. The loneliness is harder than I believed it could be; it wears on

me. And I can't grow accustomed to the mill people. Last evening I saw

a strange face at the window. It haunts me. I woke up in the night

time, seeing it. It was--terrible. I have never been a brave woman,

Philip. I am--afraid."

Her whole body trembled, overcome by the recollection of that face. But

Kingsley laughed again. "Well, I don't wonder. For sheer physical

ugliness, this crew Forrest has picked up might, almost to a man,

dispute the palm. But Alice is coming; she'll show you pluck; she has

it to spare. And we'll have that cruise through the islands. We'll

make it a small family affair and take along little Si. Meantime Paul

must see that the night watchman gives the house special attention, and

I'll ask him to come in oftener with his violin."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*THE SALMON-TROLLERS*

"O-h, o-h, Mason, I hate to, but I've got to let you land him. He's a

_wh-a-le_." She spoke softly; her eyes shone. She put the line in the

old sailor's hands. "Now, now, Mason; oh, I don't mind a little water;

that's all--right."

But it was a deluge, for the great salmon floundered first against her,

almost in her lap, and then into the bottom of the skiff, at her feet.

Mason bent to remove the hook, and Louise, in the bow, held little Silas

over to see the big fish. "Mighty purty play; weighs all o' twenty

pund; bet you a bottle."

"I believe it's a Chinook," said Alice.

The sailor's homely face glowed. He looked back to be sure the child's

view was unobstructed. "Aye, sir, it's a Chinook, an' big's they make

'em. Bet you a bottle."

But the wager passed again unchallenged, and having met Louise's amused

glance, Mason took up his oars abashed. Nothing but the excitement of

landing that fish could have so loosened his tongue. He pulled a good

stroke that brought them quickly to the shore. The wind came in long

puffs from the north and the sea broke on the beach in a deliberate

swell. The water was a cold blue, shading to brown in the shallows, for

it was ebb-tide. They drew up to the float between the wharves and Mason

steadied the boat while Alice lifted the baby out and, giving him to his

mother, stopped to take a great bunch of flowering rhododendrons from

high in the bow. Then he raised the salmon by the gills and stumped

proudly ahead up the walk.

Alice looked at her sister and smiled. "There's a watch-dog you can

trust," she said. "Yes, I mean it. He has a big, warm heart underneath,

and little Si knows it, already."

"I think you are right," admitted Louise, "but it is strange it should

have taken you hardly twenty-four hours to find it, while I have been

months getting within speaking distance."

"I suppose," said Alice thoughtfully, "it's a way I have of wanting to

utilize the material at hand. There's something, too, in meeting a man

on his own ground. When you want to reach a sailor," and she laughed

softly, "take a boat. Oh, Mason," she called, for he had made the turn

up the branch walk to the house, "wait. Come around and weigh the

salmon at the store."

She led the way, and the gloomy building seemed to gather a sudden

radiance when she entered the door. Her face reflected a soft

illumination from the showy pink flowers heaped in her arm. Forrest

stepped down from his stool at the desk, and came outside the railing to

meet her. Then, "What's that, Mason?" he asked. "You don't mean to tell

me she really did catch a fish."

"Aye, sir,"--Mason stopped to put the salmon on the scales,--"twenty-two

pund."

"That's so," said Forrest incredulously, "twenty-two and a quarter;

well, for a Chinook that's a prize."

But the smile in her face died. Looking across the rhododendrons at

him, it came over her again, as it had when she met him on her arrival

the previous day, that he was losing his boyish color; that he was

harassed and worn. "Don't you ever go fishing, Paul? Or cruising, or

anywhere?"

He shook his head, smiling a little. "Hardly, this year. It's

impossible to get away."

Little Silas, tugging at his mother's hand, drew her to the door. But

Alice lingered. "Can't Phil Kingsley manage these mills yet, for even

one day?"

He glanced in warning at Louise. "It takes us both," he answered

quietly. "This milling business is pretty big; it reaches out; and he

tends to the other end. But I'm all right. I like to work; I'm used to

it. And I need it, lots of it, to keep me level-headed."

"You are that, but shall I tell you what I think, Paul Forrest? I think

it's making you old, fast; or else, you are not well."

"Oh, yes, I am. But, I was up late last night; I was bothered some

about a trial balance; that's all. I'm going to take this evening off.

I want to try that accompaniment, if you will sing that new serenade for

me."

He stood watching them from the entrance, Mason following with the

salmon, while they crossed up the dock, then he went back to his desk.

She had reached over the railing, in passing, to lay on his ledger a

branch of rhododendron. He picked it up, smiling a little, and looked

at it. No one else was in the store at the moment, and he touched the

petals gently; his hand moved over the stiff, spiky leaves. "So," he

told himself, "So, she has left me a bit of the woods. And she is like

this plant; straight and self-reliant and independent like the stem; and

with this same nice color of the blossom in her cheek." He laid the

cool pink cluster against his own face; he pressed it with his lips.

Then, suddenly, his whole frame began to tremble; his shoulders heaved.

"I love her; I love--her," and he crushed the flower between his palms

and threw it down. "My God, how can I help loving her?"

Two hours later, when Forrest had finished his rounds of the mills, he

found her with Mrs. Kingsley at the burning slabpile. Mason, with his

wooden peg planted firmly in the sawdust as a brace, steadied the baby

on an inverted keg, and whirled chips into the fire for his amusement.

