Chapter 12

What they said after that Alice could not hear, but she was in full possession of their trouble. It was not a question of the loss of a few days; it meant the possible failure of the entire attempt to reach the summit.

"Peggy," she declared, next morning, "the men must push on and leave you with me here in the camp. I will not permit the expedition to fail on my account."

This seemed a heroic resolution at the moment, with the menacing sounds of the night still fresh in her ears, but it was the most natural and reasonable thing in the world at the moment, for the sun was rising warm and clear and the valley was as peaceful and as beautiful as a park.

Mrs. Adams readily agreed to stay, for she was wholly free from the ordinary timidities of women, but Ward, though sorely tempted, replied:

"No. We'll wait a day or two longer and see how you come on."

At this point one of the guides spoke up, saying: "If the women would be more comfortable in a cabin, there's one down here in the brush by the lake. I found it this morning when I was wranglin' the horses."

"A cabin! In this wild place?" said Alice.

"Yes, ma'am--must be a ranger's cabin."

Ward mused. "If it's habitable it would be warmer and safer than a tent. Let's go see about it."

He came back jubilant. "It doesn't seem to have been occupied very recently, but is in fair shape. We'll move you right down there."

The wounded girl welcomed the shelter of a roof, and it was good to feel solid logs about her helpless self. The interior of the hut was untidy and very rude, but it stood in a delightful nook on the bank of a pond just where a small stream fell into the valley, and it required but a few minutes of Mrs. Adams's efforts to clear the place out and make it cozy, and soon Alice, groaning faintly, was deposited in the rough pole bunk at the dark end of the room. What an inglorious end to her exalted ride!

Ward seemed to understand her tears as he stood looking down upon her, but he only said: "I dislike leaving you, even for the day. I shall give up my trip."

"No, no! you must go on!" she cried out. "I shall hate myself if you don't go on."

He reluctantly yielded to her demand, but said: "If I find that we can't get back to-morrow I will send Gage back. He's a trusty fellow. I can't spare Adams, and Smith and Todd--as you know--are paying for their trip."

Mrs. Adams spoke up firmly. "You need not worry about us. We can get along very well without anybody. If you climb the peak you'll need Gage. I'm not afraid. We're the only people in this valley, and with this staunch little cabin I feel perfectly at home."

"That's quite true," replied Ward in a relieved tone. "We are above the hunters--no one ever crosses here now. But it will be lonely."

"Not at all!" Alice assured him. "We shall enjoy being alone in the forest."

With slow and hesitating feet Ward left the two women and swung into his saddle. "I guess I'll send Gage back, anyhow," he said.

"Don't think of it!" called Peggy.

As a matter of fact, Alice was glad to have the men pull out. Their pity, their reproach, irritated her. It was as if they repeated aloud a scornful phrase--"You're a lovely and tempting creature, but you're a fool-hen just the same."

The two women spent the day peacefully, save now and then when Alice's wounded foot ached and needed care; but as night began to rise in the cañon like the smoke of some hidden, silent, subterranean fire, and the high crags glowed in the last rays of the sun, each of them acknowledged a touch of that immemorial awe of the darkness with which the race began.

Peggy, seating herself in the doorway, described the scene to her patient, who could see but little of it. "Oh, but it's gloriously uncanny to be here. Only think! We are now alone with God and His animals, and the night."

"I hope none of God's bears is roaming about," replied Alice, flippantly.

"There aren't any bears above the berries. We're perfectly safe. My soul! but it's a mighty country! I wish you could see the glow on the peaks."

"I'm taking my punishment," replied Alice. "Freeman was very angry, wasn't he?"

"If it breaks off the match I won't be surprised," replied Peggy, with resigned intonation.

"There wasn't any match to break off."

"Well!" replied the other, and as she slowly rose she added: "I won't say that he is perfectly distracted about you, but I do know that he thinks more of you than of any other woman in the world, and I've no doubt he is worrying about you this minute."

II

It was deep moonless night when Alice woke with a start. For a few moments she lay wondering what had roused her--then a bright light flashed and her companion screamed.

"Who's there!" demanded the girl.

