Chapter 18

He voiced his concern. "I don't like to think of your being alone, even in the daytime." He spoke as one who had been swiftly advanced from stranger to trusted friend. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued, as if moved by a sudden thought. "I'll go into camp across the creek for to-night, and then if anything goes wrong I'll be within call."

"Oh no! Don't think of doing that! You must not neglect your duties. Daddy is a pretty good marksman, and I have learned to handle a rifle, and, besides"--here her tone became ironic--"in the chivalrous West a woman need not fear."

"There is a whole lot of hot air about that Western chivalry talk," he retorted. "Bad men are just as bad here as anywhere, and they're particularly bad on the Shellfish. But, anyhow, you'll call on me if I can be of any use, won't you?"

"I certainly shall do so," she responded, heartily, and there was confidence and liking in her eyes as well as in the grip of her hand as she said good-by.

When in the saddle and ready to ride away he called to her, "You won't mind my coming over here again on Saturday, will you?"

"No, indeed. Only it is so far."

"Oh, the ride is nothing. I don't like to think of your being here alone."

"I'm not afraid. But we shall be glad to see you just the same."

And in appreciation of her smile he removed his hat and rode away with bared head.

The young ranger was highly exalted by this visit, and he was also greatly disturbed, for the more he thought of that warning letter and the conditions which gave rise to it, the more menacing it became. It was all of a piece with the tone and character of the Shellfish gang, for this remote valley had long borne an evil reputation, and Watson and Kitsong had been its dominating spirits for more than twenty years and deeply resented Kauffman's settlement in the cañon.

"It would be just like old Kit to take the law into his own hands," the ranger admitted to himself. "And the writing in that letter looked to me like Mrs. Abe Kitsong's."

Instead of going up to the Heart Lake sheep-camp, as he had planned to do, he turned back to his station, moved by a desire to keep as near the girl as his duties would permit. "For the next few days I'd better be within call," he decided. "They may decide to arrest her--and if they do, she'll need me."

He went about his evening meal like a man under the influence of a drug, and when he sat down to his typewriter his mind was so completely filled with visions of his entrancing neighbor that he could not successfully cast up a column of figures. He lit his pipe for a diversion, but under the spell of the smoke his recollection of just how she looked, how she spoke, how she smiled (that sad, half-lighting of her face) set all his nerves atingle. He grew restless.

"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself, sharply, but dared not answer his own question. He knew his malady. His unrest was that of the lover. Thereafter he gave himself up to the quiet joy of reviewing each word she had uttered, and in doing so came to the conclusion that she was in the mountains not so much for the cure of her lungs or throat as to heal the hurt of some injustice. What it was he could not imagine, but he believed that she was getting over it. "As she gets over it she'll find life on the Shellfish intolerable and she'll go away," he reasoned, and the thought of her going made his country lonesome, empty, and of no account.

"I wish she wouldn't go about barefoot," he added, with a tinge of jealousy. "And she mustn't let any of the Shellfish gang see her in that dress." He was a little comforted by remembering her sudden flight when she first perceived him coming across the bridge, and he wondered whether the trustful attitude she afterward assumed was due entirely to the fact that he was a Federal officer--he hoped not. Some part of it sprang, he knew, from a liking for him.

The wilderness was no place for a woman. It was all well enough for a vacation, but to ask any woman to live in a little cabin miles from another woman, miles from a doctor, was out of the question. He began to perceive that there were disabilities in the life of a forester. His world was suddenly disorganized. Life became complex in its bearings, and he felt the stirrings of new ambitions, new ideals. Civilization took on a charm which it had not hitherto possessed.

He was awakened at dawn the following morning by the smell of burning pine--a smell that summons the ranger as a drum arouses a soldier. Rushing out of doors, he soon located the fire. It was off the forest and to the southeast, but as any blaze within sight demanded investigation, he put a pot of coffee on the fire and swiftly roped and saddled one of his horses. In thirty minutes he was riding up the side of a high hill which lay between the station and Otter Creek, a branch of the Shellfish, at the mouth of which, some miles below, stood Kitsong's ranch.