The strong light brought out the indigo anchor tattooed on the sailor's

big, rough hand. The young mother watched his maneuvers. She leaned

with her elbow on a projecting shelf of lumber, and her head and throat

were wrapped, Madonna-wise, in a black lace scarf. Alice was seated

near her on a great fir block. The flames illumined her uncovered ruddy

hair. She was interested in the efforts of a workman who, a little

apart, but availing himself of the firelight, was mending a pair of

jeans. Another patched a shoe, and farther still, a trio drew up an

empty box, and converting it into a table, started a spirited game of

poker. She commenced to hum a bit of the gypsy chorus from the Bohemian

Girl; and as Forrest approached she looked up smiling, and took up the

words. He seated himself by her. Louise's contralto caught the

measure, and presently the harmony was rounded by his fine baritone.

They sang on through all the familiar parts; the arias, duets, choruses;

and once more the romance and mystery of the place and night gave

setting to this man and spoke for him. The girl looked up absently to

the trees on the bluff. High up a fallen hemlock, caught on a stony

spur, reared its gnarled roots from the gloom. Had they not rested

today on the brink of the canyon? Had they not threaded the windfall?

And this sound of running water, was it not the near thunder of the Des

Chutes?

At last the child grew tired and his mother took him away to bed.

Forrest went down to the store for his violin, and Alice walked that way

with him. "I want to speak to you about Louise," she said. "She tells

me nothing, she is so proud, but something troubles her. You have

noticed it?"

"Yes," he answered, "yes, I have noticed it; but I know she is a very

sensitive woman. She would face any hardship from a sense of duty; it

amounts to martyrdom. She exacts, also, considerable from others."

"Oh, I understand all that. Of course she came here to the mills

because she thought she owed it to Philip. But he is seldom here. Is it

really the business keeps him away?"

"Yes, it's business, sometimes, and--sometimes--well, if you must know,

it's a gay crowd and a pleasant evening over in town."

"I was confident of it." She paused, ruffling her brows, then she added

earnestly, "But you don't know what a security it is to me, Paul, to

feel that you are here, and will take care of her."

He shook his head. "I will do what I can always, of course, but it's

less than you think."

"It's more than you think. It's meeting the small emergencies of every

day; sometimes through Mason or Sing; sometimes personally, in your

quiet way. And it's tiding her through the slow evenings when you can;

she loves your violin, and the practice will be a help to you both."

"All right," he answered, smiling, "I promise that much."

They had reached the store and she waited on the edge of the dock while

he went in for his instrument. When he came back they lingered,

listening to the swash and gurgle of the tide among the piers. "You

always liked this," he said presently; "you must often miss the sea."

"Yes," she answered, "you don't know how I've missed it. Sometimes,

I've wanted it beyond anything." She looked at him. In the

semi-darkness of the not yet risen moon, his face seemed to gather

paleness. It touched her as its strength never had. The maternal down

in the depths of her stirred. "And of course," she added gently, "you

know, Paul, I couldn't think of the Sound, or indeed of any of the old

life here, and leave out you."

It was not the words alone, nor the kind, sweet tone, nor yet her dear

physical nearness, but rather that the silence which followed was

eloquent with unspoken thought. It was as though he heard her spirit

cry suddenly, "I can never leave out you."

"You do know it," he said. "You do know it." And then it broke from

him. "What made you promise to marry Judge Kingsley? What made you,

when you knew how much I thought of you?"

She did not answer, but she turned and walked up the dock towards the

house. After a moment he overtook her. "Don't hurry so," he said.

"Are you afraid of me? I won't hurt you."

"Hurt me? You? Oh, I wish you would." But she continued to hurry and

he suited his steps to hers. They reached the gate. "Wait, just a

moment," he said. "You are going away tomorrow. I know I shouldn't have

said--what I did; it was worse than unfair to the Judge; but I want to

know this--why did you put off that marriage? Why didn't you go to

Washington with him, as he hoped? As I hoped, for there, at least you

would have been--safe!"

"Please don't worry about me, Paul," she answered, and looked past him,

steadily, holding her chin high, "I can take care of myself. You ought

to know that. I'm very strong-minded; it grows on me. I like to do

things; be the head. And I love the settlement; I want to finish my

work. Sometimes--sometimes, when I think of it, I'm afraid of

Washington. I shall find it too crowded; I'm so used to lots of room."

She paused, but silence was harder than speech and she went on quickly,

"Not one man in a thousand would understand me, but Uncle Silas--dear

Silas--" she dashed her hand across her eyes and turning, ran up the

steps to the door--"knows how to manage me. He--" she groped for the

knob--"He is ready to--wait."

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE MAN IN THE TIDE-RIP*

On Orcas, one of the larger islands of the Archipelago de Haro, there is

an eminence of several thousand feet. The eastern side rises in abrupt

benches from the sea, but westward it breaks less precipitously to a

narrow, bluff-locked harbor. Stratton objected to this anchorage; it

was a place of strong currents and shallows. But Kingsley laughed. He

knew Orcas like a book. He had been up to that summit and the view was

worth stopping over a day for. There was a ranch on the shore of a lake

high up in the timber where the night could be passed comfortably, and a

couple of horses, the only ones on the island, could be secured there

for the trail. The party could divide, Alice going up with Stratton

that afternoon,--it was a matter of a few hours,--while he and Louise

would ride up early the following morning.

In the end Philip had his way, and Stratton, who had exerted himself,

hitherto, to make the cruise one of unalloyed pleasure, lapsed into

moody silence. He found himself, late in the afternoon, riding with

Alice, up a sharp pitch of the mountain. Below them dipped a cross-cut

of trail, and overhead another section of the switchback hung like a

tilting shelf under a knobby shoulder that concealed the true dome.

They gained the spur and halted, breathing the horses on a breadth of

level. The girl turned a little in her saddle to look down. There was

the inlet where the _Phantom_, like a toy ship, rode at anchor; and

there was the lake, a big, opal-filled bowl, with the farmhouse, where

they had left Philip with Louise and the child, balanced like a tiny box

on its rim. Northward islands on islands rose purple or amethyst out of

the sea; southward and westward the Olympic Mountains stretched a

gleaming barricade, and the Straits of Juan de Fuca divided like the

fingers of a great reaching hand.

