Part 12

He let the children go and began eating.

"This is good," said he, "and I feel like blessing every one of you. Sometimes I think God looks out of the eyes of the hungry."

After a moment he added: "Strong, do you remember that song I wrote for you? It gives the signs of the seasons. I believe we called it 'The Song of the Venison-Tree.'"

The Emperor looked thoughtfully at the fire and in a moment began to sing. It is a curious fact that many who stammer can follow the rut of familiar music without betraying their infirmity. His tongue moved at an easy pace in the song of

THE VENISON-TREE

As the Emperor ceased, Dunmore turned quickly, his black eyes glowing in the firelight. Raising his right hand above his head, he chanted these lines:

"The wilderness shall pass away like Babylon of old,

And every tree shall go to build a thing of greater mould;

The chopper he shall fall to earth as fell the mighty tree,

And his timber shall be used to build a nobler man than he."

"Wh-what do ye mean by his t-timber?" Strong asked.

"His character," Dunmore answered. "Men are like trees. Some are hickory, some are oak, some are cedar, some are only basswood. Some are strong, beautiful, generous; some are small and sickly for want of air and sunlight; some are as selfish and quarrelsome as a thorn-tree. Every year we must draw energy out of the great breast of nature and put on a fresh ring of wood. We must grow or die. You know what comes to the rotten-hearted?"

"Uh-huh," said the hunter.

"There's good timber enough in you and in that little book of yours," Dunmore went on. "If it's only milled with judgment--some of it would stand planing and polishing--there's enough, my friend, to make a mansion. Believe me, it will not be lost."

Strong looked very thoughtful. He shook his head. "Ain't nothin' b-but a woodpecker's drum," he answered. After a moment of silence he asked, "What'll become o' the country?"

"Without forests it will go the way of Egypt and Asia Minor," said the white-haired man. "They were thickly wooded in the day of their power. Now what are they? Desert wastes!" Dunmore rose and filled his lungs, and added: "As you said to me one day, 'People are no better than the air they breathe.' There's going to be nothing but cities, and slowly they will devour our substance. Indigestion, weakness, impotency, degeneration will follow.

"Strong, I'm already on the downward path. Half a day's walk has undone me. I'll get to bed and go home in the morning."

XXVII

DUNMORE was up at daybreak. He set out in the dusk and, as the sun rose, entered the hollow of Catamount. Master met him on the trail.

They greeted each other. Then said the young man, "I have something to say regarding one very dear to me and to you."

Promptly and almost aggressively the query came, "Regarding whom?"

"Your daughter."

Dunmore took a staggering step and stopped and looked sternly at Master.

"I met her by chance--" the other began to say. Dunmore interrupted him.

"I will not speak with you of my daughter," he said. He turned away, frowning, and resumed his journey.

"You are unjust to her and to me," said Master. "You have no right to imprison the girl."

The white-haired man hurried on his way and made no answer.

Master had seen a strange look come into the eyes of Dunmore. That trouble, of which he had once heard, might have gone deeper than any one knew. It might have left him a little out of balance.

Full of alarm, the young lover hastened to Lost River camp. He found his friend at the spring and told of his ill luck. Without a word Strong killed the big trout which he had taken that day he fished with the pouters.

"D-didn't tell him 'bout that t-trout," he said to Master as he wrapped the fish in ferns and flung him into his pack. "Th-thought I b-better wait an' s-see."

He asked the young man to "keep cool," and made off in the trail to Buckhorn.

Always when starting on a journey he reckoned his task and set his pace accordingly and kept it up hill and down. He was wont to take an easy, swinging stride even though he was loaded heavily. Woodsmen who followed him used to say that he could bear "weight an' misery like a bob-sled." That day he lengthened his usual stride a little and calculated to "fetch up" with Dunmore about a mile from Buckhorn. The older man had hurried, however, and was nearing the pond when Strong overtook him.

"What now?" Dunmore inquired.

"B-business," was the cheerful answer of Strong.

"It'll be part of it to paddle me across the pond. I'm tired," said the other.