In that instant flare she saw a man's face, young, smooth, with dark eyes gleaming beneath a broad hat. He stood like a figure of bronze while his match was burning, then exclaimed in breathless wonder:

"Great Peter's ghost! a woman!" Finally he stepped forward and looked down upon the white, scared faces as if uncertain of his senses. "Two of them!" he whispered. As he struck his second match he gently asked: "Would you mind saying how you got here?"

Alice spoke first. "We came up with a geological survey. I got hurt and they had to leave us behind."

"Where's your party gone?"

"Up to the glaciers."

"When did they leave?"

"Yesterday morning."

"When do you expect them back?"

"Not for two or three days."

He seemed to ponder a moment. "You say you're hurt? Where?"

"My horse slipped and fell on my foot."

"Wait a minute," he commanded. "I'll rustle a candle. I left one here."

When his form came out of the dark blur behind his candle Alice perceived that he was no ordinary hunter. He was young, alert, and very good-looking, although his face was stern and his mouth bitter. He laid aside his hat as he approached the bunk in which the two women were cowering as mice tremble before a cat. For a full minute he looked down at them, but at last he smiled and said, in a jocular tone:

"You're sure-enough women, I can see that. You'll excuse me--but when a man comes back to a shack in the middle of the night in a place like this and finds a couple of women in a bunk he's likely to think he's seeing pictures in his sleep."

"I can understand that," Alice returned, recovering her self-command. "You're the ranger, I suppose? I told my friend here that you might return."

"I'm mighty glad I did," he said, heartily.

"Thank you; you're very kind."

He bent a keen glare upon her. "What's your name?"

"Alice Mansfield."

"What's your friend's name?"

"Mrs. Adams."

"Are you a missis, too?"

She hesitated. This was impertinent, but then she herself was an intrusive guest. "No," she answered, "I am not married."

"Where are you from?"

"New York City."

"You're a long way from home."

"Yes, I'm feeling that this minute." She drew the coverlet a little closer to her chin.

He quickly read this sign. "You needn't be afraid of me."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You're both all of a tremble and white as two sheep--"

"It isn't that," wailed the girl; "but I've twisted my foot again." Her moan of pain broke the spell that bound Peggy.

"Would you leave, please, for a moment?" she called to the owner of the cabin. "I've got to get up and doctor my patient."

"Sure!" he exclaimed, moving toward the door. "If I can do anything let me know."

As soon as her patient's aching foot was eased Peggy opened the door and peeped out. A faint flare of yellow had come into the east, and beside the fire, rolled in his blanket, the ranger was sleeping. Frost covered everything and the air was keen.

"He's out there on the cold ground--with only one blanket."

"What a shame! Tell him to come inside--I'm not afraid of him."

"Neither am I--but I don't believe he'll come. It's 'most morning, anyway--perhaps I'd better not disturb him."

"Take one of these quilts to him--that will help some."

Mrs. Adams lifted one of the coverlets and, stealing softly up, was spreading it over the sleeper when he woke with a start, a wild glare of alarm in his eyes.

"Oh, it's you!" he said in relief. Then he added, as he felt the extra cover: "That's mighty white of you. Sure you don't need it?"

"We can spare it. But won't you come inside? I'm sorry we drove you out of your cabin."

"That's all right. I'm used to this. Good night. I'm just about dead for sleep."

Thus dismissed, Peggy went back and lay down beside Alice. "He says he's quite comfortable," she remarked, "and I hope he is, but he doesn't look it."

When she woke again it was broad daylight and Alice was turning restlessly on her hard bed. In the blaze of the sun all the mystery of the night vanished. The incident of the return of the ranger to his cabin was as natural as the coming of dawn.

"He probably makes regular trips through here," said Mrs. Adams.

But the wounded girl silently differed, for she had read in the man's eyes and voice a great deal more than belonged to the commonplace character of a forest-ranger. That first vision of his face burned deep.

She had seen on the wall of the station at "the road" the description of a train-robber which tallied closely with this man's general appearance, and the conviction that she was living in the hidden hut of an outlaw grew into a certainty. "I must not let him suspect my discovery," she thought.