"I love it; oh, you don't know how I love it." Her glance returned to

Stratton and she started; the glow in her face died. "But you--I see it

doesn't compensate you for the rough trail and this excuse of a mount.

When you ride you want Sir Donald."

"No, it is not that." He smiled briefly, with effort, and pulled his

shoulders straight. "I happened to remember a man--I once knew. He was

wrecked off this island; there on the north shore. It was another such

day as this, clear and shining, but his sloop was caught in a tide-rip.

You can see it down there; that creeping, white-lipped streak. The

rocks under it grip like teeth." He paused and the hand directing her

attention fell. He lifted his hat and wiped a sudden moisture from his

face. "It all happened in a moment," he added, "and the boat was broken

into kindling."

"But he, your friend,"--she leaned towards him all suspense, sympathy,

charm,--"he was saved?"

"Yes, he was saved. But it is a long story. Wait until we reach the

summit; I can tell you better up there."

He turned his horse, falling behind her as they resumed the climb.

Presently they entered a cool belt of timber. The air was freighted with

the balsam of fir and pine, and she looked about her, drawing full

breaths; a soft delight rose in her eyes. "Isn't it the best perfume on

earth?" she asked. "At Nisqually it just lacks the tang of the sea.

And there are the Alaska cedars they spoke of at the farm. The stream

should run through them."

The horses quickened their pace and stopped where the rill widened into

a pool. They dropped eager muzzles and began to take long, still

draughts. She freed her foot from the stirrup and slipped lightly down.

"We must fill the flask," she said, "where the spring bubbles through

the rock."

Stratton tied the horses and followed her up the bank. She reached the

place and stooped to fill her saddle-cup. "Oh," she said, pausing

between draughts. "It's the kind of water to dream of hot summer

nights; the kind you think of on dusty roads and want desperately."

She waited while he drank, watching him expectantly. "Yes," he admitted,

"it is a spring to remember in a desert."

He stooped to fill the flask, but he did it clumsily, without his usual

care, and drenched his sleeve. The pleasure in her face faded; she

continued to watch him, but with ruffled brows. "Oh," she said at last,

"I wouldn't have believed you could be so unrelenting; but you are

determined to remind me, every step of the way, that you didn't want to

stop at Orcas Island. You're the most unsatisfactory man, on a trip, I

ever knew. Still, you were different last year, on the Paradise trail."

"Was I? Well, you see, I keep thinking of that man--in the tide-rip; he

stopped here at this stream, to rest."

"The man who was wrecked? Did he come up here?"

"Yes, he thought that he was on the mainland. He tried to reach the

settlement this way. But there isn't time to tell the story here."

He turned and led the way quickly back to the horses, and they mounted

and rode on through the wood. At the foot of the final pitch they left

the horses and pushed up over shelving rock to the bald summit. The sun

was low in the west and the light touched the houses of a little

seaport, eastward on the mainland; and above the craggy heights that

overtopped the town a snow mountain caught the glory. Far southward the

crown of Rainier seemed to rise like an opal island straight out of the

shining sea.

Suddenly Stratton laid his hand on her arm. "Wait," he said, "this is

the end. The summit breaks there, a sheer drop of a thousand feet, with

a lake below.

"You know," she said. "You've been here before?"

"It is plain enough. Look down."

She looked; but she was obliged to creep another step and drop to her

knees before she saw the lake, far, far below, tucked like a great

sapphire in a high pocket of the mountain. "Oh," she said, "it seems

fathoms deep; and there isn't a lasting snowfield on this mountain. What

feeds it?"

He helped her back from the precipice and to her feet. "It is probably

one of the Cascades' reservoirs," he answered; "supplied by some

subterranean stream under the bed of the Straits."

She walked back a few rods and seated herself on a bench of rock. Her

glance moved from the great white dome, on along the craggy peaks of the

Cascades, northward. "Of course," she said presently, "that dim line of

shore off there is the Vancouver coast. Think, Mr. Stratton, how near

we came to losing all these lovely islands. While Congress was calling

them 'a number of barren rocks, not worth the hour of discussion,' Sir

Douglas was grazing great flocks of sheep on the fertile slopes of San

Juan,--that must be it, that long, even shore between us and the end of

Vancouver,--and investing its best harbor with British soldiers.

Doesn't it rouse your blood, even now? Can't you almost hear that old

pioneer slogan, 'Fifty-four, forty or fight?'"

Stratton laughed. "I am afraid not. You see I have lived in Victoria,

and I have heard a good deal more about that old explorer Vancouver.

You know he claimed all of this territory in the king's name. He called

it New Georgia by right of discovery. And I have known some pretty fine

people across the border, Miss Hunter. In fact they have treated me

better than some I have known on this side. But there is hope; with you

to teach me I may turn out a fairly good American patriot--yet."

She shook her head, looking him over gravely, and he laughed again, and

seated himself near her on the ledge. "Now, I am ready for that story,"

she said.

He looked off to that far line of the British coast. "I am almost sorry

I promised to tell it," he answered; "still, you may hear it sometime,

through others, and understand it less. I, well, I think a good deal of

him; I want you to see it from his side. He was just a boy, Miss

Hunter; a dare-devil sort of boy, fond of adventure and proud of his

little boat. He never had been taught to regard the Government

patriotically, as you do, and the men who tempted him were upright,

irreproachable men,"--his lip curled,--"the ones of whom the Captain

told you. One of them had been a close friend of this boy's father, and

held a Government position of trust; the other, in whose office the boy

was reading law, was a prominent attorney known all over the Northwest.

They both knew how to appeal. His mother lived in Victoria at the time;

he had made several trips across to see her in his new sloop; and they

told him, laughing, he could go unsuspected anywhere, he looked so

honest."

