The Man of the Forest

CHAPTER IX

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!”