Mrs. Adams (who had not read the placard) treated the young fellow as if he were one of the forest wardens, manifesting complete confidence in him.

He deftly helped her about breakfast, and when she invited him into the cabin he came readily, almost eagerly, but he approached Alice's bed with a touch of hesitation, and his glance was softer and his voice gentler as he said:

"Well, how do you stack up this morning?"

"Much better, thank you."

"Must have been a jolt--my coming in last night the way I did?"

"I guess the 'jolt' was mutual. You looked surprised."

He smiled again, a faint, swift half-smile. "Surprised! That's no name for it. For a minute I thought I'd fallen clear through. I hope you didn't get a back-set on account of it."

"Oh no, thank you."

"How many men are in your party?"

"Six, counting the guides."

"Who are the men?"

She named them, and he mused darkly, his eyes on her face. "I reckon I can't wait to make their acquaintance. I'm going on down the Green River to-day. I'm sorry to miss 'em. They must be a nice bunch--to leave two women alone this way."

He ate heartily, but with a nicety which betrayed better training than is usual to men in his position. He remained silent and in deep thought, though his eyes were often on Alice's face.

As he rose to go he said to Peggy: "Would you mind doing up a little grub for me? I don't know just when I'll strike another camp."

"Why, of course! I'll be glad to. Do you have to go?"

"Yes, I must pull out," he replied, and while she was preparing his lunch he rolled a blanket and tied it behind his saddle. At last he re-entered the cabin and, again advancing to Alice's bedside, musingly remarked: "I hate to leave you women here alone. It doesn't seem right. Are you sure your party will return to-night?"

"Either to-night or to-morrow. Professor Ward intends to climb Frémont Peak."

"Then you won't see him for three days." His tone was that of one who communes with himself. "I reckon I'd better stay till to-morrow. I don't like the feeling of the air."

She explained that Gage, one of the guides, would return in case the professor wished to remain in the heights.

"Well, I'll hang around till toward night, anyhow."

He went away for half an hour, and upon his return presented a cleanly shaven face and a much less savage look and bearing. He hovered about the door, apparently listening to Peggy's chatter, but having eyes only for the wounded girl. He seized every slightest excuse to come in, and his voice softened and his manner changed quite as markedly, and at last, while Mrs. Adams was momentarily absent, he abruptly said:

"You are afraid of me; I can see it in your eyes. I know why. You think you know who I am."

"Yes; I'm sure of it."

"What makes you think so?"

"I saw your picture in the railway station."

He regarded her darkly. "Well, I trust you. You won't give me away. I'm not so sure of her." He nodded his head toward the open door.

"What would be the good of my betraying you?"

"Two thousand dollars' reward is a big temptation."

"Nonsense! If I told--it would be for other reasons. If I were to betray your hiding-place it would be because society demands the punishment of criminals."

"I'm not a criminal. I never lifted a cent from any man. I didn't get a dollar from the express company--but I tried--I want you to know, anyway," he continued, "that I wouldn't rob an individual--and I wouldn't have tried this, only I was blind drunk and desperate. I needed cash, and needed it bad."

"What did you need it for?" asked Alice, with a steady look.

He hesitated, and a flush crept across his brown face. His eyes wavered. "Well, you see, the old home was mortgaged--and mother was sick--"

"Oh, bosh! Tell me the truth," she demanded. "The papers said you did it for a girl. Why not be honest with me?"

"I will," he responded, impulsively. "Yes, that's right. I did it for a girl--and afterward, when I was on the run, what did she do? Threw me down! Told everything she knew--the little coyote--and here I am hunted like a wolf on account of it." His face settled into savage lines for a moment. But even as he sat thus another light came into his eyes. His gaze took account of Alice's lips and the delicate, rounded whiteness of her neck and chin. Her like he had never met before. The girls he had known giggled; this one smiled. His sweetheart used slang and talked of cattle like a herder, but this woman's voice, so sweet and flexible, made delightfully strange music to his ears.

Peggy's return cut short his confidence, and while she was in the cabin he sat in silence, his eyes always on the girl. He seized every opportunity to speak to her, and each time his voice betrayed increasing longing for her favor.

