A silence ensued, fraught with poignant fear for Helen, as she gazed
into Bo's whitening face. She read her sister's mind. Bo was remembering
tales of lost people who never were found.
“Me an' Milt get lost every day,” said Roy. “You don't suppose any man
can know all this big country. It's nothin' for us to be lost.”
“Oh!... I was lost when I was little,” said Bo.
“Wal, I reckon it'd been better not to tell you so offhand like,”
replied Roy, contritely. “Don't feel bad, now. All I need is a peek at
Old Baldy. Then I'll have my bearin'. Come on.”
Helen's confidence returned as Roy led off at a fast trot. He rode
toward the westering sun, keeping to the ridge they had ascended, until
once more he came out upon a promontory. Old Baldy loomed there, blacker
and higher and closer. The dark forest showed round, yellow, bare spots
like parks.
“Not so far off the track,” said Roy, as he wheeled his horse. “We'll
make camp in Milt's senaca to-night.”
He led down off the ridge into a valley and then up to higher altitude,
where the character of the forest changed. The trees were no longer
pines, but firs and spruce, growing thin and exceedingly tall, with
few branches below the topmost foliage. So dense was this forest that
twilight seemed to have come.
Travel was arduous. Everywhere were windfalls that had to be avoided,
and not a rod was there without a fallen tree. The horses, laboring
slowly, sometimes sank knee-deep into the brown duff. Gray moss
festooned the tree-trunks and an amber-green moss grew thick on the
rotting logs.
Helen loved this forest primeval. It was so still, so dark, so gloomy,
so full of shadows and shade, and a dank smell of rotting wood, and
sweet fragrance of spruce. The great windfalls, where trees were jammed
together in dozens, showed the savagery of the storms. Wherever a single
monarch lay uprooted there had sprung up a number of ambitious sons,
jealous of one another, fighting for place. Even the trees fought one
another! The forest was a place of mystery, but its strife could be read
by any eye. The lightnings had split firs clear to the roots, and others
it had circled with ripping tear from top to trunk.
Time came, however, when the exceeding wildness of the forest, in
density and fallen timber, made it imperative for Helen to put all her
attention on the ground and trees in her immediate vicinity. So the
pleasure of gazing ahead at the beautiful wilderness was denied her.
Thereafter travel became toil and the hours endless.
Roy led on, and Ranger followed, while the shadows darkened under the
trees. She was reeling in her saddle, half blind and sick, when Roy
called out cheerily that they were almost there.
Whatever his idea was, to Helen it seemed many miles that she followed
him farther, out of the heavy-timbered forest down upon slopes of low
spruce, like evergreen, which descended sharply to another level, where
dark, shallow streams flowed gently and the solemn stillness held a low
murmur of falling water, and at last the wood ended upon a wonderful
park full of a thick, rich, golden light of fast-fading sunset.
“Smell the smoke,” said Roy. “By Solomon! if Milt ain't here ahead of
me!”
He rode on. Helen's weary gaze took in the round senaca, the circling
black slopes, leading up to craggy rims all gold and red in the
last flare of the sun; then all the spirit left in her flashed up in
thrilling wonder at this exquisite, wild, and colorful spot.
Horses were grazing out in the long grass and there were deer grazing
with them. Roy led round a corner of the fringed, bordering woodland,
and there, under lofty trees, shone a camp-fire. Huge gray rocks loomed
beyond, and then cliffs rose step by step to a notch in the mountain
wall, over which poured a thin, lacy waterfall. As Helen gazed in
rapture the sunset gold faded to white and all the western slope of the
amphitheater darkened.
Dale's tall form appeared.
“Reckon you're late,” he said, as with a comprehensive flash of eye he
took in the three.
“Milt, I got lost,” replied Roy.
“I feared as much.... You girls look like you'd done better to ride with
me,” went on Dale, as he offered a hand to help Bo off. She took it,
tried to get her foot out of the stirrups, and then she slid from the
saddle into Dale's arms. He placed her on her feet and, supporting her,
said, solicitously: “A hundred-mile ride in three days for a tenderfoot
is somethin' your uncle Al won't believe.... Come, walk if it kills
you!”
Whereupon he led Bo, very much as if he were teaching a child to walk.
The fact that the voluble Bo had nothing to say was significant to
Helen, who was following, with the assistance of Roy.
