THE FLAMING SWORD
The question of food ever arose for settlement, and early the next
morning I set out upon a short exploring expedition through our new
country, to learn what I might of its resources. There were trout in our
little mountain stream, and although we had no hooks or lines I managed
to take a few of these in my hands, chasing them under the stones. Also
I found many berries now beginning to ripen, and as the forest growth
offered us new supplies, I gathered certain barks, thinking that we
might make some sort of drink, medicinal if not pleasant. Tracks of deer
were abundant; I saw a few antelope, and supposed that possibly these
bolder slopes might hold mountain sheep. None of these smaller animals
was so useful to us as the buffalo, for each would cost as much
expenditure of precious ammunition, and yield less return in bulk. I
shook the bullet pouch at my belt, and found it light. We had barely two
dozen bullets left; and few hunters would promise themselves over a
dozen head of big game for twice as many shots.
I cast about me in search of red cedar that I might make a bow. I
searched the willow thicket for arrow shafts, and prowled among little
flints and pointed stones on the shores of our stream, seeking arrow
points. It finally appeared to me that we might rest here for a time and
be fairly safe to make a living in some way. Then, as I was obliged to
admit, we would need to hurry on to the southward.
But again fate had its way with us, setting aside all plans. When I
returned to our encampment, instead of seeing Ellen come out to meet me
as I expected, I found her lying in the shade of the little tepee.
"You are hurt!" I cried. "What has happened?"
"My foot," said she, "I think it is broken!" She was unable to stand.
As she could, catching her breath, she told me how this accident had
happened. Walking along the stony creek bank, she had slipped, and her
moccasined foot, caught in the narrow crack between two rocks, had been
held fast as she fell forward. It pained her now almost unbearably.
Tears stood in her eyes.
So now it was my term to be surgeon. Tenderly as I might, I examined the
foot, now badly swollen and rapidly becoming discolored. In spite of her
protest--although I know it hurt me more than herself--I flexed the
joints and found the ankle at least safe. Alas! a little grating in the
smaller bones, just below the instep, told me of a fracture.
"Ellen," said I to her, "the foot is broken here--two bones, I think,
are gone."
She sank back upon her robe with an exclamation as much of horror as
pain.
"What shall we do!" she murmured. "I shall be crippled! I cannot
walk--we shall perish!"
"No," I said to her, "we shall mend it. In time you will not know it has
happened." Thus we gave courage to each other.
All that morning I poured water from a little height upon the bared
foot, so that presently the inflammation and the pain lessened. Then I
set out to secure flat splints and some soft bark, and so presently
splintered and bound the foot, skillfully as I knew how; and this must
have brought the broken bones in good juxtaposition, for at least I know
that eventually nature was kind enough to heal this hurt and leave no
trace of it.
Now, when she was thus helpless and suffering, needing all her strength,
how could I find it in my heart to tell her that secret which it was my
duty to tell? How could I inflict upon her a still more poignant
suffering than this physical one? Each morning I said to myself,
"To-day, if she is better, I will tell her of Grace Sheraton; she must
know." But each time I saw her face I could not tell her.
Each day she placed a clean white pebble in a little pile at her side.
Presently there were seven.
"John Cowles," she said to me that morning, "bring me our writing, and
bring me my pen. To-day I must sign another letter." And, smiling, she
did so, looking up into my face with love showing on her own. Had the
charcoal been living flame, and had she written on my bare heart, she
could not have hurt me more.
Of course, all the simple duties of our life now devolved upon myself. I
must hunt, and keep the camp, and cook, and bring the fuel; so that much
of the time I was by necessity away from her. Feverishly I explored all
our little valley and exulted that here nature was so kind to us. I
trapped hares in little runways. I made me a bow and some arrows, and
very often I killed stupid grouse with these or even with stones or
sticks, as they sat in the trees; and in bark baskets that I made I
brought home many berries, now beginning to ripen fully. Roots and
bulbs as I found them I experimented with, though not with much success.
Occasionally I found fungi which made food. Flowers also I brought to
her, flowers of the early autumn, because now the snows were beginning
to come down lower on the mountains. In two months winter would be upon
us. In one month we would have snow in the valley.
The little pile of white stones at her side again grew, slowly, slowly.
Letter by letter her name grew invisible form on the scroll of our
covenant--her name, already written, and more deeply, on my heart. On
the fifth week she called once more for her charcoal pen, and signed the
last letter of her Christian name!
"See, there," she said, "it is all my girl name, E-l-l-e-n." I looked at
it, her hand in mine.
"'Ellen!'" I murmured. "It is signature enough, because you are the only
Ellen in the world." But she put away my hand gently and said, "Wait."
She asked me now to get her some sort of cut branch for a crutch, saying
she was going to walk. And walk she did, though resting her foot very
little on the ground. After that, daily she went farther and farther,
watched me as I guddled for trout in the stream, aided me as I picked
berries in the thickets, helped me with the deer I brought into camp.