Stratton paused and his listener turned her face to him, waiting. "I

understand," she said at last, and set her lips, "it was a case of

smuggling. There was--a ring. And of course it was opium. Uncle Silas

says it usually is opium; the duty is so great, and there is such an

immense profit on a smuggled lot."

"Yes, it was opium." He turned his face a little more from her,

watching still that far amethyst coast. "And there was a ring. He was

to have a third interest in the profit to start a business he liked

better than the law. But the revenue officers saw the chest carried to

his sloop. They followed. There was a splendid breeze at first, and he

led them a chase, dodging between these islands, cross-cutting from

channel to channel. But the wind fell at sunset, or rather shifted, and

he found himself in unfamiliar water. Still he slipped the cutter off

this island and made a landing. He concealed the stuff, intending to

return for it when the pursuit was over. But he was slow in finding a

safe hiding-place and the tide changed; and when the sloop swung out on

her first tack she was caught in that tide-rip."

Stratton paused. He passed his hand across his eyes, but Alice was

silent. She looked off at the white mountain, and waited, holding her

chin high and creasing her brows. Clearly the man in the tide-rip had

lost her sympathy. Her attitude said, "It was what he deserved."

"He was thrown ashore," Stratton continued, "with wreckage, and he spent

the night miserably, crawling under cover with his cache. At daybreak

he found this trail; he believed he was on the mainland and that this

was the way to that town over there, where he had arranged to meet his

accomplices. He decided to carry the chest with him to the edge of the

settlement. But the sun beat down mercilessly on that switchback, and

he had eaten nothing since the wreck of his sloop. The chest gathered

weight with every step. He travelled slower and slower, at one moment

determined to abandon it, and the next reminding himself that it must

pay for the loss of his boat. At last, from that high shoulder where we

stopped to-day, he saw the revenue cutter creeping up the cove. That

spurred him on to the stream. There, tired out, indifferent, he threw

himself down to ease his aching muscles and take breath. He fell

asleep. When he wakened it was late; the sun was almost gone. He rose

and took the chest and hurried on to this final pitch. But looking

back, he saw the Customs men below, finishing the wood. He found

nowhere to hide the stuff; he dared not leave it, and, with increasing

panic, he reached this summit, and ran on down, to find himself cut off

by that cliff."

Stratton's even voice caught and broke. His forehead was wet with big,

clinging drops, as though he himself had just made that great physical

effort. His glance moved from the precipice, and, meeting the girl's

clear, direct look, a sudden quiver swept his face. "And?" she said.

"He saw no way around," Stratton resumed quietly, "and in his extremity,

he sent the chest over the brink. Then he came back to this bench and

waited for the officers. They recognized him; one, the captain of the

cutter, had known his father well, for years. 'There was a man above us

on the trail,' he said; 'we hardly could have passed him, but he may

have passed you. He carried a small chest or box.'

"And the boy looked him straight in the face and smiled. 'I guess

you've missed your trail, captain,' he answered. 'You see this path

ends here; be careful, it's a frightful drop. It looks like an old

Indian trail; there at your feet are the ashes of signal fires. But the

road you want branches below the switchback. Your man probably doubled

back through the timber and struck across to the south shore.' And then

he added frankly enough, 'I, myself, came up here for a sight of my

sloop. She was stolen, and an Indian I met on the mainland had seen

such a boat near this island. He put me over in his canoe.'"

"Oh," said Alice, "you call him a boy, yet he could stand and say all

that like any hardened criminal."

"No," Stratton flushed hotly, and for an instant the steel flashed in

his eyes, "even you should not call him that. He had been told, and

shown, that some of the best men on the border took advantage of the

Government; that the United States was able to stand it. You should

remember, too, it was his first--offence."

She gave him a straight, uncompromising look. "Was the chest found?"

she asked.

"No. There was no trace of it below the cliff; he looked, afterwards,

and the lake is very deep, as you thought. There was no proof against

him; those inspectors never for a moment doubted him. The man, whom

they had seen boarding the sloop with the chest at Victoria, was a

desperate character, under suspicion before; they believed he had stolen

the boat, and that he had come upon the Indian waiting for his

passenger, and had bribed him to take him off the island instead. And

the boy went with them down the switchback, and identified the wreckage

on the north shore. And they took him aboard the cutter and landed him

at home, in Seattle, the next day."

"I understand," she said slowly, "it all rested with him. It would have

been a triumph, his salvation, if he had confessed."

"I knew it." Stratton's face hardened. "I knew it. You sit here like

young Justice, inexorable; you who never were tempted; never made a

mistake; and nothing but the fundamental right will do. But think how

that confession would have hampered him. A story like that clings. His

whole future hinged on that day. And he had the confidence of those

prominent men; the truth must have involved them. After all," he added,

"the opium was lost. He gained nothing, and he had his punishment in

the wreck of his sloop."

"Yes," she admitted, "he was punished in a way, but--"

"Listen," he pleaded. "He was reared very differently from you. His

father was a man of honor, true, but he had business interests that kept

him long intervals from home. And his mother, I think, hardly gave him

much thought when he was a child. She was a very beautiful woman with

luxurious tastes. There was most always a gay company around her, and

it could never have greatly concerned her how her husband's money was

made, so that she had it to spend. I will not say much about her,--she

is gone, now, out of his life,--but the boy was taught early not to

trouble her, and to look out for himself. I believe the only lessons

she ever gave him were in quick, flippant retort, and to cover his

hurts. He learned early, too, that the surest way to please her was to

amuse her friends. Once, when he came into a room, unexpectedly, and

conversation dropped, she looked at him, smiling, and said, 'Boy, what

is disgrace?' And he answered directly, 'Disgrace, mother, is being

caught.'"