One of the huge rocks resembled a sea-shell in that it contained a
hollow over which the wide-spreading shelf flared out. It reached toward
branches of great pines. A spring burst from a crack in the solid rock.
The campfire blazed under a pine, and the blue column of smoke rose just
in front of the shelving rock. Packs were lying on the grass and some
of them were open. There were no signs here of a permanent habitation of
the hunter. But farther on were other huge rocks, leaning, cracked, and
forming caverns, some of which perhaps he utilized.
“My camp is just back,” said Dale, as if he had read Helen's mind.
“To-morrow we'll fix up comfortable-like round here for you girls.”
Helen and Bo were made as easy as blankets and saddles could make them,
and the men went about their tasks.
“Nell--isn't this--a dream?” murmured Bo.
“No, child. It's real--terribly real,” replied Helen. “Now that we're
here--with that awful ride over--we can think.”
“It's so pretty--here,” yawned Bo. “I'd just as lief Uncle Al didn't
find us very soon.”
“Bo! He's a sick man. Think what the worry will be to him.”
“I'll bet if he knows Dale he won't be so worried.”
“Dale told us Uncle Al disliked him.”
“Pooh! What difference does that make?... Oh, I don't know which I
am--hungrier or tireder!”
“I couldn't eat to-night,” said Helen, wearily.
When she stretched out she had a vague, delicious sensation that that
was the end of Helen Rayner, and she was glad. Above her, through the
lacy, fernlike pine-needles, she saw blue sky and a pale star just
showing. Twilight was stealing down swiftly. The silence was beautiful,
seemingly undisturbed by the soft, silky, dreamy fall of water. Helen
closed her eyes, ready for sleep, with the physical commotion within her
body gradually yielding. In some places her bones felt as if they had
come out through her flesh; in others throbbed deep-seated aches; her
muscles appeared slowly to subside, to relax, with the quivering twinges
ceasing one by one; through muscle and bone, through all her body,
pulsed a burning current.
Bo's head dropped on Helen's shoulder. Sense became vague to Helen. She
lost the low murmur of the waterfall, and then the sound or feeling of
some one at the campfire. And her last conscious thought was that she
tried to open her eyes and could not.
When she awoke all was bright. The sun shone almost directly overhead.
Helen was astounded. Bo lay wrapped in deep sleep, her face flushed,
with beads of perspiration on her brow and the chestnut curls damp.
Helen threw down the blankets, and then, gathering courage--for she felt
as if her back was broken--she endeavored to sit up. In vain! Her spirit
was willing, but her muscles refused to act. It must take a violent
spasmodic effort. She tried it with shut eyes, and, succeeding, sat
there trembling. The commotion she had made in the blankets awoke Bo,
and she blinked her surprised blue eyes in the sunlight.
“Hello--Nell! do I have to--get up?” she asked, sleepily.
“Can you?” queried Helen.
“Can I what?” Bo was now thoroughly awake and lay there staring at her
sister.
“Why--get up.”
“I'd like to know why not,” retorted Bo, as she made the effort. She got
one arm and shoulder up, only to flop back like a crippled thing. And
she uttered the most piteous little moan. “I'm dead! I know--I am!”
“Well, if you're going to be a Western girl you'd better have spunk
enough to move.”
“A-huh!” ejaculated Bo. Then she rolled over, not without groans, and,
once upon her face, she raised herself on her hands and turned to a
sitting posture. “Where's everybody?... Oh, Nell, it's perfectly lovely
here. Paradise!”
Helen looked around. A fire was smoldering. No one was in sight.
Wonderful distant colors seemed to strike her glance as she tried to fix
it upon near-by objects. A beautiful little green tent or shack had been
erected out of spruce boughs. It had a slanting roof that sloped all the
way from a ridge-pole to the ground; half of the opening in front was
closed, as were the sides. The spruce boughs appeared all to be laid in
the same direction, giving it a smooth, compact appearance, actually as
if it had grown there.
“That lean-to wasn't there last night?” inquired Bo.
“I didn't see it. Lean-to? Where'd you get that name?”
“It's Western, my dear. I'll bet they put it up for us.... Sure, I see
our bags inside. Let's get up. It must be late.”