It was not yet light, the smoke was widely diffused, and the precise location of the blaze could not be determined, but it appeared to be on the Shellfish side of the ridge, just below Watson's pasture. Hence he kept due south over the second height which divided the two creeks. It was daylight when he reached the second hogback, and the smoke of the fire was diminishing, but he thought it best to ride on to renew his warning against the use of fire till the autumn rains set in, and he had in mind also a plan to secure from Mrs. Kitsong a specimen of her handwriting and to pick up whatever he could in the way of gossip concerning the feeling against the Kauffmans.

He was still some miles from the ranch, and crossing a deep ravine, when he heard the sound of a rifle far above him. Halting, he listened intently. Another shot rang out, nearer and to the south, and a moment later the faint reports of a revolver. This sent a wave of excitement through his blood. A rifle-shot might mean only a poacher. A volley of revolver-shots meant battle.

Reining his cayuse sharply to the right and giving him the spur, he sent him on a swift, zigzagging scramble up the smooth slope. A third rifle-shot echoed from the cliff, and was answered by a smaller weapon, much nearer, and, with his hair almost on end with excitement, he reached the summit which commanded the whole valley of the Otter, just in time to witness the most astounding drama he had ever known.

Down the rough logging road from the west a team of horses was wildly galloping, pursued at a distance by several horsemen, whose weapons, spitting smoke at intervals, gave proof of their murderous intent. In the clattering, tossing wagon a man was kneeling, rifle in hand, while a woman, standing recklessly erect, urged the flying horses to greater speed. Nothing could have been more desperate, more furious, than this running battle.

"My God! It's the Kauffman team!" he exclaimed, and with a shrill shout snatched his revolver from its holster and fired into the air, with intent to announce his presence to the assailing horsemen. Even as he did so he saw one of the far-off pursuing ruffians draw his horse to a stand and take deliberate aim over his saddle at the flying wagon. The off pony dropped in his traces, and the vehicle, swinging from the road, struck a boulder and sent the man hurtling over the side; but the girl, crouching low, kept her place. Almost before the wheels had ceased to revolve she caught up the rifle which her companion had dropped and sent a shot of defiance toward her pursuers.

"Brave girl!" shouted Hanscom, for he recognized Helen. "Hold the fort!" But his voice, husky with excitement, failed to reach her.

She heard the sound of his revolver, however, and, believing him to be only another of the attacking party, took aim at him and fired. The bullet from her rifle flew so near his head that he heard its song.

Again her rifle flashed, this time at the man above her, and again the forester shouted her name. In the midst of the vast and splendid landscape she seemed a minute brave insect defending itself against invading beasts. Her pursuers, recognizing the ranger's horse, wheeled their ponies and disappeared in the forest.

Hanscom spurred his horse straight toward the girl, calling her name, but even then she failed to recognize him till, lifting his hat from his head, he desperately shouted:

"Don't shoot, girl--don't shoot! It's Hanscom--the ranger!"

She knew him at last, and, dropping her rifle to the ground, awaited his approach in silence.

As he leaped from his horse and ran toward her she lifted her hands to him in a gesture of relief and welcome, and he took her in his arms as naturally as he would have taken a frightened child to his breast.

"Great God! What's the meaning of all this?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

She was white, but calm. "No, but daddy is--" And they hastened to where the old man lay crumpled up beside a rock.

Hanscom knelt to the fallen man and examined him carefully. "He's alive--he isn't wounded," he said. "He's only stunned. Wait! I'll bring some water."

Running down to the bank, he filled his hat from the flood, and with this soon brought the bruised and sadly bewildered rancher back to consciousness.

