IRONY
The hills roll away, banking on every side, mounting up, pile on pile,
like the mighty waves of a storm-swept ocean. The darkening splendor,
the magnificent ruggedness crowds down upon the narrow open places
with a strange sense of oppression, almost of desolation. It seems as
if nothing on earth could ever be so great as that magnificent world,
nothing could ever be so small as the life which peoples it.
The oppression, the desolation grows. The silent shadows of the
endless woods crowd with a suggestion of horrors untold, of mysteries
too profound to be even guessed at. A strange feeling as of a reign of
enchantment pervading sets the flesh of the superstitious creeping.
And the narrow, patchy sunlight, by its brilliant contrast, only
serves to aggravate the sensitive nerves.
Yet in the woods lurk few enough dangers. It is only their dark
stillness. They are still, still in the calm of the brightest day, or
in the chill of a windless night. A timid bear, a wolf who spends its
desolate life in dismal protest against a solitary fate, the crashing
rush of a startled caribou, the deliberate bellow of a bull moose,
strayed far south from its northern fastnesses. These are the harmless
creatures peopling the obscure recesses. For the rest, they are the
weird suggestions of a sensitive imagination.
The awe, however, is undeniable and the mind of man can never wholly
escape it. Familiarity may temper, but inborn human superstition is
indestructible. The brooding silence will shadow the lightest nature.
The storms must ever inspire wonder. The gloom hushes the voice. And
so the growing dread. Man may curse the hills in his brutal moments,
the thoughtful may be driven to despair, the laughter-loving may seek
solace in tears of depression. But the fascination clings. There is no
escape. The cloy of the seductive drug holds to that world of mystery,
and they come to it again, and yet again.
Something of all this was vaguely drifting through the mind of one of
the occupants of a four-horsed, two-wheeled spring cart as it rose
upon the monstrous shoulder of one of the greater hills. Before it lay
a view of a dark and wild descent, sloping away unto the very bowels
of a pit of gloom. The trail was vague and bush-grown, and crowding
trees dangerously narrowed it. To the right the hill fell sharply away
at the edge of the track, an abyss that might well have been
bottomless for aught that could be seen from above. To the left the
crown of the hill rose sheer and barren, and only at its foot grew the
vegetation that so perilously narrowed the track. Then, ahead, where
the trail vanished, a misty hollow, dark and deep--the narrowing walls
of a black canyon.
The blue eyes of the teamster were troubled. Was there ever such a
country for white man to travel? His horses were jaded. Their lean
sides were tuckered. Gray streaks of sweat scored them from shoulder
to flank.
The man lolled heavily in his driving seat in the manner of the
prairie teamster. He knew there was trouble ahead, but it was
practically all he did know of the journey before him.
As the cart topped the rise he bestirred himself. His whip flicked the
air without touching the horses, and he chirrupped encouragingly. The
weary but willing creatures raised their drooping heads, their ribs
expanded as they drew their "tugs" taut, and, at a slow, shuffling
trot, they began the descent.
A voice from behind caused the man to glance swiftly over his
shoulder.
"It's no use asking you where we are now, I suppose?" it said in a
peevish tone.
But the teamster's mood was its match.
"Not a heap, I guess, ma'm," he retorted, and gave up his attention to
avoiding the precipice on his right.
"How far is the place supposed to be?"
The woman's unease was very evident. Her eyes were upon the darkening
walls of the canyon toward which they were traveling.
"Eighty miles from Crowsfoot. That's how the boss said, anyways."
"How far have we come now?"
The man laughed. There seemed to be something humorous in his
passenger's inquiries.
"Crowsfoot to Snarth's farm, thirty-five miles, good. Snarth's to
Rattler Head, thirty. Sixty-five. Fifteen into this precious camp on
Yellow Creek. Guess we bin comin' along good since sun-up, an' now
it's noon. Countin' our stop fer breakfast we ought to make thirty odd
miles. Guess we come a good hundred." He laughed again.
The woman gave an exclamation of impatience and vexation.
"I think your employer ought to be ashamed of himself sending you to
do the journey. You don't know where you are, or what direction we're
going in. The horses are nearly foundered, and we may be miles and
miles from our destination. What are you going to do?"