The girls had considerable fun as well as pain in getting up and keeping
each other erect until their limbs would hold them firmly. They were
delighted with the spruce lean-to. It faced the open and stood just
under the wide-spreading shelf of rock. The tiny outlet from the spring
flowed beside it and spilled its clear water over a stone, to fall into
a little pool. The floor of this woodland habitation consisted of tips
of spruce boughs to about a foot in depth, all laid one way, smooth and
springy, and so sweetly odorous that the air seemed intoxicating. Helen
and Bo opened their baggage, and what with use of the cold water, brush
and comb, and clean blouses, they made themselves feel as comfortable as
possible, considering the excruciating aches. Then they went out to the
campfire.
Helen's eye was attracted by moving objects near at hand. Then
simultaneously with Bo's cry of delight Helen saw a beautiful doe
approaching under the trees. Dale walked beside it.
“You sure had a long sleep,” was the hunter's greeting. “I reckon you
both look better.”
“Good morning. Or is it afternoon? We're just able to move about,” said
Helen.
“I could ride,” declared Bo, stoutly. “Oh, Nell, look at the deer! It's
coming to me.”
The doe had hung back a little as Dale reached the camp-fire. It was a
gray, slender creature, smooth as silk, with great dark eyes. It stood a
moment, long ears erect, and then with a graceful little trot came up
to Bo and reached a slim nose for her outstretched hand. All about it,
except the beautiful soft eyes, seemed wild, and yet it was as tame as
a kitten. Then, suddenly, as Bo fondled the long ears, it gave a start
and, breaking away, ran back out of sight under the pines.
“What frightened it?” asked Bo.
Dale pointed up at the wall under the shelving roof of rock. There,
twenty feet from the ground, curled up on a ledge, lay a huge tawny
animal with a face like that of a cat.
“She's afraid of Tom,” replied Dale. “Recognizes him as a hereditary
foe, I guess. I can't make friends of them.”
“Oh! So that's Tom--the pet lion!” exclaimed Bo. “Ugh! No wonder that
deer ran off!”
“How long has he been up there?” queried Helen, gazing fascinated at
Dale's famous pet.
“I couldn't say. Tom comes an' goes,” replied Dale. “But I sent him up
there last night.”
“And he was there--perfectly free--right over us--while we slept!” burst
out Bo.
“Yes. An' I reckon you slept the safer for that.”
“Of all things! Nell, isn't he a monster? But he doesn't look like a
lion--an African lion. He's a panther. I saw his like at the circus
once.”
“He's a cougar,” said Dale. “The panther is long and slim. Tom is not
only long, but thick an' round. I've had him four years. An' he was a
kitten no bigger 'n my fist when I got him.”
“Is he perfectly tame--safe?” asked Helen, anxiously.
“I've never told anybody that Tom was safe, but he is,” replied Dale.
“You can absolutely believe it. A wild cougar wouldn't attack a man
unless cornered or starved. An' Tom is like a big kitten.”
The beast raised his great catlike face, with its sleepy, half-shut
eyes, and looked down upon them.
“Shall I call him down?” inquired Dale.
For once Bo did not find her voice.
“Let us--get a little more used to him--at a distance,” replied Helen,
with a little laugh.
“If he comes to you, just rub his head an' you'll see how tame he is,”
said Dale. “Reckon you're both hungry?”
“Not so very,” returned Helen, aware of his penetrating gray gaze upon
her.
“Well, I am,” vouchsafed Bo.
“Soon as the turkey's done we'll eat. My camp is round between the
rocks. I'll call you.”
Not until his broad back was turned did Helen notice that the hunter
looked different. Then she saw he wore a lighter, cleaner suit of
buckskin, with no coat, and instead of the high-heeled horseman's boots
he wore moccasins and leggings. The change made him appear more lithe.
“Nell, I don't know what you think, but _I_ call him handsome,” declared
Bo.
Helen had no idea what she thought.
“Let's try to walk some,” she suggested.
So they essayed that painful task and got as far as a pine log some few
rods from their camp. This point was close to the edge of the park, from
which there was an unobstructed view.
“My! What a place!” exclaimed Bo, with eyes wide and round.
“Oh, beautiful!” breathed Helen.