They walked in silence to the shore. Strong launched a canoe and held it for the white-haired man. Without a word he pulled to the camp veranda where Dunmore's mother and daughter stood waiting. The old gentleman climbed the steps and greeted the two with great tenderness.

"Snares!" he muttered, as he touched the brow of his daughter. "The devil is setting snares for my little nun."

Edith and her grandmother went into the house. Dunmore sat down with a stem, troubled look.

"Got s-suthin' fer you," said Strong as he held up the big fish. "C'ris'mus p-present!"

Dunmore turned to the hunter, and instantly a smile seemed to brush the shadows from his wrinkled face.

"It's your t-trout," the Emperor added. "S-see there!"

He opened the jaws of the fish and showed the encysted remnant of a black gnat.

"Bring him here," Dunmore entreated, with a look of delight.

Strong mounted the steps and put the trout in his hands.

"Sit down and tell me how and where you got him," said Dunmore.

Strong told the story of his capture, and the old gentleman was transported to that familiar place in the midst of the quick-water. The Emperor had not finished his account when the other interrupted him. Dunmore told of days, forever memorable, when he had leaned over the bank and seen his flies come hurtling up the current; of moments when he had heard the splash of the big trout and felt his line hauling; of repeated struggles which had ended in defeat. The white-haired man was in his best humor. Strong saw his opportunity.

"I w-want a favor," said he.

Dunmore turned with a look of inquiry. The Emperor urged his lazy tongue.

"Master w-wants t' go t' Albany an' f-fight them air cussed ballhooters. W-wisht you'd g-go out to caucus."

A "ballhooter" was a man who rolled logs, and Strong used the word in a metaphorical sense.

"I don't vote," said Dunmore, and in half a moment he added just what the Emperor had hoped for:

"What do you know about him?"

"He's a g-gentleman--an' his f-father's a gentleman."

A moment of silence followed.

"He's the b-best chap that ever c-come to my camp," Strong added.

Dunmore came close to the Emperor and spoke in a low tone.

"Tell him," said he, "that I send apologies for my rudeness--he will understand you. Tell him to let us alone awhile. I have been foolish, but I am changing. Tell him if marriage is in his mind I cannot now bear to think of it. But I will try--"

Dunmore paused, looking down thoughtfully, his hand over his mouth.

"I will try," he repeated, in a whisper, "and, if he will let us alone, some day I may ask you to bring him here. You tell him to be wise and keep away."

Strong nodded, with full understanding of all that lay behind the message.

The old lady came out of the door and that ended their interview. She spoke to Strong with a kindly query as to his sister, and then came a great surprise for him.

"I wish she would come and visit me," said the old lady. "And I would love also to see those little children."

Dunmore took the hand of his mother and no word was spoken for half a moment.

"It's a good idea," he said, thoughtfully. Then, turning to Strong, he added: "We shall ask them to come soon. I shall want to see those children again."

In the moment of silence that followed he thought of those little people--of how they had begun to soften his heart and prepare him for what had come.

The Emperor paddled back to the landing and returned to Lost River camp.

XXVIII

MASTER accepted the counsel of his friend and kept away from Buckhom. He was, at least, relieved of the dark fears which Dunmore's angry face had imparted to him. He left camp to look after his canvass and was gone a fortnight. Strong had promised to let him know if any word came down the trail from their neighbors. The young man returned to his little shanty at Catamount and suffered there a sublime sort of loneliness. The silence of Dunmore seemed to fill the woods. Every day Master went to Birch Cove and wandered through the deer trails. Every graceful thing in the still woods reminded him of her beauty and every bird-song had the music of her voice in it. He began to think of her as the embodied spirit of the woodland. She was like Strong himself, but Strong was the great pine-tree while she was like the young, white birches.

One bright morning--it was nearly a month after Strong had returned from Buckhom---Sinth put on her best clothes and started for the camp of Dunmore alone. The Emperor had gone away with some fishermen and Master with the children.

Sinth had said nothing of her purpose. Her heart was in the cause of the young people, and she had waited long enough for developments. The injustice and the folly of Dunmore filled her with indignation. She had her own private notion of what she was going to say, if necessary, and was of no mind to "mince matters."

