Chapter 2

Bill knew perfectly that he would play in good fortune if the loss in horseflesh did not cost him most of the gains of the undertaking. Even the sturdy mustangs were not bred for traversing the trails of Clearwater. There were steep hills where a single misstep meant death, there were narrow trails and dangerous fords, and here and there were inoffensive-looking pools where the body of a horse may sink out of sight in less time than it takes to tell it. These were not the immense-chested moose or the strong-limbed caribou, natives of the place and monarchs of its trails. Besides, if the winter caught them on the higher levels, they would never eat oats in Johnson's barn again. The six feet of snow covers all horse feed, and the alternatives that remain are simply a merciful bullet from the wrangler's pistol or death of slow starvation.

Bill had certain stores in his cabins,--the long line of log huts from which he operated in the trapping season,--yet further supplies were needed for the trip. He bought sugar, flour, great sacks of rice--that nutritious and delightful grain that all outdoor men learn to love--coffee and canned goods past all description. Savory bacon, a great cured ham of a caribou, dehydrated vegetables and cans of marmalade and jam: all these went into the big saddle-bags for the journey. He was fully aware that the punishing days' ride could never be endured on half-rations. Camp equipment, rifles, shells and a linen tent made up the outfit.

He encountered real difficulty when he tried to hire a man to act as cook. Evidently the Bradleyburg citizens had no love for the mountain realms in the last days of fall. For the double wage that he promised he was only able to secure a half-rate man,--Vosper by name, a shifty-eyed youth from one of the placer mines, farther down toward the settlements.

Up to the time that he heard the far-off sound of their automobile struggling up the long hill, he had made no mental picture of his employers. He rather hoped that Mr. Kenly Lounsbury--uncle of the missing man--would represent the usual type of middle-aged American with whom he had previously dealt,--cold-nerved, likeable business men that came for recreation on the caribou trails. Virginia Tremont would of course be a new type, but he felt no especial interest in her. But as he waited at the door of the hotel he began to be aware of a curious excitement, a sense of grave and portentous developments. He did not feel the least self-conscious. But he did know a suddenly awakened interest in this girl who would come clear to these northern realms to find her lover.

The car was in evident difficulties. It was the end of the road: in fact, the old highway for the last three miles of its length was simply two ruts on the hillside. As soon as it came in sight Bill recognized the driver,--a man who operated a line of auto-stages, during the summer months, on the long river-road below. The next instant the car drew up beside the hotel.

To a man of cities there would have been nothing particularly unusual in this sight of a well-groomed man and girl in the tonneau of an automobile. The man was a familiar type, of medium size, precise, his outing clothes just a trifle garish; the girl trim and sweet-faced, and stylish from the top of her head to the soles of her expensive little boots. But no moment of Bill's life had ever been fraught with a greater wonder. None had ever such a quality of the miraculous. None had ever gone so deep.

He had not known many women, this dark man of the forests. He had seen Indian squaws in plenty, stolid and fat, he had known a few of the wives of the Bradleyburg men,--women pretty enough, good housekeepers, neatly clad and perhaps a little saddened and crushed by the very remorselessness of this land in which they lived. But there had been no girls in Bradleyburg to grow up with, no schoolday sweethearts. He had known the dark and desolate forests, never a sweetheart's kiss. His mother was now but a memory: tenderness, loveliness, personal beauty to hold the eyes had been wholly without his bourne. And he gazed at Virginia Tremont as a man might look at a celestial light.

If the girl could have seen the swift flood of worship that flowed into his face, she would have felt no scorn. She was of the cities, caste had hardened her as far as it could harden one of her nature, she was a thoroughbred to the last inch, used to flattery and the attentions of men of her own class; yet she would have held no contempt for this tall, bronzed man that looked at her with such awe and wonder. The surge of feeling was real in him; and reality is one thing, over the broad earth, that no human being dares to scorn. If she could have read deeper she would have found in herself an unlooked-for answer, in a small measure at least, to a lifelong dream, an ideal come true, and even she--in her high place--would have known a little whisper of awe.