An unexpected blaze of color drew her gaze first. Out of the black
spruce slopes shone patches of aspens, gloriously red and gold, and low
down along the edge of timber troops of aspens ran out into the park,
not yet so blazing as those above, but purple and yellow and white in
the sunshine. Masses of silver spruce, like trees in moonlight, bordered
the park, sending out here and there an isolated tree, sharp as a
spear, with under-branches close to the ground. Long golden-green grass,
resembling half-ripe wheat, covered the entire floor of the park, gently
waving to the wind. Above sheered the black, gold-patched slopes, steep
and unscalable, rising to buttresses of dark, iron-hued rock. And to
the east circled the rows of cliff-bench, gray and old and fringed,
splitting at the top in the notch where the lacy, slumberous waterfall,
like white smoke, fell and vanished, to reappear in wider sheet of lace,
only to fall and vanish again in the green depths.
It was a verdant valley, deep-set in the mountain walls, wild and sad
and lonesome. The waterfall dominated the spirit of the place, dreamy
and sleepy and tranquil; it murmured sweetly on one breath of wind, and
lulled with another, and sometimes died out altogether, only to come
again in soft, strange roar.
“Paradise Park!” whispered Bo to herself.
A call from Dale disturbed their raptures. Turning, they hobbled with
eager but painful steps in the direction of a larger camp-fire, situated
to the right of the great rock that sheltered their lean-to. No hut or
house showed there and none was needed. Hiding-places and homes for a
hundred hunters were there in the sections of caverned cliffs, split off
in bygone ages from the mountain wall above. A few stately pines stood
out from the rocks, and a clump of silver spruce ran down to a brown
brook. This camp was only a step from the lean-to, round the corner of
a huge rock, yet it had been out of sight. Here indeed was evidence of
a hunter's home--pelts and skins and antlers, a neat pile of split
fire-wood, a long ledge of rock, well sheltered, and loaded with
bags like a huge pantry-shelf, packs and ropes and saddles, tools and
weapons, and a platform of dry brush as shelter for a fire around which
hung on poles a various assortment of utensils for camp.
“Hyar--you git!” shouted Dale, and he threw a stick at something. A bear
cub scampered away in haste. He was small and woolly and brown, and he
grunted as he ran. Soon he halted.
“That's Bud,” said Dale, as the girls came up. “Guess he near starved in
my absence. An' now he wants everythin', especially the sugar. We don't
have sugar often up here.”
“Isn't he dear? Oh, I love him!” cried Bo. “Come back, Bud. Come,
Buddie.”
The cub, however, kept his distance, watching Dale with bright little
eyes.
“Where's Mr. Roy?” asked Helen.
“Roy's gone. He was sorry not to say good-by. But it's important he gets
down in the pines on Anson's trail. He'll hang to Anson, an' in case
they get near Pine he'll ride in to see where your uncle is.”
“What do you expect?” questioned Helen, gravely.
“'Most anythin',” he replied. “Al, I reckon, knows now. Maybe he's
rustlin' into the mountains by this time. If he meets up with Anson,
well an' good, for Roy won't be far off. An' sure if he runs across Roy,
why they'll soon be here. But if I were you I wouldn't count on seein'
your uncle very soon. I'm sorry. I've done my best. It sure is a bad
deal.”
“Don't think me ungracious,” replied Helen, hastily. How plainly he
had intimated that it must be privation and annoyance for her to be
compelled to accept his hospitality! “You are good--kind. I owe you
much. I'll be eternally grateful.”
Dale straightened as he looked at her. His glance was intent, piercing.
He seemed to be receiving a strange or unusual portent. No need for him
to say he had never before been spoken to like that!
“You may have to stay here with me--for weeks--maybe months--if we've
the bad luck to get snowed in,” he said, slowly, as if startled at this
deduction. “You're safe here. No sheep-thief could ever find this camp.
I'll take risks to get you safe into Al's hands. But I'm goin' to be
pretty sure about what I'm doin'.... So--there's plenty to eat an' it's
a pretty place.”
“Pretty! Why, it's grand!” exclaimed Bo. “I've called it Paradise Park.”
“Paradise Park,” he repeated, weighing the words. “You've named it an'
also the creek. Paradise Creek! I've been here twelve years with no fit
name for my home till you said that.”
“Oh, that pleases me!” returned Bo, with shining eyes.
“Eat now,” said Dale. “An' I reckon you'll like that turkey.”