Upon realizing who his rescuer was Kauffman's eyes misted with gratitude. "My friend, I thank God for you. We were trying to find you. We were on our way to claim your protection. We lost our road, and then these bandits assaulted us."

The girl pieced out this explanation. She told of being awakened in the night by a horse's hoofs clattering across the bridge. Some one rode rapidly up to the door, dismounted, pushed a letter in over the threshold, and rode away. "I rose and got the letter," she said. "It warned us that trouble was already on the way. '_Get out!_' it said. I roused daddy, we harnessed the horses and left the house as quickly as we could. We dared not go down the valley, so we tried to reach you by way of the mill. We took the wrong road at the lake. Our pursuers trailed us and overtook us, as you saw."

It was all so monstrous that the ranger could scarcely believe it true--and yet, there lay the dead horse and here was the old man beside the stone. He did not refer to his own narrow escape, and apparently Helen did not associate him with the horseman at whom she had fired with such bewildering zeal.

IV

It was a rugged and barren setting for love's interchange, and yet these two young souls faced each other, across the disabled old man, with spirits fused in mutual understanding. Helen's face softened and her eyes expressed the gratitude she felt. At the moment the ranger's sturdy frame and plain, strong-featured face were altogether admirable to her. She relied upon him mentally and physically, as did Kauffman, whose head was bewildered by his fall.

Hanscom roused himself with effort. "Well, now, let's see what's to be done next. One of your horses appears to be unhurt, but the other is down." He went to the team and after a moment's examination came back to say: "One is dead. I'll harness my own saddler in with the other, and in that way we'll be able to reach my cabin. You must stay there for the present."

Quickly, deftly, he gathered the scattered goods from the ground, restored the seat to the wagon, untangled the dead beast from its harness, and substituted his own fine animal, while Helen attended to Kauffman. He recovered rapidly, and in a very short time was able to take his seat in the wagon, and so they started down the road toward the valley.

"It's a long way round by the wagon road," Hanscom explained. "But we can make the cabin by eleven, and then we can consider the next move."

To this Helen now made objection. "We must not bring more trouble upon you. They will resent your giving us shelter. Take us to the railway. Help us to leave the state. I am afraid to stay in this country another night. I want to get away from it all to-day."

A shaft of pain touched the ranger's heart at thought of losing her so soon after finding her, and he said: "I don't think that is necessary. They won't attempt another assault--not while you are under my protection. I'd like the pleasure of defending you against them," he added, grimly.

"But I'm afraid for daddy. I'm sure he wounded one of them, and if he did they may follow us. You are very good and brave, but I am eager to reach the train. I want to get away."

To this Kauffman added his plea. "Yes, yes, let us go," he said, bitterly. "I am tired of these lawless savages. We came here, thinking it was like Switzerland, a land inhabited by brave and gentle people, lovers of the mountains. We find it a den of assassins. If you can help us to the railway, dear friend, we will ask no more of you and we will bless you always."

The ranger could not blame them for the panic into which they had fallen, and frankly acknowledged that it was possible for Kitsong to make them a great deal of trouble. Reluctantly he consented.

"I am sorry to have you go, but I reckon you're justified. There is a way to board the northbound train without going to town, and if nothing else happens we'll make the eastbound express. That will take you out of the state with only one stop."

Conditions were not favorable for any further expression of the deep regret he felt, for the road was rough, and with only one seat in the wagon he was forced to perch himself on his up-ended saddle, and so, urging the team to its best, he spoke only to outline his plan.

"I'll drive you to the Clear Creek siding," he explained. "All trains stop there to take on water, and No. 3 is due round about one. We can make it easily if nothing happens, and unless the Kitsong gang get word from some of these ranches we pass, you will be safely out of the country before they know you've gone."