"And she?" said Alice, after a moment.

"She? Why, she laughed, I think, with the others, and tapped him on the

shoulder with her fan; or perhaps that time she clapped her adorable

hands." He rose to his feet and stood looking off to that dim British

coast. A great weariness settled over his face. "You see, in the end,

it amounted to this; he thought, when he thought at all, that wrong

rested only in detection. One must make and leave a good impression,

but right motive, sincerity, in his world did not count. Then things

changed. He saw life differently, through the eyes of the woman he

loves."

Stratton's voice vibrated a little on the word. He turned and looked

down at her, and that quiver again swept his face. But she did not see

it. Her glance rested thoughtfully on the white peak, eastward, across

the channel. That reference to the boy's mother, his training, home,

struck the maternal chord, so strong in her, and she saw suddenly,

clearly, the other side. The mountain began to flush with a sunset

glow; a gentleness, almost tenderness, rose in her face.

"She is not like the women he has always known," Stratton went on. "She

walks a higher level. Sometimes, she is so much a saint, he is afraid

of her. He dreads her judgment, and yet he dreads more to have a

suspicion of the truth reach her, some day, through others. Lately there

are rumors afloat touching those men, who made a tool of him, and any

time, a chance word from one of them may involve him. What do you

think, Miss Hunter? You see she is like you in some ways; she takes

your Puritan view of life and has your habit of sifting things. In her

place would you think better of him if he told you? Could you,

yourself, forgive him if--you loved him?"

She did not answer directly; she was weighing the question. At last her

look came back from the mountain; she rose to her feet. "Yes," she said

slowly, "Yes, I think that I could forgive him; it was a first offence.

Of course it must have been the only time. I should forgive him for the

same reason, or much the same reason, I did Mose. But, I could never

love such a man, Mr. Stratton. Even if I never knew the truth, I should

feel the stain. And I am the kind of woman who builds love on respect.

The man I am going to care for, in the way you mean, has lived a clean

life. He stands a man among men, sound to the core."

With this she turned and began to go down to her horse. Stratton waited

a silent moment, watching her move lightly over the steep and jagged

path. "The man she is going to care for," he repeated softly; "she

means, of course, the Judge. But she will never make that marriage,

never." He started to follow her, then he stopped and looked off once

more, to that far Vancouver coast. "Strange, after these years, the

sight of this place should make me go all to pieces. And strange how I

bungled into that story. I had to tell her. That insistent something

in her had me promising, down there at the switchback. Still, I could

have told another woman easily enough, and won her to my side. Why am I

always losing my hold when I talk to her? But I shouldn't have come

ashore; I should have stayed aboard the yacht. God, how I hate this

island."

He hurried on then, for she was already waiting in the saddle. She

watched him with a grave kindness as he drew near. "You are still

thinking of your friend," she said, "but please don't rely on my

opinion. There are sweet and gentle women in the world who live just to

forgive. Perhaps she, the one you mentioned, is one of them." She

turned her horse into the trail, but glanced back over her shoulder to

add, smiling a little, "You've been a good champion; tell him, when the

time comes, to let you say a word for him."

"Trust me for that," he answered, and started his own horse; "if--the

time comes I will speak for him."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*THE FIERY LANE*

Once, during Alice's brief stay at the mills, she had overheard Forrest

censure a workman for finishing his pipe inside the restricted limits.

This gave her an opportunity, that evening, to lead adroitly to the

subject of forest fire. It was a perpetual menace in the settlement,

she said; it sprang sometimes from almost nothing; a match dropped in a

dry place, or a burning fragment shaken from a pipe; embers left alive

by a passing camper; and oftener yet, it began with the ignition of

slashed underbrush, when, to clear a bit of open for his cabin or

pasture, a settler devastated whole areas of fine trees that could not

be reproduced in a century. She wondered if Forrest, who so well

understood the dangers as well as the values of timber, had ever devised

a scheme, some practical, inexpensive method within the reach of

ranchers, for its protection. And he had answered that of course the

settlers should make it a local law never to start a "burn" in the dry

season. But any man who knew the Washington woods, had learned that one

of the surest ways to handle a first blaze was to smother it with

shovelled earth. Even in midsummer the ground under the forest litter

was damp; it was made porous by a network of roots and held moisture

like a sponge; the trees drew from innumerable small reservoirs. But if

he himself owned a section he would take the precaution to cut a broad

swathe around the unprotected sides; and, if it was near a considerable

water power, for instance those upper falls of the Des Chutes, he would

keep in readiness a length of canvas hose, the big kind used for

carrying a stream some distance in hydraulic mining, and be able to tap

the river at a moment's warning.

She was particularly interested in this scheme, and gathered small

details as to the size and make of the hose, and how he would connect it

with the stream. He drew a rough plan on a card, showing a point where

the river could be tapped with little trouble, by taking advantage of a

certain jutting rock, to brace the necessary bit of flume and

sluice-gate. "But," he had added, throwing aside the sketch to take his

violin, "the chances are some other man will file on that section; he

may even hit upon this little mechanism and have it all constructed

before I see the headwaters again."

Afterwards Alice found that card, on Louise's table where he had left

it, and saved it for future reference. The hose could not be secured in

the Puget Sound towns; she could not obtain it in Portland; but finally

it was purchased through a house carrying mining supplies in San

Francisco.

Mill Thornton, who managed its final transportation, over twenty miles

of trail from Yelm Station, was greatly interested in the innovation.

She showed him Forrest's drawing, explaining it, and read to him a

circular, which was enclosed with the hose and described its use. Then

they went down to the falls and located the stone ledge. And in the end

she contracted with the young rancher to do the mechanical work, in

exchange for enough of the water power to supply a small flume to his

claim. This was really another stroke of policy to insure her own

trees, and Eben, who came out to "hev er look at ther water works,"

laughed. "Fur long-headedness," he told Thornton, "yes, an' grit, I

'low I'll stake my next pile on ther schoolmarm; yes, sir, ther

schoolmarm, an' ergainst any durn man in this here hull deestrict."