There was a clean tarpaulin upon which were spread steaming, fragrant
pans--roast turkey, hot biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes as white as
if prepared at home, stewed dried apples, and butter and coffee. This
bounteous repast surprised and delighted the girls; when they had once
tasted the roast wild turkey, then Milt Dale had occasion to blush at
their encomiums.
“I hope--Uncle Al--doesn't come for a month,” declared Bo, as she tried
to get her breath. There was a brown spot on her nose and one on each
cheek, suspiciously close to her mouth.
Dale laughed. It was pleasant to hear him, for his laugh seemed unused
and deep, as if it came from tranquil depths.
“Won't you eat with us?” asked Helen.
“Reckon I will,” he said, “it'll save time, an' hot grub tastes better.”
Quite an interval of silence ensued, which presently was broken by Dale.
“Here comes Tom.”
Helen observed with a thrill that the cougar was magnificent, seen erect
on all-fours, approaching with slow, sinuous grace. His color was tawny,
with spots of whitish gray. He had bow-legs, big and round and furry,
and a huge head with great tawny eyes. No matter how tame he was said
to be, he looked wild. Like a dog he walked right up, and it so happened
that he was directly behind Bo, within reach of her when she turned.
“Oh, Lord!” cried Bo, and up went both of her hands, in one of which
was a huge piece of turkey. Tom took it, not viciously, but nevertheless
with a snap that made Helen jump. As if by magic the turkey vanished.
And Tom took a closer step toward Bo. Her expression of fright changed
to consternation.
“He stole my turkey!”
“Tom, come here,” ordered Dale, sharply. The cougar glided round rather
sheepishly. “Now lie down an' behave.”
Tom crouched on all-fours, his head resting on his paws, with his
beautiful tawny eyes, light and piercing, fixed upon the hunter.
“Don't grab,” said Dale, holding out a piece of turkey. Whereupon Tom
took it less voraciously.
As it happened, the little bear cub saw this transaction, and he plainly
indicated his opinion of the preference shown to Tom.
“Oh, the dear!” exclaimed Bo. “He means it's not fair.... Come,
Bud--come on.”
But Bud would not approach the group until called by Dale. Then he
scrambled to them with every manifestation of delight. Bo almost forgot
her own needs in feeding him and getting acquainted with him. Tom
plainly showed his jealousy of Bud, and Bud likewise showed his fear of
the great cat.
Helen could not believe the evidence of her eyes--that she was in the
woods calmly and hungrily partaking of sweet, wild-flavored meat--that
a full-grown mountain lion lay on one side of her and a baby brown bear
sat on the other--that a strange hunter, a man of the forest, there in
his lonely and isolated fastness, appealed to the romance in her and
interested her as no one else she had ever met.
When the wonderful meal was at last finished Bo enticed the bear cub
around to the camp of the girls, and there soon became great comrades
with him. Helen, watching Bo play, was inclined to envy her. No matter
where Bo was placed, she always got something out of it. She adapted
herself. She, who could have a good time with almost any one or
anything, would find the hours sweet and fleeting in this beautiful park
of wild wonders.
But merely objective actions--merely physical movements, had never yet
contented Helen. She could run and climb and ride and play with hearty
and healthy abandon, but those things would not suffice long for her,
and her mind needed food. Helen was a thinker. One reason she had
desired to make her home in the West was that by taking up a life of the
open, of action, she might think and dream and brood less. And here she
was in the wild West, after the three most strenuously active days of
her career, and still the same old giant revolved her mind and turned it
upon herself and upon all she saw.
“What can I do?” she asked Bo, almost helplessly.
“Why, rest, you silly!” retorted Bo. “You walk like an old, crippled
woman with only one leg.”
Helen hoped the comparison was undeserved, but the advice was sound.
The blankets spread out on the grass looked inviting and they felt
comfortably warm in the sunshine. The breeze was slow, languorous,
fragrant, and it brought the low hum of the murmuring waterfall, like
a melody of bees. Helen made a pillow and lay down to rest. The green
pine-needles, so thin and fine in their crisscross network, showed
clearly against the blue sky. She looked in vain for birds. Then
her gaze went wonderingly to the lofty fringed rim of the great
amphitheater, and as she studied it she began to grasp its remoteness,
how far away it was in the rarefied atmosphere. A black eagle, sweeping
along, looked of tiny size, and yet he was far under the heights above.
How pleasant she fancied it to be up there! And drowsy fancy lulled her
to sleep.