She stood for a few moments at the landing on Buckhom and waved her handkerchief. The old lady saw her and sent the colored manservant to fetch her across. Dunmore and his mother welcomed her at the veranda steps.

"My land! So you're Mis' Dunmore!" said Sinth, coolly, as she took a chair and glanced about her.

"Yes, and very glad to see you.".

"An' you've stayed fifteen years in this camp?"

The old lady nodded. "It's a long time," said she.

"It's a wonder ye ain't all dead--livin' here on the bank of a pond like a lot o' mushrats!" Sinth went on. "Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t' be 'shamed o' yerself. Heavens an' earth! I never heard o' nothin' so unhuman."

A moment of silence followed. Dunmore smiled. He had never been talked to in that way. The droll frankness of the woman amused him.

"I mean jest what I say an' more too," Sinth went on. "You 'ain't done right, an' if you can't see it you 'ain't got common-sense. My stars! I don't care how much trouble you've had. A man that can't take his pack full o' trouble an' keep agoin' is a purty poor stick. I know what 'tis to be disapp'inted. Good gracious me! you needn't think you're the only one that ever got hurt. The Lord has took away ev'rything I loved 'cept one. He 'ain't left me nothin' but a brother an' a weak back an' lots o' work t' do, an' a pair o' hands an' feet an' a head like a turnup. He's blessed you in a thousan' ways. He's gi'n ye health an' strength an' talents an' a? gal that's more like an angel than a human bein', an' you don't do nothin' but set aroun' here an' sulk an' write portry!"

Sinth gave her dress a flirt and flung a look of unspeakable contempt at him. The face of Dunmore grew serious. Her honesty had, somehow, disarmed the man--it was like the honesty of his own conscience. There had been a note of strange authority in her voice--like that which had come to him now and then out of the depths of his own spirit.

"Suppose every one that got a taste o' trouble was t' fly mad like a little boy an' say he wouldn't play no more," Sinth went on. "My land! we wouldn't be no better than a lot o' cats an' dogs that's all fit out an' hid under a barn! Cyrus Dunmore, you act like a little boy. You won't play yerself an' ye won't let these women play nuther. You're as selfish as a bear. You 'ain't got no right t' keep 'em here, an' if you don't know it you better go t' school somewhere. Now there's my mind right out plain an' square."

She rearranged her Paisley shawl with a little squirm of indignation.

Dunmore paced up and down for half a moment, a troubled look on his face. He stopped in front of Sinth.

"Boneka, madam," said he, extending his hand.

"I forgive," said Sinth, quickly, "providin' you'll try to do better. It's nonsense to forgive any one 'less he'll quit makin' it nec'sary."

"I acknowledge here in the presence of my mother," said Dunmore, "that all you say is quite right. I have been a fool."

Sinth rose and adjusted her shawl as if to warn them that she must go.

"Wal, I'm glad you've come t' yer senses," said she, with a glance at the man. "'Tain't none o' my business, but I couldn't hold in no longer. I've fell in love with that girl o' your'n. She's as purty as a yearling doe."

"I don't know what I would have done without her," said the old lady. "Since she was a little girl she's been eyes and hands and feet for me. I fear that I'm most to blame for her imprisonment." As she talked the indignation of Sinth wore away. Soon Dunmore helped her into his canoe and set her across the pond.

"I'll find out about the young man," said he, as they parted. "He'll hear from me."

One day soon after that Dunmore began to think of the children. In spite of himself he longed to see them again. He started for the camp at Lost River, and planned while there to have a talk with Strong and Master. At Nick Pond, on his way down, he met the two Migleys.

After his interview with them he decided that he must have more information regarding the young man before going farther.

XXIX

MORE than a month had passed since the journey of Sinth to Buck-horn; but nothing had come of it. Silas, tramping with a party of fishermen, had met Dunmore one day, but the latter had stopped only for a word of greeting.