All his life, it seemed to him, Bill had dreamed dreams--dreams that he would not admit into his conscious thought and which he constantly tried to disavow because he considered their substance did not exist in reality and thus they were out of accord with the realism with which he regarded life. On the long winter nights, when the snow lay endless and deep over the wilderness, and the terrible cold locked the land tight, he would sit in his trapping cabins, gazing into the smoke clouds from his pipe, and a tender enchantment would steal over him. He would have admitted to no human being those wistful and beautiful hours that he spent alone. He was known as a man among men, one who could battle the snows and meet the grizzly in his lair, and he would have been ashamed to reveal this dreamy, romantic side of his nature, these longings that swept him to the depths. He would go to his bed and lie for long, tingling, wakeful hours stirred by dreams that through no earthly chance could he conceive as coming true. Arms about him, lips near, beauty and tenderness and hallowed wakenings,--he had imagined them all in his secret hours.

In the deep realms of his spirit, it seemed to him, he had always known this girl,--this straight, graceful, lovely being with eyes of an angel and smile of a happy child. He had denied her existence, and here she was before him. Dark hair, waving and just a little untidy in the brisk wind, oval face and determined little chin, shadowing lashes and the exquisite contrasts of brunette beauty, a glimpse of soft, white flesh at the throat through her dark furs, smart tailored suit and dainty hands,--they were all known to him of old. For all the indifference and distance with which she looked at him and at the other townspeople, there was a world of girlish sweetness in her face. For all her caste, there was spiritual beauty and gracious charm in every facial line.

Curiously, Bill had no tinge of the resentment he might have expected that his dream should come half-true only to be shattered like the bubble it was. Because he had no delusions. He knew that he was only an employee, that a girl of her caste would ever regard him as the great regard those that serve them--kindly but impersonally--but for now he asked for nothing more. To him she was a creature past belief, a being from another world, and he was content to serve her humbly. He knew that he was of the forest and she of the cities of men, and soon they would take separate trails. His only comfort, heretofore, had been that his dream could not possibly come true, that the stuff of which it was made could never exist in the barren, dreadful, accursed place that was his home; but his nature was too big and true for any bitterness--to hate her because she was of a sphere so infinitely apart from his. But he wouldn't give her his love, he told himself, only his adoration. He wasn't going to be foolish enough to fall in love with a star! Yet he was swept with joy, for did not a whole month intervene before she would go back to her kind? Would she not be in his own keeping for a while, before she left him to his forests and his snows? Could he not see her across the fire, exult in her beauty, even aid her in finding her lost lover? His eye kindled and his face flushed, and he leaped to help her from the tonneau.

"I suppose you are Mr. Bronson?" she asked.

It was the same friendly but impersonal tone that he had expected, but he felt no resentment. His spirits had rallied promptly; and he was already partly adjusted to the fact that his joy in the journey would consist of the mere, unembellished fact of her presence.

"Yes. Of course this is Miss Tremont and Mr. Lounsbury. And just as soon as I pack the horses we'll be ready to start."

"I don't see why you haven't got 'em already packed," Lounsburg broke in. "If I ran my business in this shiftless way----"

Bill turned quickly toward him. He saw at once that other elements beside pleasure were to enter into this journey. The man spoke querulously, in a tone to which Bill was neither accustomed nor reconciled. If the girl had chosen to abuse him, he would have taken it meekly as his due; but it hadn't been his training to accept too many rude words from a fellow man. Yet, he remembered, he was the uncle of the girl's fiance, and that meant he was a privileged person. Besides, his temper had likely been severely strained by the rough road.

"Don't be ridiculous, Uncle," the girl reproved her. "How did he know exactly when we were going to arrive?" She tuned back to Bill. "Now tell us where we can get lunch. I'm starved."

