The Forester's Daughter Part 16

When he returned he found the girl full dressed, alert, and glowing; but she greeted him with a touch of shyness and self-consciousness new to her, and her eyes veiled themselves before his glance.

"_Now_, where do you suppose the Supervisor is?" he asked.

"I hope he's at home," she replied, quite seriously. "I'd hate to think of him camped in the high country without bedding or tent."

"Oughtn't I to take a turn up the trail and see? I feel guilty somehow--I must do something!"

"You can't help matters any by hoofing about in the mud. No, we'll just hold the fort till he comes, that's what he'll expect us to do."

He submitted once more to the force of her argument, and they ate breakfast in such intimacy and good cheer that the night's discomforts and anxieties counted for little. As the sun broke through the clouds Berrie hung out the bedding in order that its dampness might be warmed away.

"We may have to camp here again to-night," she explained, demurely.

"Worse things could happen than that," he gallantly answered. "I wouldn't mind a month of it, only I shouldn't want it to rain or snow all the time."

"Poor boy! You did suffer, didn't you? I was afraid you would. Did you sleep at all?" she asked, tenderly.

"Oh yes, after I came inside; but, of course, I was more or less restless expecting your father to ride up, and then it's all rather exciting business to a novice. I could hear all sorts of birds and beasts stepping and fluttering about. I was scared in spite of my best resolution."

"That's funny; I never feel that way. I slept like a log after I knew you were comfortable. You must have a better bed and more blankets. It's always cold up here."

The sunlight was short-lived. The clouds settled over the peaks, and ragged wisps of gray vapor dropped down the timbered slopes of the prodigious amphitheater in which the lake lay. Again Berrie made everything snug while her young woodsman toiled at bringing logs for the fire.

In truth, he was more elated than he had been since leaving school, for he was not only doing a man's work in the world, he was serving a woman in the immemorial way of the hewer of wood and the carrier of water. His fatigue and the chill of the morning wore away, and he took vast pride in dragging long poles down the hillside, forcing Berrie to acknowledge that he was astonis.h.i.+ngly strong. "But don't overdo it," she warned.

At last fully provided for, they sat contentedly side by side under the awning and watched the falling rain as it splashed and sizzled on the st.u.r.dy fire. "It's a little like being s.h.i.+pwrecked on a desert island, isn't it?" he said. "As if our boats had drifted away."

At noon she again prepared an elaborate meal. She served potatoes and grouse, hot biscuit with sugar syrup, and canned peaches, and coffee done to just the right color and aroma. He declared it wonderful, and they ate with repeated wishes that the Supervisor might turn up in time to share their feast; but he did not. Then Berrie said, firmly: "Now you must take a snooze, you look tired."

He was, in truth, not only drowsy but lame and tired. Therefore, he yielded to her suggestion.

She covered him with blankets and put him away like a child. "Now you have a good sleep," she said, tenderly. "I'll call you when daddy comes."

With a delicious sense of her protecting care he lay for a few moments listening to the drip of the water on the tent, then drifted away into peace and silence.

When he woke the ground was again covered with snow, and the girl was feeding the fire with wood which her own hands had supplied.

Hearing him stir, she turned and fixed her eyes upon him with clear, soft gaze. "How do you feel by now?" she asked.

"Quite made over," he replied, rising alertly.

His cheer, however, was only pretense. He was greatly worried. "Something has happened to your father," he said. "His horse has thrown him, or he has slipped and fallen." His peace and exultation were gone. "How far is it down to the ranger station?"

"About twelve miles."

"Don't you think we'd better close camp and go down there? It is now three o'clock; we can walk it in five hours."

She shook her head. "No, I think we'd better stay right here. It's a long, hard walk, and the trail is muddy."

"But, dear girl," he began, desperately, "it won't do for us to camp here--alone--in this way another night. What will Cliff say?"

She flamed red, then whitened. "I don't care what Cliff thinks--I'm done with him--and no one that I really care about would blame us." She was fully aware of his anxiety now. "It isn't our fault."

"It will be _my_ fault if I keep you here longer!" he answered. "We must reach a telephone and send word out. Something may have happened to your father."