"Ke'p goin' jest as long as the hosses ken ke'p foot to the ground.
Guess we'll ease 'em at the bottom, here. It's nigh feed time. Say,
ma'm, it ain't no use worritin'. We'll git som'eres sure. The sun's
dead ahead."
"What's the use of that?" Mercy Lascelles snapped at the man's easy
acceptance of the situation. "I wish now I'd come by Leeson Butte."
"That's sure how the boss said," retorted the man. "The Leeson trail
is the right one. It's a good trail, an' I know most every inch of it.
You was set comin' round through the hills. Guessed you'd had enough
prairie on the railroad. It's up to you. Howsum, we'll make somewheres
by nightfall. Seems to me I got a notion o' that hill, yonder. That
one, out there," he went on, pointing with his whip at a bald, black
cone rising in the distance against the sky. "That kind o' seems like
the peak o' Devil's Hill. I ain't jest sure, but it seems like."
Mercy looked in the direction. Her eyes were more angry than anxious,
yet anxiety was her principal feeling.
"I hope to goodness it is. Devil's Hill. A nice name. That's where the
camp is, isn't it? I wish you'd hurry on."
The teamster spat over the dashboard. A grim smile crept into his
eyes. His passenger had worried him with troublesome questions all
the journey, and he had long since given up cursing his boss for
sending him on the job.
"'Tain't no use," he said shortly. Then he explained. "Y' see, it 'ud
be easy droppin' over the side of this. Guess you ain't yearnin' fer
glory that way?"
"We'll never get in at this pace," the woman cried impatiently.
But the teamster was losing patience, too. Suddenly he became very
polite, and his pale blue eyes smiled mischievously down upon his
horses' backs.
"Guess we don't need to hurry a heap, ma'm," he said. "Y' see, in
these hills you never can tell. Now we're headin' fer that yer canyon.
Maybe the trail ends right ther'."
"Good gracious, man, then what are we going to do?"
"Do? Why, y' see, ma'm, we'll have to break a fresh trail--if that
dogone holler ain't one o' them bottomless muskegs," he added
thoughtfully.
He flicked his whip and spat again. His passenger's voice rose to a
sharp staccato.
"Then for goodness' sake why go on?" she demanded.
"Wal, y' see, you can't never tell till you get ther' in these hills.
Maybe that canyon is a river, an' if so the entrance to it's nigh sure
a muskeg. A bottomless muskeg. You seen 'em, ain't you? No? Wal,
they're swamps, an' if we get into one, why, I guess ther's jest Hail
Columby, or some other fool thing waitin' for us at the bottom. Still
ther' mayn't be no muskeg. As I sez, you never can tell, tho' ther'
most gener'ly is. Mebbe that's jest a blank wall without no trail.
Mebbe this trail ends at a sheer drop of a few hundred feet an' more.
Mebbe agin the trail peters out 'fore we get ther'. That's the way in
these yer hills, ma'm; you never can tell if you get lost. An' gittin'
lost is so mighty easy. Course we ain't likely to starve till we've
eat up these yer dogone ol' hosses. Never eaten hoss? No? 'Tain't so
bad. Course water's easy, if you don't light on one o' them fever
swamps. Mountain fever's pretty bad. Still, I don't guess we'll git
worried that way, ma'm. I'd sure say you're pretty tough fer mountain
fever to git a holt of. It's the time that's the wust. It might take
us weeks gittin' out,--once you git lost proper. But even so I don't
guess ther's nothin' wuss than timber wolves to worry us. They're
mean. Y' see they're nigh allus starvin'--or guess they are. B'ars
don't count a heap, less you kind o' run into 'em at breedin' season.
Le's see, this is August. No, 'tain't breedin' season." He sighed as
if relieved. Then he stirred quickly and glanced round, his face
perfectly serious. "Guess you got a gun? It's allus good to hev a gun
round. You never ken tell in these yer hills--when you git lost
proper."
"Oh, you're a perfect fool. Go on with your driving." Mercy sat back
in her seat fuming, while the teamster sighed, gently smiling down at
his horses.