"This country does--stimulate the appetite," Bill responded gravely. Then he showed them into the hotel.

He did a queer and sprightly little dance as he hurried toward the barn to get his horse.

III

Mr. Kenly Lounsbury, addressed affectionately as Uncle by his nephew's fiancee, was in ill humor as he devoured his lunch. In the first place he hadn't been getting the attention that he had expected. He was used to being treated with a certain deference, an abject humility was as fitting to a man of wealth and position. These northern people, however, didn't seem to know how to fawn. They were courteous enough, gave good service, but were inclined to speak to him as man to man,--an inference of equality that he regarded with great displeasure. His nephew's penniless fiancee, instead of himself, received all the attentions. Even the burly ruffian who was to guide them looked at her as if she were an angel.

The girl's voice rang over the table. "What's worrying you now, Uncle?" she asked.

Lounsbury looked up angrily. "What's worrying me now is--that I was such a fool as to come up into this country at the approach of winter. I don't like the place, and I don't like the people, and I abominate the service! Fancy eating on these great, thick plates for a month! I don't trust that big outlaw who is going to take us into the woods, either. Virginia, I have a distinct premonition of disaster."

"I rather think--that we'll be glad enough to have any china plates at all before we get back. And Mr. Bronson----"

"By the way, don't call him _Mr._ Bronson. You must learn to teach these beggars their places. Call him just Bronson. You'll get twice the service."

"Yes, Uncle. I was just going to say that he seemed very trustworthy. And it's hardly--well, the sporting thing to become discouraged so soon."

All through the journey so far this had been Lounsbury's one satisfaction--that he was doing the sporting thing. He knew perfectly that many of his business associates, many of his city's great whom he would have been flattered to know, came up into these gloomy forests every year in pursuit of big game; and he had heard of enduring hardships in a "sporting" way. But the term was already threadbare,--and the journey only commenced. The reason went back to the simple fact that Lounsbury was not a sportsman and never could be, that the red corpuscle content in his blood was wholly within the law.

Yes, Virginia felt at a disadvantage. This man's money had financed the trip; the fortune her own father had left had been almost depleted from reverses resulting from the war, and only the most meager sort of an income--according to her standards--was left. An orphan, she had always looked up to her fiance's uncle as her guardian and adviser; to see signs of discouragement in him now was a serious blow to her.

She had been somewhat surprised, in the first place, at his willingness to undertake the journey. He usually did not care to go so far from the White Way of his native city. The years had taught her to look for selfish motives behind his every action; certainly, she told herself, he was not of the unselfish mold of his nephew, Harold Lounsbury, the sweetheart of her youth, but in this particular case the expedition seemed entirely altruistic. She wondered now whether, after all her dreams, she would be forced to turn back before her purpose was accomplished.

They pushed back their chairs and started to leave the dining room. But it was not written that Kenly Lounsbury should reach the door without further annoyance. The waiter came shouting after them.

"Excuse me, Mister," he said kindly, holding out a quarter, "you left some money on the table."

Virginia laughed with delight and pocketed the coin herself, but Lounsbury's face became purple. These northern fools did not even know the meaning of a tip.

A few minutes later the pack train emerged through the little alley at the side of the hotel and halted in front. Bill Bronson led his own bay, Mulvaney, and the pack horses were tailed,--the halter rope of each tied to the tail of the horse in front, like elephants on parade. The idea was simply to keep them in formation till they were launched forth upon the trail. Vosper, the cook, led three horses with riding saddles at the end of the line.

Virginia had changed to outing clothes when she emerged into the street, leaving her tailored suit in charge of the innkeeper. Bill beamed at her appearance. "Miss Tremont," he began, doing the honors, "this is Mr. Vosper, who will cook the beans."