"I'm not worried a bit about him. It may be that there's been a big snowfall up above us--or else a windstorm. The trail may be blocked; but don't worry. He may have to go round by Lost Lake pa.s.s." She pondered a moment. "I reckon you're right. We'd better pack up and rack down the trail to the ranger's cabin. Not on my account, but on yours. I'm afraid you've taken cold."

"I'm all right, except I'm very lame; but I am anxious to go on. By the way, is this ranger Settle married?"

"No, his station is one of the lonesomest cabins on the forest. No woman will stay there."

This made Wayland ponder. "Nevertheless," he decided, "we'll go. After all, the man is a forest officer, and you are the Supervisor's daughter."

She made no further protest, but busied herself closing the panniers and putting away the camp utensils. She seemed to recognize that his judgment was sound.

It was after three when they left the tent and started down the trail, carrying nothing but a few toilet articles.

He stopped at the edge of the clearing. "Should we have left a note for the Supervisor?"

She pointed to their footprints. "There's all the writing he needs," she a.s.sured him, leading the way at a pace which made him ache. She plashed plumply into the first puddle in the path. "No use dodging 'em," she called over her shoulder, and he soon saw that she was right.

The trees were dripping, the willows heavy with water, and the mud ankle-deep--in places--but she pushed on steadily, and he, following in her tracks, could only marvel at her strength and st.u.r.dy self-reliance.

The swing of her shoulders, the poise of her head, and the lithe movement of her waist, made his own body seem a poor thing.

For two hours they zigzagged down a narrow canon heavily timbered with fir and spruce--a dark, stern avenue, crossed by roaring streams, and filled with frequent boggy meadows whereon the water lay mid-leg deep.

"We'll get out of this very soon," she called, cheerily.

By degrees the gorge widened, grew more open, more genial. Aspen thickets of pale-gold flashed upon their eyes like sunlight, and gra.s.sy bunches afforded firmer footing, but on the slopes their feet slipped and slid painfully. Still Berea kept her stride. "We must get to the middle fork before dark," she stopped to explain, "for I don't know the trail down there, and there's a lot of down timber just above the station. Now that we're cut loose from our camp I feel nervous. As long as I have a tent I am all right; but now we are in the open I worry. How are you standing it?" She studied him with keen and anxious glance, her hand upon his arm.

"Fine as a fiddle," he replied, a.s.suming a spirit he did not possess, "but you are marvelous. I thought cowgirls couldn't walk?"

"I can do anything when I have to," she replied. "We've got three hours more of it." And she warningly exclaimed: "Look back there!"

They had reached a point from which the range could be seen, and behold it was covered deep with a seamless robe of new snow.

"That's why dad didn't get back last night. He's probably wallowing along up there this minute." And she set off again with resolute stride.

Wayland's pale face and labored breath alarmed her. She was filled with love and pity, but she pressed forward desperately.

As he grew tired, Wayland's boots, loaded with mud, became fetters, and every slope greasy with mire seemed an almost insurmountable barricade.

He fell several times, but made no outcry. "I will not add to her anxiety," he said to himself.

At last they came to the valley floor, over which a devastating fire had run some years before, and which was still covered with fallen trees in desolate confusion. Here the girl made her first mistake. She kept on toward the river, although Wayland called attention to a trail leading to the right up over the low gra.s.sy hills. For a mile the path was clear, but she soon found herself confronted by an endless maze of blackened tree-trunks, and at last the path ended abruptly.

Dismayed and halting, she said: "We've got to go back to that trail which branched off to the right. I reckon that was the highland trail which Settle made to keep out of the swamp. I thought it was a trail from Cameron Peak, but it wasn't. Back we go."

She was suffering keenly now, not on her own account, but on his, for she could see that he was very tired, and to climb up that hill again was like punis.h.i.+ng him a second time.

When she picked up the blazed trail it was so dark that she could scarcely follow it; but she felt her way onward, turning often to be sure that he was following. Once she saw him fall, and cried out: "It's a shame to make you climb this hill again. It's all my fault. I ought to have known that that lower road led down into the timber."