It was Alice's intention to keep the canvas stretched in position during

the dry season. Later, if the cleared land should cease to husband

moisture, she might utilize it for irrigation. It had been laid for

trial across the new meadow, which, cutting a wide swathe through the

jungle, reached from the small open that surrounded the cottage to the

river; but Myers having brought two Jerseys, which he had pastured

several weeks, and turned them into the field, it was necessary, until a

track outside could be leveled, to store the hose in the stable.

The meadow fence was built of heavy cedar rails, fixed horizontally and

without nails. They needed no fastening but the uprights that held the

crossed ends of each section. Parallel with it and forming a lane, ran a

pile of dry brush, accumulated in clearing and ready to burn after the

first rainfall. Backward from it and the untouched jungle that bordered

the stream, sheltering that nest of a cottage pushing up and up the

grassy slope, rose the ranks of the trees, free of undergrowth as a

park, and including what Forrest had called "the heart of the red firs."

Time was precious on school mornings, and the teacher, early astir, was

leading the black to water. She saw the sun touch the tops of the

higher trees as she crossed the open from the stable. She noticed that

the light wind drew from the river and was fragrant with balsams, and

that it brought, already, a promise of heat. Then suddenly she stopped

and inhaled a deeper breath, that was a different pungence. It was,

unmistakably the burning resin of boughs. In the moment she waited,

trying to locate the fire, Mother Girard with her empty pail, hurried

from the meadow. She came to say that one of the Jerseys had been

milked, and that the trail of the trespasser was still fresh on the dew.

It left the lower end of the field, and, skirting the brush pile, turned

up-stream. And it was there, at the farther end of the slashing, that,

while she listened, the teacher saw a thin line of smoke.

Mose, working on that track for the hose near the upper end of the

meadow fence, dropped his spade and ran. He tried to beat out the

breaking flames, but others were eating under and through the dry

criss-cross of branches; every instant they seized on a new layer,

snapped, crackled, sent out another jet of smoke. It was not a case for

shovelled earth. The pile was too high, too porous; it exposed a dozen

open draughts on all sides, and the breeze, sucking in, found as many

flues. Clearly the brush pile must burn, and only a miracle could save

that portion of the fence bordering the narrow lane. He hurried to the

corner to disconnect the rails. At the same time a standing tree, the

first in a clump of young firs at the end of the slashing, ignited. The

resinous needles sizzed, popped like a string of firecrackers. With the

wind pulling as it did from the river, this meant the fire would sweep

directly into the big timber, and in that event the cabin also was

doomed. He left the fence, running to bring an ax to cut away some

hazels adjoining the dangerous clump. Then, as he went, he suddenly

remembered the canvas hose. In a moment he was at the stable and met

the teacher and Mother Girard dragging the roll through the door.

The three together got it to the meadow and over the lowered bars. But

while they ran, unrolling the canvas towards the river, two other trees

in that clump began to send out those ominous little reports. The field

was long, it seemed to increase in length, but before they reached the

end of it Thornton came. He was able alone to finish stretching the

hose and connect it with the flume, and sent Mose back to the nozzle

end. The old mother hurried to drive the Jerseys to a safer distance,

and Alice started to return to the maple near the stable where she had

tied the horse. But, as she followed the fence, she noticed that some

of the dead branches which littered the lane outside were burning.

Every moment flames crept from another undermined section of the brush

pile, but every moment counted. Any instant the big canvas would begin

to fill; it was yet possible to save the fence. She climbed up and

swung herself over into the lane. She ran along, pulling away the more

dangerous limbs. And it grew hotter with each step. She covered her

cheek with her hand; that too seemed to blister. She stumbled around,

baffled, and looked towards the river. The whole clump of young firs

was a blazing mass, and the hazels adjoining shrivelled and crackled.

She started to go back into the field. Then she saw that smoke was

rising in little puffs all among the rails. A curling red wave rippled

along the top one, reaching for her hand; tiny blue tongues, orange

ones, lapped and licked the scorching cedar everywhere. Then, while she

wavered, trying to choose the less dangerous bars, she was enveloped in

a great outpour of smoke. She staggered a few steps stifled, blinded;

her feet tripped over a tangled mesh of twigs and she went down.

Beyond the fence the canvas began to distend. It rounded full; like a

waking leviathan it stretched, squirmed. Thornton, running with the

flow to help Mose at the nozzle, passed without seeing her. Then

Stratton came. He had hurried from his lodge at the first hint of

smoke; he had learned, in a word from Mose, where to look for her, and

he discovered her. He put his shoulder to an upright and wrenched it

away. He grasped the rails,--his hands blistered,--and flung them down.

He bent to lift her, shielding her with his body, but at the same time a

burning sapling, looped in the slashing, sprang, released like an

unstrung bow, and struck the back of his head. He pitched, groaning,

face downward. The smoke thinned but the brush pile became a roaring

furnace. He got to his knees, groped for her, and half dragged, half

carried her out of that fiery lane.

Her dress was burning; he smothered the flames, turning her on the

meadow grass; he strangled more persistent vipers with his arms. But

the pain from the blow was very great. He saw things all red, all

black; they mixed in a blur. He stretched himself on the earth a

breathing space and closed his eyes. "Great God," he muttered, "Great

God, she must not have inhaled fire." And the words begun in

imprecation ended like a prayer.

When he recovered enough to see, he found her sitting up, dazed a

little, trembling, but watching Thornton and Mose, who at last had

turned the flood on the blazing brush pile. The spray of it drifted

over them, and presently a cloud of steam. With Stratton's help she was

able to rise, and they went up through the field towards the cabin.