Both nodded, the girl smiling rather impersonally, and Bill noticed a horrifying omission. Vosper actually lacked the intelligence to remove his hat! The first instinct of the woodsman was to march toward him and inflict physical violence for such an insult to his queen, but he caught himself in time. Vosper, damaged in the encounter, would likely refuse to make the trip, upsetting all their plans.

But at that instant Bill forgot all about it. He suddenly noticed his employers' clothes. And he gazed in open-mouthed astonishment.

Both Virginia and Lounsbury were well gotten up according to their idea of proper garb for outdoor people. The man wore knickerbockers with gold stockings, riding habit and stock, the girl a beautifully tailored, fine-textured lady's riding habit. Both were immediately conscious of the guide's stare, and Virginia was aware of a distinct embarrassment. Something, somewhere, had evidently gone wrong. Lounsbury took refuge in hauteur.

"Well?" he demanded icily.

"Excuse me," Bill replied. "But those aren't--are those the clothes you're going to wear on the trip?"

"We're not parading for any one's benefit, I hope," was the sarcastic answer. "These are our rough clothes. Have you any objections to 'em?"

The guide's eyes puckered about the corners. "No, sir--not any objections--and they'd be all right for a day or two--until bad weather. But they are hardly the togs for the North. What you want is a good pair of slicker pants, both of you, and plenty of wool inside. Also a rubber coat of some kind, over sheepskin. In the first good snow those clothes would just melt away. If you'll come with me, I'll help you lay in some--and I'll pack 'em right on one of the horses for the time of need. There's a store adjoining the hotel----"

Virginia's confusion had departed, giving way to mirth, but Lounsbury was swollen and purple with wrath. "You--you----" he began. His face grew crafty. "I suppose you get a commission on every garment you sell."

Bill turned rather quiet eyes on the man; and for one little instant the craven that dwelt under Lounsbury's skin told him he had said one sentence too many; but he took heart when Bill looked away. "I'll keep what I've got on," he announced. "I'm not used to being told what kind of clothes to wear. Virginia, we'll start on."

"Wait just a minute, Uncle," the girl replied coolly. She turned to Bill. "You say these won't do at all?"

"They'll be torn off of you in the brush, Miss Tremont. And they won't turn the cold and the snow, either. This is the North, you know."

"Then I, for one, am going to take your advice. Please help me pick out the things, Bronson."

They left Lounsbury fuming in the road, and they had a rather enjoyable ten minutes searching through Fargo's stock for suitable garb. He selected a pair of slicker pants to wear over riding trousers, a coat lined with sheepskin, boy's size, and an awkwardly made but effective rubber coat for outside wear when the snow lay on the branches. It was not, Virginia decided, quite like choosing gowns at her modiste's; yet she was bright-eyed and laughing at the end.

Bill unhitched a pack, inserted the bundle of clothes, then bracing his boots against the horse's side pulled and tugged until the pack was right again. "You'll be glad you've got these things before the trip is done," he prophesied. He pointed to the North, an unlooked for sobriety upon his face.

Far against the horizon the clouds were beginning to spread, dark and gray and strange, over the northern hills. These were not the clouds of summer rains. They were the first banners of an enemy--a grim and dreadful foe who had his ramparts in the wilds, and his ambush laid for such feeble creatures as would dare to brave his fastness.

* * * * *

Bill Bronson gave his last directions, tightened the last cinch, and slipped his rifle into the saddle scabbard. "There's just one thing more--the choice of horses," he said. "Miss Tremont, of course you can take your pick." His tone was trustful. "Of course that will be all right with the other gentlemen--for you to have the best and safest horse."

Strangely, neither of the two men seemed to greet this suggestion with especial enthusiasm. "I want a good and a safe horse," Lounsbury said evenly. "Of course you must provide Miss Tremont with the same."