Helen slept all afternoon, and upon awakening, toward sunset, found Bo
curled beside her. Dale had thoughtfully covered them with a blanket;
also he had built a camp-fire. The air was growing keen and cold.
Later, when they had put their coats on and made comfortable seats
beside the fire, Dale came over, apparently to visit them.
“I reckon you can't sleep all the time,” he said. “An' bein' city girls,
you'll get lonesome.”
“Lonesome!” echoed Helen. The idea of her being lonesome here had not
occurred to her.
“I've thought that all out,” went on Dale, as he sat down, Indian
fashion, before the blaze. “It's natural you'd find time drag up here,
bein' used to lots of people an' goin's-on, an' work, an' all girls
like.”
“I'd never be lonesome here,” replied Helen, with her direct force.
Dale did not betray surprise, but he showed that his mistake was
something to ponder over.
“Excuse me,” he said, presently, as his gray eyes held hers. “That's
how I had it. As I remember girls--an' it doesn't seem long since I left
home--most of them would die of lonesomeness up here.” Then he addressed
himself to Bo. “How about you? You see, I figured you'd be the one that
liked it, an' your sister the one who wouldn't.”
“I won't get lonesome very soon,” replied Bo.
“I'm glad. It worried me some--not ever havin' girls as company before.
An' in a day or so, when you're rested, I'll help you pass the time.”
Bo's eyes were full of flashing interest, and Helen asked him, “How?”
It was a sincere expression of her curiosity and not doubtful or
ironic challenge of an educated woman to a man of the forest. But as a
challenge he took it.
“How!” he repeated, and a strange smile flitted across his face. “Why,
by givin' you rides an' climbs to beautiful places. An' then, if you're
interested,' to show you how little so-called civilized people know of
nature.”
Helen realized then that whatever his calling, hunter or wanderer or
hermit, he was not uneducated, even if he appeared illiterate.
“I'll be happy to learn from you,” she said.
“Me, too!” chimed in Bo. “You can't tell too much to any one from
Missouri.”
He smiled, and that warmed Helen to him, for then he seemed less removed
from other people. About this hunter there began to be something of the
very nature of which he spoke--a stillness, aloofness, an unbreakable
tranquillity, a cold, clear spirit like that in the mountain air, a
physical something not unlike the tamed wildness of his pets or the
strength of the pines.
“I'll bet I can tell you more 'n you'll ever remember,” he said.
“What 'll you bet?” retorted Bo.
“Well, more roast turkey against--say somethin' nice when you're safe
an' home to your uncle Al's, runnin' his ranch.”
“Agreed. Nell, you hear?”
Helen nodded her head.
“All right. We'll leave it to Nell,” began Dale, half seriously. “Now
I'll tell you, first, for the fun of passin' time we'll ride an' race
my horses out in the park. An' we'll fish in the brooks an' hunt in the
woods. There's an old silvertip around that you can see me kill. An'
we'll climb to the peaks an' see wonderful sights.... So much for
that. Now, if you really want to learn--or if you only want me to tell
you--well, that's no matter. Only I'll win the bet!... You'll see
how this park lies in the crater of a volcano an' was once full of
water--an' how the snow blows in on one side in winter, a hundred feet
deep, when there's none on the other. An' the trees--how they grow an'
live an' fight one another an' depend on one another, an' protect
the forest from storm-winds. An' how they hold the water that is the
fountains of the great rivers. An' how the creatures an' things that
live in them or on them are good for them, an' neither could live
without the other. An' then I'll show you my pets tame an' untamed, an'
tell you how it's man that makes any creature wild--how easy they are
to tame--an' how they learn to love you. An' there's the life of the
forest, the strife of it--how the bear lives, an' the cats, an' the
wolves, an' the deer. You'll see how cruel nature is how savage an'
wild the wolf or cougar tears down the deer--how a wolf loves fresh, hot
blood, an' how a cougar unrolls the skin of a deer back from his neck.
An' you'll see that this cruelty of nature--this work of the wolf an'
cougar--is what makes the deer so beautiful an' healthy an' swift an'
sensitive. Without his deadly foes the deer would deteriorate an' die
out. An' you'll see how this principle works out among all creatures of
the forest. Strife! It's the meanin' of all creation, an' the salvation.