Master had left his little camp and Strong was to send for him on the arrival of important news. The candidate had canvassed every mill village among the foot-hills of the county but had found it up-hill work. Many voters had lately become bosom friends of Joe Socket, the able postmaster at Moon Lake. Once Master had wandered into the Emperor's camp with a plan to invade the stronghold of Dunmore and release the girl if, perchance, she might desire to be free. Strong had wisely turned the young man's thought from all violence. He had taken out his old memorandum-book and pointed to this entry:

_"Strong says the best thing fer a man to do in hell is kepe cool. Excitement will increase the heat."_

So a foolish purpose had ended in a laugh.

Since midsummer some rain had fallen, but not enough to slake the thirst of the dry earth. Now in the third week of September the tops were ragged and the forest floor strewn with new leaves and with great rugs of sunlight. Big, hurtling flakes of red and gold fell slowly and shook out the odors of that upper, fairy world of which Edith Dunmore had told the children.

One still, sunlit day of that week the old struggle between Satan and Silas Strong reached a critical stage. Sinth had gone for a walk with Sue and Socky, and young Migley, coming down from his camp at Nick, had found the Emperor alone. He was overhauling a boat in his little workshop. .

"Well, Colonel," said the young lumberman, "we want to know why you're fighting us."

Strong had lately gone over to the scene of his quarrel on the State land and plugged some of the pines with dynamite and posted warnings. He had rightly reckoned that thereafter the thieves would not find it easy to hire men for that job.

"You're f-fightin' me," said Strong, as he continued his work.

"How's that?"

"C-cause ye ain't honest."

"Look here, Colonel, you'd better fight for us." The young man spoke with a show of feeling. "We'd like to be friendly with you."

Strong went on with his work, but made no answer.

"We're only taking old trees that are dead or dying over there on the State land. Some of 'em are stag-headed--full of 'widow-makers,'" said Thomas Migley.

It should be explained that a big, dead branch was called a "widow-maker" by the woods folk.

"We shall obey the law and pay a fine for every stump," the young man continued. "That's square."

"N-no," said the Emperor, firmly. "That l-law was intended to p-protect the forest."

"You want us to be too -------- honest to live," said young Migley, with an oath.

"N-no. I'll t-tell ye what's the matter with y-you," said Strong. "Y-you 'ain't got no r-res-pec' fer God, country, man, er f-fish."

"You must agree to stand for us against all comers or get out of here to-morrow," the young man added.

"Th-that's quick," said Strong, as he laid down his draw-shave and looked at Thomas Migley.

"You can do as you like," said the latter. "We're willing to let you stay here as long as you want to."

Strong saw clearly that the words were a bid for his manhood. He weighed it carefully--this thing they were seeking to purchase--he thought of his sister and the children, of his talk with Master on the journey from Bees' Hill. The skin upon his forehead was now gathered into long, deep furrows. His body trembled a little as he rose and slowly crossed the floor. There was a kind of gentleness in his hand as he touched the shoulder of the young man. He spoke almost tenderly one would have thought who heard him stammer out the one word, "Run." Suddenly his big hand shut like the jaws of a bear on Migley's arm and then let go.

The young man hesitated and was rudely flung through the open door. He scrambled to his feet and made for the trail in frantic haste.

"R-run!" the Emperor shouted, in hot pursuit of young Thomas Migley, whose feet flew with ridiculous animation.

Strong stopped at the edge of the clearing. He leaned against a tree-trunk and shook his head and stammered half an oath. Soon he hurried into one of the cabins and sat down. He looked about him--at the fireplace and the mantel, at the straight, smooth timbers of young spruce, at the floor of wooden blocks, patiently fitted together, at the rustic chairs and tables, at the sheathing of riven cedar. He thought of all that these things had cost him and for a moment his eyes filled.

He went to the cook-tent and found a map and spread it on the table. He could go over on the State land, pitch a couple of tents and build a shanty with a paper roof and siding, and make out for the rest of the summer. There would be two rivers and some rather wet land to cross. For a few moments he looked thoughtfully at the map. Soon he took out his worn memorandum-book and wrote as follows:

_"Sep the 25. Strong has a poor set of feel in's in him Satans ahed but Strong will flore him."_

He took his axe and saw and went to a big birch-tree which he had felled in the edge of the clearing a few days before. He cut a twelve-foot log out of the trunk and began to hollow it. He stuck his axe when he heard Sinth and the children coming. He lifted Socky and Sue in his arms and carried them into camp.