The woodsman sighed, ever so softly. He returned to Vosper, but if the latter had any suggestions to offer, the hard eyes of the guide caused him to think better of them. "I'm sorry to say that good horses--and safe horses--aren't to be found in the same animal up here," Bill explained. "If you have a good horse--one that'll take the mud and swim the river and stand up under the day's march--he'll likely have too much sense and spirit to be safe. He'll more than likely prance around when you get on and buck you off if he thinks he can get away with it. If you've got a safe horse, one that's scared to death of you, he won't be a good horse--a yellow cuss that has to be dragged through every mud-puddle. These are all Indian ponies, the best that can be got up here, but they're not old ladies' driving mares. Miss Tremont, the best horse in this bunch is my bay, Mulvaney--but nobody can ride him but me. I'd love to let you ride him if you could, and after a day or two I'd be willing for you to try it. But he doesn't know what fear is, and he doesn't know when to give up."

The man spoke soberly. It was wholly plain that Mulvaney was very dear to his heart. Men do not ride over the caribou trails without engendering strong feelings toward their mounts. Sometimes it is love. And not unusually it is detestation.

"That little black there--Buster, we call him--is the next best bet. It's an important choice you're making, and I'll tell you about him. He threw a man off once, and when I got him he was supposed to be the most vicious animal in the Northwest. The truth is, he hasn't got a vicious hair on his head. But he will try to get away, and he will dance a bit when you first get on and wheel in circles, and he's hard to catch in the morning. But he's sure-footed and courageous and strong; he'll take you up hills where the others can't go. The other two horses--Colt and Scotty--maybe seem safer, but they haven't got the life Buster has, nor the sense."

Bill reached to pet the black Buster, and the animal shied nervously. Virginia walked up to him and seized his bridle rein. In an instant she had vaulted into the saddle.

He wheeled and plunged at first, but soon she quieted him. In none too good humor, Lounsbury made his selection, and Vosper took what was left. Bill led his animal to Virginia's side.

"And are there any special instructions--before we start?" he asked.

"I can give you some special instructions," Lounsbury interrupted. "I didn't come up here to risk my life on a wild mustang in the mountains. I want you to pick easy trails--you can if you've just got energy enough to try."

A half-smile lingered a moment at the woodsman's lips. There was no choice of trails into Clearwater. He might have told Lounsbury that once they were out of sight of the roofs of the town they were venturing into the Unknown, a land where the caribou and the moose made trails through the forest but where men came not, a land of beasts rather than men, of primeval grandeur but savage might. "Have you any orders to give?" he asked the girl again.

"None. All I can do is tell you what I have already done--and then let you do the best you can. As you know, he left six years ago."

"I know. I saw him when he came through."

His eyes were fast upon her, and he saw her start. Her face seemed to flame. Stranger as he was to the hearts of women, Bill could understand. It was word of her lover, a message from the dead, and it moved her to the depths. But he couldn't understand the curious weight of depression that descended upon him.

"You did?" she answered quickly. "Was he all right--then?"

"All right, but that was just after he came to the North. I was camping on this side of Grizzly River, and he stayed to eat with me. He said his name was Lounsbury. I've never heard of him since."

The surface lights died in her eyes. "Then that doesn't help us much, except to know that he got that far, at least," she went on. "I'll tell you the whole thing, simply; maybe it will help you in deciding where to look for him. He was twenty-seven then--and he'd spent the fortune his father left him. He had to have more, and he came up here--to look for gold.

"Like many other men--before him," Bill interrupted gravely.

"He had some sort of definite plan--a vacation place to go--but he never told me what it was. He told me he was going into Clearwater. He had to have money--he was in debt and besides, he was engaged to marry me. The last word I ever heard of him was a note he wrote from Bradleyburg. I was just a girl then--and I've waited ever since. His friends, his aunt, sometimes even his uncle thought that he was dead. I've always felt, just as sure as I am here, that he was still alive--and in some trouble--and he couldn't come back. Mr. Lounsbury has hired detectives, but none of them have ever made a real search. He's financing this trip now--I've been able to persuade him at last to make one great try to find him. What's what we've hired you to do."