Sometimes he put his arm under her shoulders, holding her on her feet;

and sometimes he stumbled apart and stood for an instant with his eyes

closed, while his teeth gripped the nether lip. Neither spoke until

they reached the balcony steps. Then they stopped and she looked back

at the men with the hose. "They will save the trees," she said. "See,

the fire is under control; they have saved the trees."

But Stratton was looking at her. The coolness and mockery had dropped

from him in that hour, like a broken mask. The emotions and passions

kept in leash through months fought in his face. He saw her rock

unsteadily again on her feet, and new strength surged to his arms. "Damn

the trees," he answered, and lifted her and carried her up to the door.

"Damn Slocum and his pipe; damn--myself."

She did not hear him. Her body had yielded to complete collapse. He

watched her still face, cradled in the curve of his arm, and once while

he crossed the room he bent his lips to her cheek. But something, that

indefinable something that had baffled him on the glacier, seemed to

push him back. It was as though her white spirit cried "no," and again

his own soul shrank.

He laid her on a couch. He brought water and bathed her face. One

cheek, the right one, was blistered; her lips were scorched; and one

hand, also the right one, was burned horribly. He found olive oil in a

small cupboard and, with little further search, some cotton stuff which

he tore into bandages. He wrapped the hand,--both of his own were

smarting, miserably,--and fixed an oiled pad for her cheek; and he

moistened her lips, pouring oil between them, generously.

At this she opened her eyes and smiled. "Don't trouble," she said, "I

didn't inhale any fire. I remembered to cover my mouth." Her lids

drooped again, but she added softly, "They are fine--old--trees."

"The finest in the world," he answered, "but the price--was too high."

He lifted her other hand to bandage a slighter burn, and his own fingers

trembled. When he finished he did not release it directly, but sat

looking down at the uncovered, gently hollowed palm. She had very nice

hands; he had always noticed that; not too small but beautifully made.

Then it came over him where, once before, he had seen their loveliness

spoiled. It was that day on Mt. Rainier when she had rescued him from

the crevasse. And now, at last, he had been able to square that debt.

He bent suddenly and kissed the palm. "Keep your trees," he said; "stay

here in the wilderness as long as you want to, but give me the right to

be near you, always, and protect you."

Her eyelids fluttered open. She looked at him startled. He leaned

nearer. His voice quickened; it became a sensitive, soft-toned

instrument, vibrant with tenderness. "Marry me, Alice," he said, "and I

will shape my whole life to yours. You shall never see a city or a

crowd if you say so. I will create an Eden out of this homestead; and

when the settlement grows too civilized, when there is nothing left to

reclaim or build, I will take you to new solitudes; I will carry you

away in that schooner of mine, up and up into the Alaska wilderness, and

on some unknown fiord set up another Paradise."

"Oh," she said at last, "please, please don't say any more." She tried

to rise but her lips went white and she sank back on her pillows. In

her haste she had pressed on the maimed hand. "I shouldn't have allowed

you to say this," she hurried on with great effort, "but--I am

very--tired. I--I don't think clearly. Wait. Listen. We have just

come through a desperate time together. You saved--me. How can I be

angry with you--so soon? But you have no right to speak like this to

me. I have no right to hear you. You know I am going to marry Judge

Kingsley."

"You are not. Unless," his voice held a threat, "you believe that you

love him."

She closed her eyes again; the lids quivered, her lips, her whole face.

"If I had not," she answered, and the words were almost a whisper,

"could I have promised to marry him?"

He was silent then. He leaned back in his chair. Presently he reached,

groping, and found a strip of the cotton stuff, which he dipped in the

basin of water, and laid on his eyes.

Finally she looked at him. "Oh," she said, "you were hurt. You should

have told me. I should have seen. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing," he answered, "nothing, thank you. It is a pain in my head

that takes me from time to time. Something struck me, I think, out

there in that fiery lane."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm so sorry--in both ways. Please

don't think I'm ungrateful. I have always liked you, and believed in

you, even when you seemed to lose faith in yourself. I knew,

underneath, you were all right. And if it was friendliness you asked--"

"Friendliness?" He threw the bandage aside and started to his feet.

"Friendliness? No. It's you I want--all of you--heart and body and

soul--to have--to keep." He moved, stumbling a little to the door. He

put his hand to his eyes and waited a moment, then he turned and came

back half way. "I was wrong," he said, and his voice struck a lower

key, "I was wrong, pardon me. And I accept that friendliness, yes, as

long as you say so."

He swung on his heel then, and went out of the room. That night, in his

lodge, he laid ink and stationery on his table and commenced a letter.

He wrote the date, and under it, in a large firm hand:

"JUDGE SILAS KINGSLEY,

"WASHINGTON, D.C.

"MY DEAR SIR:--

Then he paused. He laid the pen down and leaned back in his chair for a

long interval in thought. But when he resumed the task it was with

quickness and decision and no further halt.

"I am addressing you, as Miss Hunter's guardian, to let you know that

today I have asked her to be my wife. Though I had contemplated this for

some time the matter was precipitated by a serious fire on her

homestead, during which I was privileged to be of service. She was

rescued from a dangerous position, painfully, though not deeply burned,

and I trust will send you the particulars soon.

"It is natural you should wish to learn something further in regard to

my financial circumstances and social standing, and I am enclosing the

cards of several Seattle friends whom it is very possible you know; also

the address of Sir McDonald of Victoria, who was my father's close

friend and can tell you all about me. You will remember I have taken up

my father's business of fur dealer, which he carried on so long and

successfully, and, as soon as the construction of my new steam-schooner

is completed, I expect to equip her for extensive operations northward

in Alaska, making a specialty of sealskins and sable, with what can be

secured of otter and silver fox. I believe I may be considered in a

position to support a wife comfortably.