They rode in silence for some time, but as they were dropping down into the hot, dry, treeless foot-hills the ranger turned to explain: "I'm going to leave the main road and whip out over the mesa just above the Blackbird Ranch, so don't be surprised by my change of plan. They are a dubious lot down there at the Blackbird, and have a telephone, so I'd just as soon they wouldn't see us at all. They might send word to Abe. It'll take a little longer, and the road is rougher, but our chances for getting safely away are much better."

"We are entirely in your hands," she answered, with quiet confidence. Her accent, her manner, were as new to him as her dress. She no longer seemed a young girl masquerading, but a woman--one to whom life was offering such stern drama that all her former troubles seemed suddenly faint and far away.

Kauffman was still suffering from his fall, and it became necessary for Helen to steady, him in his seat. Her muscles ached with the strain, but she made no complaint, for she feared the ranger might lessen the speed of their flight.

Upon turning into the rough road which climbed the mesa, the horses fell into a walk, and the ranger, leaping from the wagon, strode alongside, close to the seat on which the girl sat.

"All this is not precisely in the Service Book," he remarked, with a touch of returning humor, "but I reckon it will be accounted 'giving aid and succor to settlers in time of need.'"

She was studying him minutely at the moment, and it pleased her to observe how closely his every action composed with the landscape. His dusty boots, clamped with clinking spurs, his weather-beaten gray hat, his keen glance flashing from point to point (nothing escaped him), his every word and gesture denoted the man of outdoor life, self-reliant yet self-unconscious; hardy, practical, yet possessing something that was reflective as well as brave. Her heart went out to him in tenderness and trust. Her shadow lifted.

He had no perception of himself as a romantic figure; on the contrary, while pacing along there in the dust he was considering himself a sad esquire to the woman in whose worshipful service he was enlisted. He was eager to know more about her, and wondered if she would answer if he were to ask her the cause of her exile. Each moment of her company, each glimpse of her face, made the thought of losing her more painful. "Will I ever see her again?" was the question which filled his mind.

At the top of the mesa he again mounted to his seat on the upturned saddle, and kept the team steadily on the trot down the swiftly descending road. The sun was high above them now, and every mile carried them deeper into the heat and dust of the plain, but the girl uttered no word of complaint. Her throat was parched with thirst, but she did not permit him to know even this, for to halt at a well meant delay. They rode in complete silence, save now and again when the ranger made some remark concerning the character of the ranches they were passing.

"We are down among the men of the future now," he said--"the farmers who carry spades instead of guns."

Once they met a boy on horseback, who stared at them in open-mouthed, absorbed interest, and twice men working in the fields beckoned to them, primitively curious to know who they were and where they were going.

But Hanscom kept his ponies to their pace and replied only by shouting, "Got to catch the train!" In such wise he stayed them in their tracks, reluctant but helpless. At last, pointing to a small, wavering speck far out upon the level sod, he called with forceful cheerfulness: "There's the tank. We'll overhaul it in an hour." Then he added: "I've been thinking. What shall I do about the cabin? Shall I pack the furniture and ship it to you?"

"No, no. Take it yourself or give it away. I care very little for most of the things, except daddy's violin and my guitar. Those you may keep until we send for them."

"I shall take good care of the guitar," he asserted, with a look which she fully understood. "What about the books?"

"You may keep them also. We'd like you to have them--wouldn't we, daddy?"

"Yes, yes," said Kauffman. "There is nothing there of much value, but such as they are they are yours."

"I shall store everything," the young fellow declared, firmly, "in the hope that some day you will come back."

"That will never be! My life here is ended," she asserted.

"You will not always feel as you do now," he urged. "All the people of the county are not of Watson's stripe."

"That is true," she said. "I shall try not to be unjust, but I see now that in seeking seclusion in that lonely cañon we thrust ourselves among the most lawless citizens of the state, and cut ourselves off from the very people we should have known. However, I have had enough of solitude. My mind has changed. This week's experience has swept away the fog in my brain. I feel like one suddenly awakened. I see my folly and I shall go back to my people--to the city."