"Mebbe you're right, ma'm," he said amiably. "These dogone hills makes
fools o' most fellers, when they git lost proper--as I'd sure say we
are now."
But the man had achieved his object. The woman desisted from further
questioning. She sat quite still, conscious of the unpleasant fact
that the man was laughing at her, and also perfectly aware that his
incompetence was responsible for the fact that they were utterly lost
amongst the wild hills about them.
She was very angry. Angry with the man, angry with herself, for not
being guided by the hotel keeper at Crowsfoot, but more than all she
was angry with Joan for bidding her make the journey.
Yet she had been unable to resist the girl's appeal. Her inability was
not from any sentimental feeling or sympathy. Such feelings could
never touch her. But the appeal of the manner in which her curse still
followed the girl, and the details she had read through the lines of
her letter, a letter detailing the circumstances of her life on Yellow
Creek, and written under the impulse and hope inspired by the Padre's
support had given her the keenest interest. All the mystical side of
her nature had been stirred in a manner she could not deny, had no
desire to deny.
Yes, she had come to investigate, to observe, to seek the truth of her
own pronouncement. She had come without scruple, to watch their
effect. To weigh them in the balance of her scientific mysticism. She
had come to watch the struggles of the young girl in the toils which
enveloped her. Her mind was the diseased mind of the fanatic, prompted
by a nature in which cruelty held chief place.
But now had come this delay. Such was her nature that personal danger
ever appalled her. Death and disaster in the abstract were nothing to
her, but their shadows brushing her own person was something more than
terrifying. And as she thought of the immensity of the world about
her, the gloom, the awful hush, the spirit of the hills got hold of
her and left her full of apprehension.
The teamster now devoted his whole attention to his whereabouts. His
passenger's interminable questioning silenced, he felt more at his
ease. And feeling at his ease he was able to bring his prairie-trained
faculties to bear on the matter in hand. As they progressed down the
slope he closely observed the tall, distant crown which he thought he
recognized, and finally made up his mind that his estimate was right.
It certainly was the cone crown of Devil's Hill. Thus his certainty
now only left him concerned with the ultimate development of the trail
they were on.
It was quite impossible to tell what that might be. The road seemed to
be making directly for the mouth of the canyon, and yet all his
experience warned him that such a destination would be unusual. It
must turn away. Yet where? How?
He searched ahead on the hillside above him for a modification of its
slope. And a long way ahead he fancied he detected such an indication.
But even so, the modification was so slight that there seemed little
enough hope.
He kept on with dogged persistence. To return was not to be thought of
yet. Any approach to vacillation now would be quite fatal.
The trail was fading out to little more than a double cattle track,
and the farther he looked along it the more indistinct it seemed to
become. Yet it continued, and the ever downward slope went on, and on.
His anxious eyes were painfully alert. Where? Where? He was asking
himself with every jog of his weary horses. Then all of a sudden his
questions ceased, and a decided relief leapt into his eyes as he drew
his horses up to a halt.
He turned to his passenger and pointed with his whip at the hill
abreast of them, his eyes undoubtedly witnessing his relief.
"See that, ma'm?" he cried. And Mercy beheld a narrow, rough flight of
steps cut in the face of the hill. Each step was deliberately
protected with a timber facing securely staked against "washouts," and
though the workmanship was rough it was evidently the handiwork of men
who thought only of endurance. It rose from the trail-side in a
slanting direction, and, adopting the easiest course on the slope,
wound its way to the very crown of the hill, over the top of which it
vanished.
"Well?"
The woman's inquiry was ungracious enough.
"Why, that's the meanin' o' this yer trail." The man pointed above.
"That sure leads somewheres."
"I suppose it does."
Mercy snapped her reply.
"Sure," said the man. "There's shelter up ther', anyways. An' by the
looks o' them steps I'd say folks is livin' ther' right now."
"Then for goodness' sake go up and see, and don't sit there wasting
time. I never had to deal with such a perfect fool in my life. Pass
the reins over to me, and I'll wait here."
The man grinned. But instead of handing her the reins he secured them
to the iron rail of the cart.