"As to the rest, I have every reason to think Miss Hunter is not

indifferent to me, though she feels, in honor, bound by her promise to

you. I trust you will understand it is most difficult for me to make

this statement, but I am confident you will not care to longer hold her

to an engagement, which she made in gratitude and through a

conscientious sense of duty, and which I believe was urged on your part,

simply through a desire to see her future secure.

"Most sincerely and respectfully yours,

"MARK DOUGLAS STRATTON."

He folded this letter slowly and put it in the envelope, which he

addressed carefully. The pain had returned to his head. The Judge's

name seemed suddenly to be written in blood. It trailed from his pen.

Still he finished, and groping in his pocketbook found a stamp.

Then he rose to his feet. He closed his eyes and clasped his hands at

the back of his head. "My God," he groaned, "Oh, my--God!" He went

over and threw himself face downward on his bed. But in a moment he was

up again, stumbling across the floor, in agony. Finally he stopped and

knelt near the inner wall and felt for the third board. It was of hewn

cedar and heavy enough to go unnailed. He raised it, not without

difficulty, and found a long narrow box set in the earth, underneath.

He lifted the lid and took out one of several packages that filled it.

He unrolled the wrapping of coarse flannel far enough to reach a small

tin; then he laid the bundle aside and stood turning this in his hands.

It was a five-tael opium can such as is used in transporting the crude

drug. "Well," he told himself, "why not? The stuff is sold, daily,

over every druggist's counter, for pain not half--as horrible--as this."

He took his knife and sprung the end of the tin enough to pour a little

of the thick, sticky substance into a glass. "It is--strong--of course,"

he said; "a drop or two, diluted, ought to be sufficient." He added the

water, stirred it, and drank it off.

In a very short time the relief came. He sat down on the edge of his

bed and drew off one of his riding-boots; then he tried to pull the

other and failed. He stretched himself, dressed, on the couch, and

groping weakly, found a blanket and succeeded in covering his knees.

When he wakened it was daybreak and some one, a man, was working in the

room. He was kneeling by that uncovered box and removing the packages

to a canvas sack, open beside him on the hewn floor. Stratton watched

him a silent moment, then, "Where is Slocum, Smith?" he asked.

The man turned on his knees. It was a writhing movement and he threw

his head like a startled snake. "Slocum hyas scare," he answered. "He

doan' come here today."

"Afraid of me, is he? Well, he has reason to be. I told him to keep

away from that homestead. I told him, when I gave him that tobacco, to

be careful where he smoked."

"Slocum hyas cultus," said the man. "Slocum no count." He resumed his

work, but after a silent moment, he reared his head again to say, "Mose

find some plas where Slocum ees sleep. He ees see Slocum's blanket by

one beeg cedar log, an' some brush on top, nawitka, to mek roof. An'

Mose ees know it ees Slocum's bed, for he ees fin under dat blanket,

Yelm Jim's gun."

Stratton understood. He seemed to see Alice, now, with that bandaged

hand, following Mose through the underbrush to see for herself that

human lair. His glance moved from Smith and that stuff on the floor. A

great revulsion suddenly came over him. The pain in his head was dull;

it no longer troubled him, but he turned his face to the wall and set

his teeth over a groan.

At last he heard Smith put the plank back in its place and start with

the filled sack across the floor. He stopped him at the door. "It will

be safer for Slocum, after this," he said, "to stay on the other side of

the Pass. Let him help you through the mountains, this trip, Smith, but

see that you leave him there."

*CHAPTER XVII*

*THE MAN WHO BUNGLED*

Early in the autumn Samantha and young Thornton were married. The

teacher, in a letter to her sister, said it was a charming wedding. She

told how the schoolhouse was converted into a bower for the occasion;

how all the settlement was there, displaying heirlooms of finery, but

nothing equalled Laramie's vest of blue and crimson satin brocade, which

he wore over a new woolen shirt, and with an extra polish of the cowskin

shoes. And she told how, when the old minister, imported from Olympia

for the ceremony, stood waiting on the platform under a canopy of fern,

and she, herself, commenced a bit of Mendelssohn's march on Eben's

violin, the bridal couple in the doorway made a picture to remember; how

Samantha was delightful in a crisp white muslin, and when she hung back

shyly, Mill grasped her arm and dragged her up the aisle. How his face

was red--possibly his stiff collar was a size too small--and his eyes

flashed defiance, like a pirate convoying a risky prize. She told also

how, when the ordeal was safely through, and Samantha rode the sorrel to

her new home, Thornton walking at her side, all the district followed

for the housewarming. But though she described minutely this cabin, and

the improvements and values of the claim, of that other section almost

adjoining, where lived their nearest neighbor, she still had nothing to

say.

And it was an early autumn morning, a few days after the wedding, that

the bars of the lower meadow fence were found down, and Mother Girard

again discovered that one of the Jerseys, straying or driven out under

cover of the timber, had been milked. The impressions were still fresh

on the dew and the teacher joined Mose in search of the trespasser.

This time the track skirted the jungle, and, rounding the slope, entered

the canyon, where they met a beaten path leading from the upper end of

Stratton's quarter-section. The river was bridged there by a fallen

tree, below which it widened into a ford, and this new trail wound up

the precipitous side of the gorge, some distance beyond the cliff that

was capped by the leaning tower. The footprints took that direction.

Suddenly they both stopped and stood looking up at the stronghold. Then

they turned to each other. A line of smoke, rising behind the tower,

marked a camp-fire.

"But," she said at last, "if he wants milk he must ask me for it." And

she started bravely up the side of the canyon.

Mose pressed after her closely. Finally he said, "It ees bes' you let

me go firs', Mees. He ees have one good gun, for sure."