"You are very good to me," she said, "and you hunt well. You work. You
are a man, John Cowles. I love you."
[Illustration: 'OUT THAR IN CALIFORNY THE HILLS ARE FULL OF GOLD']
But hearing words so sweet as these to me, still I did not tell her what
secret was in my soul. Each day I said to myself that presently she
would be strong enough to bear it, and that then I would tell her. Each
day that other world seemed vaguer and farther away. But each day passed
and I could not speak. Each day it seemed less worth while to speak. Now
I could not endure the thought of losing her. I say that I could not.
Let none judge me too harshly who have not known the full measure of
this world and that.
There was much sign of bears in our thickets, and I warned her not to go
out alone after berries where these long-footed beasts now fed
regularly. Sometimes we went there together, with our vessels of bark,
and filled them slowly, as she hobbled along. Our little dog was now
always with us, having become far more tamed and docile with us than is
ever the case of an Indian dog in savagery. One day we wandered in a
dense berry thicket, out of which rose here and there chokecherry trees,
and we began to gather some of these sour fruits for use in the pemmican
which we planned to manufacture. All at once we came to a spot where the
cherry trees were torn down, pulled over, ripped up by the roots. The
torn earth was very fresh, and I knew that the bear that had done the
work could not be far away.
All at once our dog began to growl and erect his hair, sniffing not at
the foot scent, but looking directly into the thicket just ahead. He
began then to bark, and as he did so there rose, with a sullen sort of
grunt and a champing of jaws like a great hog, a vast yellow-gray
object, whose head topped the bushes that grew densely all about. The
girl at my side uttered a cry of terror and turned to run as best she
might, but she fell, and lay there cowering.
The grizzly stood looking at me vindictively with little eyes, its ears
back, its jaws working, its paws swinging loosely at its side, the claws
white at the lower end, as though newly sharpened for slaughtering. I
saw then that it was angered by the sight of the dog, and would not
leave us. Each moment I expected to hear it crash through the bush in
its charge. Once down in the brush, there would be small chance of
delivering a fatal shot; whereas now, as it swung its broad head
slightly to one side, the best possible opportunity for killing it
presented itself immediately. Without hesitation I swung up the heavy
barrel, and drew the small silver bead directly on the base of the ear,
where the side bones of a bear's head are flatter and thinner, directly
alongside the brain. The vicious crack of the rifle sounded loud there
in the thicket; but there came no answer in response to it save a
crashing and slipping and a breaking down of the bushes as the vast
carcass fell at full length. The little ball had done its work and found
the brain.
I knew the bear was dead, but for a time did not venture closely. I
looked about and saw the girl slowly rising on her elbow, her face
uncovered now, but white in terror. I motioned for her to lie still, and
having reloaded, I pushed quietly through the undergrowth. I saw a vast
gray, grizzled heap lying there, shapeless, motionless. Then I shouted
aloud and went back and picked her up and carried her through the broken
thicket, and placed her on the dead body of the grizzly, seating myself
at her side.
We were two savages, successful now in the chase--successful, indeed, in
winning the capital prize of all savages; for few Indians will attack
the grizzly if it can be avoided. She laid her hand wonderingly upon the
barrel of the rifle, looking at it curiously, that it had been so deadly
as to slay a creature so vast as this. Then she leaned contentedly
against my side, and so we sat there for a time. "John Cowles," she
said, "you are brave. You are very much a man. I am not afraid when you
are with me." I put my arm about her. The world seemed wild and fair and
sweet to me. Life, savage, stern, swept through all my veins.
The skinning of the bear was a task of some moment, and as we did this
we exulted that we would now have so fine a robe. The coarse meat we
could not use, but the fat I took off in flakes and strips, and hung
upon the bushes around us for later carrying into camp. In this work she
assisted me, hobbling about as best she might.
We were busy at this, both of us greasy and bloody to our elbows, when
all at once we stopped and looked at each other in silence. We had heard
a sound. To me it sounded like a rifle shot. We listened. It came again,
with others. There was a volley of several shots, sounds certain beyond
any manner of question.
My heart stopped. She looked at me, some strange thought written upon
her face. It was not joy, nor exultation, nor relief. Her eyes were
large and startled. There was no smile on her face. These things I
noted. I caught her bloody hand in my bloody one, and for an instant I
believed we both meditated flight deeper into the wilderness. Yet I
reasoned that since these shots were fired on our trail, we must be in
all likelihood found in any case, even were these chance hunters coming
into our valley, and not a party searching for us.
"It may not be any one we know," I said. "It may be Indians."
"No," said she, "it is my father. They have found us. We must go!
John"--she turned toward me and put her hands on my breast--"John!" I
saw terror, and regret, and resolve look out of her eyes, but not joy
at this deliverance. No, it was not joy that shone in her eyes. None the
less, the ancient yoke of society being offered, we bowed our necks
again, fools and slaves, surrendering freedom, joy, content, as though
that were our duty.