"Guess them hosses know best wot to do 'emselves," he observed
quietly, as he scrambled from the cart. "Best let 'em stand
theirselves, ma'm,--you never know wot's along the end of that
trail--muskegs is----" His final jibe was lost in a deep-throated
chuckle as he began the steep ascent before him.
Mercy watched him with angry eyes. The man added impertinence to his
foolishness, and the combination was altogether too much for her
temper. But for the fact that she required his services, she would
well have wished that he might fall and break his neck. But her chief
concern was to reach her destination, so she watched him climb the
long steps in the hope that some comforting result might follow.
As the man rose higher and higher, and his figure grew smaller, his
climb possessed an even greater interest for Mercy Lascelles than she
admitted. She began to appreciate the peril of it, and peril, in
others, always held her fascinated.
He was forced to move slowly, clinging closely with both hands to the
steps above him. It would be easy to slip and fall, and she waited for
that fall. She waited with nerves straining and every faculty alert.
So absorbed was she that she had forgotten the horses, forgotten her
own position, everything, in the interest of the moment. Had it been
otherwise, she must have noticed that something had attracted the
drooping horses' attention. She must have observed the suddenly lifted
heads, and pricked ears. But these things passed her by, as did the
approach of a solitary figure bearing a burden of freshly taken fox
pelts, which quite enveloped its massive shoulders.
The man was approaching round a slight bend in the trail, and the
moment the waiting cart came into view, he stood, startled at the
apparition. Then he whistled softly, and glanced back over the road he
had come. He looked at a narrow point where the trail suddenly ended,
a sharp break where the cliff dropped away abruptly, and further
progress could only be made by an exhausting downward climb by a
skilled mountaineer.
Then he came slowly on, his gray eyes closely scrutinizing the figure
in the cart. In a moment he saw that it was a woman, and, by her
drooping pose, recognized that she was by no means young. His eyes
took on a curious expression--half doubt, half wonder, and his face
grew a shade paler under his tan. But the change only lasted a few
seconds. He quickly pulled himself together, and, shaking his white
head thoughtfully, continued his way toward the vehicle with the
noiseless gait which moccasins ever give to the wearer. He reached the
cart quite unobserved. The woman's whole attention was absorbed by the
climbing man, and the newcomer smiled curiously as he passed a
greeting.
"You've hit a wrong trail, haven't you?" he inquired.
The woman in the cart gave a frantic start, and clutched at the side
rail as though for support. Then her eyes came on a level with the
man's smiling face, and fear gave way to a sudden expression of
relentless hatred.
"You?" she cried, and her lean figure seemed to crouch as though about
to spring.
The man returned her stare without flinching. His eyes still wore
their curious smile.
"Yes," he said. "It is I."
The woman's lips moved. She swallowed as though her throat had
suddenly become parched.
"Moreton Bucklaw," she murmured. "And--and after all these years."
The man nodded. Then several moments passed without a word.
Finally it was the man who spoke. His manner was calm, so calm that
no one could have guessed a single detail of what lay between these
two, or the significance of their strange meeting.
"You've hit a bad trail," he said. "There's a big drop back there.
These steps go on up to my home. The old fort. They're an old short
cut to this valley. Guess your man'll need to unhitch his horses and
turn the cart round. He can't get it round else. Then, if you go back
past the shoulder of the hill, you'll see an old track, sharp to your
right. That leads into the trail that'll take you right on down to the
farm where little Joan lives." He moved toward the steps. "I'll tell
your man," he said.
He mounted the steps with the ease of familiarity, his great muscles
making the effort appear ridiculously easy. A little way up he paused,
and looked down at her.
"Guess I shall see you again?" he said, with the same curious smile in
his steady eyes.
And the woman's reply came sharply up the hillside to him. It came
with all the pent-up hatred of years, concentrated into one sentence.
The hard eyes were alight with a cold fury, which, now, in her
advancing years, when the freshness and beauty that had once been hers
could no longer soften them, was not without its effect upon the man.
"Yes. You will see me again, Moreton Bucklaw."
And the man continued the ascent with a feeling as though he had
listened to the pronouncement of his death sentence.