Mrs. Adams, who had conceived a liking for him, ordered him about as freely as though he were a hired guide, and he made himself useful on the slightest hint.

Alice, on her part, was profoundly interested in him, and whenever her foot would permit her to think of anything else, she pitied him. In the madness of his need, his love, he had committed an act which made all the world his enemy, and yet, as she studied his form and expression, her heart filled with regret. He was very attractive in the Western way, with nothing furtive or evasive about him.

With a directness quite equal to his own she questioned him about his reckless deed.

"Why did you do it?" she exclaimed in despair of his problem.

"I don't know. Hanged if I do, especially now. Since seeing you I think I was crazy--crazy as a loon. If I'd done it for you, now, it wouldn't have been so wild. You're worth a man's life. I'd die for you."

This outburst of passion, so fierce and wild, thrilled the girl; she grew pale with comprehension of his mood. It meant that the sight of her lying there had replaced the old madness with a new one. She was unprepared for this furious outflaming of primitive admiration.

"You mustn't talk like that to me," she protested, as firmly as she could.

He sensed her alarm. "Don't you be scared," he said, gently. "I didn't mean to jar you. I only meant that I didn't know such women as you were in the world. I'd trust you. You've got steady eyes. You'd stick by the man that played his whole soul for you, I can see that. I come of pretty good stock. I reckon that's why you mean so much to me. You get hold of me in a way I can't explain."

"Why don't you fly?" she asked him. "Every minute you spend here increases your danger. The men may return at any moment."

"That's funny, too," he answered, and a look of singular, musing tenderness fell over his face. "I'd rather sit here with you and take my chances."

"But you must not! You are imperiling your life for nothing."

"You're mistaken there. I'm getting something every minute--something that will stay with me all my life. After I leave you it doesn't matter. I came into the hills just naturally, the way the elk does. After that girl reported me, life didn't count. Seeing you has changed me. It matters a whole lot to me this minute, and when I leave you it's stormy sunset for me, sure thing."

Alice gazed upon him with steady eyes, but her bosom rose and fell with the emotion which filled her heart. She debated calling for Mrs. Adams, but there was something in the droop of the outlaw's head, in the tone of his voice, which arrested her. However sudden and frenzied his admiration might seem to others, it was sincere and manly, of that she was persuaded. Nevertheless, she was deeply perturbed.

"I wish you would go," she entreated at last, huskily. "I don't want to see you taken. You have made yourself a criminal and I ought not to find excuses for you, but I do. You're so young. It doesn't seem as if you knew what you were doing. Why don't you ride away into the wild north country and begin a new life somewhere? Can't you escape to Canada?"

He seized eagerly upon her suggestion. "Will you write to me if I do?"

"No, I cannot promise that."

"Why can't I play the ranger here and wait upon you till the men return?"

"Because Professor Ward read that placard with me. He will know you instantly. I wish you'd go. Gage may come at any moment now."

Peggy came in with disturbed look. "It looks like rain," she announced; "the clouds are settling down all over the peaks."

The outlaw sprang up and went to the door. "It looked bad when I got up," he said, as he studied the sky. "I guess we're in for trouble. It may be snow."

His fears were soon realized. Rain began to fall in a thin drizzle, and at four o'clock the first faint flakes of snow began to flash amid the gray veils of the water-drops. The women looked at each other in alarm as the cabin's interior darkened with the ominous shadow of the storm.

"I don't like this a bit," said Peggy, after a while. "This is no mountain squall. I wish the men were here."

"It can't be anything that will last," replied Alice. "It isn't time for the winter snows."

"I know," replied Peggy. "But it's snowing perfect feather beds now, and no wind. Lucky this forest-ranger is here. The men may get lost in this storm."

"Mercy! Don't speak of such a thing!" exclaimed Alice; but she knew, just the same, that Ward and his party were high in the peaks, far, far above the cabin, and that the storm there would be proportionately fiercer. She listened with growing thankfulness to the outlaw's blows upon the dry limbs of wood that he was chopping for the fire. He was very capable and would not desert them--of that she felt assured.