"G-goin' t' m-move," he said to Sinth as he put them down.

"Move!" his sister exclaimed. "They're going to put us out?"

Gently, fearfully, he whispered, "Ay-uh--"

Sinth turned and hurried into the cook-tent. It was curious that she, who had raised her voice against the camp whenever a new plan had been proposed, who had seen nothing but folly, one would think, in its erection or their life in it, should now lean her head upon the table and sob as if her dearest possession had been taken away. The Emperor followed and sat down at the table, his faded crown of felt hanging over one ear--a dejected and sorrowful creature.

"D-don't," he said, tenderly.

The children stood with open mouths peering in at the door. Sinth's emotion slowly subsided.

"You've worked so, Silas," Sinth moaned, as she sat wiping her eyes. "You've had to carry ev'rything in here on your back."

After all, it had been a tender thought of him which had inspired all her scolding and her weeping. He had always known the truth, but he alone of all the many who had falsely judged her had known it. Strong sat looking down soberly in the silence that followed. His voice trembled a little when he spoke.

"G-got 'nother house," said he, calmly. His voice sank to a whisper as he added, "Couldn't b-bear t' see it t-tore down."

Failing to understand, she looked up at him.

"Myself," he added, as he rose and smote his chest with his heavy right hand. He explained in a moment--"M-Migley wanted t' b-buy me."

He put his hand on his sister's head and said, "B-better times." After a little silence he added, "You s-see."

He left her sitting with her head leaning on her hand in deep and sorrowful meditation. He had built a fire in the stove and got their supper well under way before she joined him.

While Sinth was making her tearful protest, the children sat on a log outside the door and were much depressed.

"Somebody's gone and done something to her album," Sue whispered. The album was, in her view, the storm-centre of the camp.

After Strong had gone to work getting supper ready the two came stealthily to the knees of their aunt.

"Aunt Sinthy," Socky whispered.

"What?" she asked, turning and beginning to smooth his hair with her hand.

"I'm going to buy you a new album." He spoke in a low, tentative, troubled tone. The boy's resources would seem to be equal to every need.

Sinth shook with silent laughter. In a moment she kissed the boy and girl and drew them to her breast with a little moan of fondness. Then she rose and went to help her brother.

A little before sundown they heard the report of a rifle which had been fired within a mile of camp. Strong stood listening and could hear distant voices. He walked down the trail and returned in half an hour.

"It's B-Business," he said to Sinth. "His army is c-comin'."

XXX

STRONG was chopping and hewing on his birch log until late bedtime. He was like Noah getting ready for the destruction of the world. Having finished, he took his lantern off a branch beside him and surveyed a singular device. He called it a boat-jumper, and, inspired by a thought of the children, whispered to himself, "Uncle S-Silas is improvin'." It was a mere shell about two inches thick, flat on the bottom and sheared on one end, canoe-fashion. It would serve as a jumper--a rough, sledlike conveyance--on the ground and as a boat on the rivers; it would carry Sinth and the children, with tents, blankets, provisions, and bedding enough to last until he could return for more.

He hurried to camp and helped his sister with the packing. When a dozen great bundles lay on the floor, ready for removal, Sinth went to bed. But the tireless Emperor had more work to do. He made two seats, with back-rests upon each, for the boat-jumper and fastened a whiffle-tree to the bow end of the same. On its stern he put two handles--like those of a plough--so that he might lay hold of them and steady the jumper in rough places.

Next morning a little before sunrise he made off on the trail to Pitkin.

At the general store and post-office in that hamlet he received a letter. It was from the forest, fish, and game commissioner, who thus addressed him:

_"Dear Mr. Strong,--I hear that timber thieves and deer-slayers are operating on State land near Rainbow Lake. I learn also that you are about to leave your camp at Lost River. If that is true I wish you would accept an appointment as deputy for that district and go at once and do what you can to protect the valley of Rainbow. The salary would be five hundred dollars. A letter just received informs me that 'Red' Macdonald is there with dogs. If you could deliver him into custody you would be a public benefactor, but I warn you that he is a desperate man. Please let me hear from you immediately."_