If you're quick to see, you'll learn that the nature here in the wilds
is the same as that of men--only men are no longer cannibals. Trees
fight to live--birds fight--animals fight--men fight. They all live
off one another. An' it's this fightin' that brings them all closer an'
closer to bein' perfect. But nothin' will ever be perfect.”
“But how about religion?” interrupted Helen, earnestly.
“Nature has a religion, an' it's to live--to grow--to reproduce, each of
its kind.”
“But that is not God or the immortality of the soul,” declared Helen.
“Well, it's as close to God an' immortality as nature ever gets.”
“Oh, you would rob me of my religion!”
“No, I just talk as I see life,” replied Dale, reflectively, as he poked
a stick into the red embers of the fire. “Maybe I have a religion. I
don't know. But it's not the kind you have--not the Bible kind. That
kind doesn't keep the men in Pine an' Snowdrop an' all over--sheepmen
an' ranchers an' farmers an' travelers, such as I've known--the religion
they profess doesn't keep them from lyin', cheatin', stealin', an'
killin'. I reckon no man who lives as I do--which perhaps is my
religion--will lie or cheat or steal or kill, unless it's to kill in
self-defense or like I'd do if Snake Anson would ride up here now.
My religion, maybe, is love of life--wild life as it was in the
beginnin'--an' the wind that blows secrets from everywhere, an' the
water that sings all day an' night, an' the stars that shine constant,
an' the trees that speak somehow, an' the rocks that aren't dead. I'm
never alone here or on the trails. There's somethin' unseen, but always
with me. An' that's It! Call it God if you like. But what stalls me
is--where was that Spirit when this earth was a ball of fiery gas? Where
will that Spirit be when all life is frozen out or burned out on this
globe an' it hangs dead in space like the moon? That time will come.
There's no waste in nature. Not the littlest atom is destroyed. It
changes, that's all, as you see this pine wood go up in smoke an' feel
somethin' that's heat come out of it. Where does that go? It's not lost.
Nothin' is lost. So, the beautiful an' savin' thought is, maybe all
rock an' wood, water an' blood an' flesh, are resolved back into the
elements, to come to life somewhere again sometime.”
“Oh, what you say is wonderful, but it's terrible!” exclaimed Helen. He
had struck deep into her soul.
“Terrible? I reckon,” he replied, sadly.
Then ensued a little interval of silence.
“Milt Dale, I lose the bet,” declared Bo, with earnestness behind her
frivolity.
“I'd forgotten that. Reckon I talked a lot,” he said, apologetically.
“You see, I don't get much chance to talk, except to myself or Tom.
Years ago, when I found the habit of silence settlin' down on me, I took
to thinkin' out loud an' talkin' to anythin'.”
“I could listen to you all night,” returned Bo, dreamily.
“Do you read--do you have books?” inquired Helen, suddenly.
“Yes, I read tolerable well; a good deal better than I talk or write,”
he replied. “I went to school till I was fifteen. Always hated study,
but liked to read. Years ago an old friend of mine down here at
Pine--Widow Cass--she gave me a lot of old books. An' I packed them up
here. Winter's the time I read.”
Conversation lagged after that, except for desultory remarks, and
presently Dale bade the girls good night and left them. Helen watched
his tall form vanish in the gloom under the pines, and after he had
disappeared she still stared.
“Nell!” called Bo, shrilly. “I've called you three times. I want to go
to bed.”
“Oh! I--I was thinking,” rejoined Helen, half embarrassed, half
wondering at herself. “I didn't hear you.”
“I should smile you didn't,” retorted Bo. “Wish you could just have seen
your eyes. Nell, do you want me to tell you something?
“Why--yes,” said Helen, rather feebly. She did not at all, when Bo
talked like that.
“You're going to fall in love with that wild hunter,” declared Bo in a
voice that rang like a bell.
Helen was not only amazed, but enraged. She caught her breath
preparatory to giving this incorrigible sister a piece of her mind. Bo
went calmly on.
“I can feel it in my bones.”
“Bo, you're a little fool--a sentimental, romancing, gushy little fool!”
retorted Helen. “All you seem to hold in your head is some rot about
love. To hear you talk one would think there's nothing else in the world
but love.”
Bo's eyes were bright, shrewd, affectionate, and laughing as she bent
their steady gaze upon Helen.
“Nell, that's just it. There IS nothing else!”