As the man worked on, the women both came to keen realization of the serious view he took of the storm. He mounted his horse and with his rope dragged great bundles of fagots from the thickets. As he came up, laden with one of his bundles of hard-won fuel, Mrs. Adams asked:

"You don't think it will keep this up, do you?"

"You never can tell what will happen in these mountains. It doesn't generally snow much till later, but you can't bank on anything in this range."

Alice called to him and he stepped inside. "What do you think we'd better do?" she asked.

"There isn't a thing you can do, miss. It's just a case of stick it out. It may let up by sundown; but, as it is, your party can't get back to-night, and if you don't mind I'll camp down just outside the door and keep the fire going."

"You will be a comfort to us," she replied, "but I feel that--that you ought to be going. Isn't it dangerous for you? I mean you will be shut in here."

"If I'm shut in, others are shut out," he answered, with a grim smile. "My job is to keep fire." With these words he returned to his work of breaking limbs from the dead firs.

Alice said: "If it does turn out as this--this ranger says--if the storm keeps up, you mustn't let him sleep out in the snow."

"Of course not," said Peggy. "He can sleep inside. I trust him perfectly--and, besides, you have your revolver."

Alice smiled a little, wondering how Peggy's trust would stand the strain of a fuller knowledge concerning their guardian's stirring career.

III

In spite of her knowledge of the mountains and her natural intrepidity of character the wounded girl's heart sank as the snow and the night closed down over the tiny cabin in its covert of firs. To be on foot in such gloom, in the heart of such a wilderness, was sufficiently awe-inspiring, but to be helpless on a hard bed was to feel the utter inconsequence of humankind. "Suppose the storm blocks the trails so that the men cannot return for a week? What will we do for food?"

Each time she heard the outlaw deliver his burden of wood her heart warmed to him. He was now her comfort and very present stay. "If it should happen that the trails become impassable he alone will stand between us and death," she thought.

The outlaw came in to say, abruptly, "If you weren't hurt and if I weren't in such a hurry I'd rather enjoy this."

He slashed his sombrero against his thigh as he spoke, and Mrs. Adams answered his remark without knowledge of its inner meaning.

"You mustn't think of sleeping outdoors to-night--Mr.--?"

"Smith. I belong to the big family, the Smiths," he promptly replied.

"Why don't you take away that improvised table by the wall and make your bed there?"

"We'll need the table," he responded in a matter-of-fact tone. "I'll just crawl under it. What's giving me most trouble is the question of grub. They didn't leave you any too much, did they?"

"But you can kill game, can't you?" asked Peggy.

"We're pretty high up for elk, and the blue grouse are scarce this year, but I reckon I can jump a deer or a ground-hog. We won't starve, anyway."

Alice perceived in his voice a note of exultation. He was glad of his reprieve, and the thought of being her protector, at least for the night, filled him with joy. She read his mind easily and the romance of this relationship stirred her own heart. The dramatic possibilities of the situation appealed to her. At any moment the men might return and force her into the rôle of defender. On the other hand, they might be confined for days together in this little cabin, and in this enforced intimacy Peggy was sure to discover his secret and his adoration.

The little hovel was filled with the golden light of the blazing fagots, and through the open door Alice could see the feathery crystals falling in a wondrous, glittering curtain across the night. The stream roared in subdued voice as though oppressed by the snows, and the shadow of the fugitive as he moved about the fire had a savage, primal significance which awed the girl into silence.

He was very deft in camp work, and cooked their supper for them almost as well as they could have done it themselves, but he refused to sit at the table with Peggy. "I'll just naturally stick to my slicker, if you don't mind. I'm wet and my hands are too grimy to eat with a lady."

Alice continued to talk to him, always with an under-current of meaning which he easily read and adroitly answered. This care, this double meaning, drew them ever closer in spirit, and the girl took an unaccountable pleasure in it.

After supper he took his seat in the open doorway, and the girl in the bunk looked upon him with softened glance. She had no fear of him now; on the contrary, she mentally leaned upon him. Without him the night would be a terror, the dawn an uncertainty. The brave self-reliance of his spirit appeared in stronger light as she considered that for weeks he had been camping alone, and that but for this accident to her he would be facing this rayless wintry night in solitude.