The ranger, recognizing something inflexible in this, made no further appeal.

There was nothing at the tank but a small, brown cottage in which the wife of the Mexican section boss lived, and to her Hanscom committed his charges and turned to the care of his almost exhausted team. The train was late, the guard at the tank said, and in consequence the ranger was torn between an agony of impatience and a dread of parting.

It was probable that some of the Kitsongs were in the raiding party, and if they were hurt the Kauffmans were not safe till the state line was passed. It would be easy to head them off by a wire. It was a hideous coil to throw about a young girl seeking relief from some unusual sorrow, and though he longed even more deeply to keep her under his protection, he made no objection to her going.

Returning to the section-house, he shared with her the simple meal which the reticent, smiling little Mexican woman had prepared, and did his best to cheer Kauffman with a belief in the early arrival of the train.

"It will be here soon, I am sure," he said.

Helen detected the lack of elation in his tone, and understood in some degree the sense of loss which made him heartsick, and yet she could not bring herself to utter words of comfort.

At the close of the meal, as they set out to walk across the sand to the switch, he said to her: "Am I never to see you again?"

"I hope so--somewhere, somehow," she replied, evasively.

"I wish you'd set a time and place," he persisted. "I can't bear to see you go. You can't realize how I shall miss you."

A fleeting gleam of amusement lighted her face. "You have known me only a few days."

"Oh yes, I have. I've known you all summer. You kept me busy thinking about you. The whole country will seem empty now."

She smiled. "I didn't know I filled so much space in the landscape. I thought I was but a speck in it." She hesitated a moment, then added: "I came out to lose myself in nature. I had come to hate men and to despise women. I was sick of my kind. I wanted to live like a savage, a part of the wild, and so--forget."

"Animals sometimes live alone; savages never do," he corrected, "unless they are outlawed from their tribe."

"That's what I tried to do--outlaw myself from my tribe. I wanted to get away from foolish comment, from malicious gossip."

"Are you ready to go back to it now--I mean to the city?"

"No, not quite; and yet this week's experience has shaken me and helped me. You have helped me, and I want to thank you for it. I begin to believe once more in good, brave, simple manhood. You and daddy have revived my faith in men."

"Some man must have hurt you mighty bad," he said, simply. Then added: "I can't understand that. I don't see how any man could do anything but just naturally _worship_ you."

She was moved by the sincerity of his adoration, but she led him no farther in that direction. "At first I thought I had won a kind of peace. I was almost content in a benumbed way. Then came my arrest--and you. It was a rough awakening, but I begin to see that I still live, that I am young, that I can become breathless with excitement. This raid, this ride, has swept away all that deathlike numbness which had fallen upon me. I've had my lesson. Now I can go back. I must get away from here."

Under the spell of her intense utterance the ranger's mind worked rapidly, filling in the pauses. "Yes, you'd better go away, but I'm not going to let you pass out of my life--not if I can help it! I'm going to resign and go where you go--"

She laid a protesting hand upon his arm. "No, no!" she said. "Don't do that. Don't resign. Don't change your plans on my account. I'm not worth such a sacrifice, such risk."

"You're worth any risk," he stoutly retorted, with some part of her own intensity in his voice. "I can't think of letting you go. I need you in my business." He smiled wanly. "I'm only a forest ranger at ninety dollars per month, but I'm going to be something else one of these days. I won't mind a long, rough trail if I can be sure of finding you at the end of it."

The far-away whistle of the train spurred him into fierce demand. "You'll let me write to you, and you will reply once in a while, won't you? It will give me something to look forward to. You owe me that much!" he added.

"Yes, I will write," she promised. "But I think it better that you should forget me. I hope we have not involved you in any trouble with your neighbors or with the coroner."

"I am not worrying about that," he answered. "I am only concerned about you. I would go to jail in a minute to save you any further worry."

"You are putting me so deeply in your debt that I can never repay you," she replied.

"A letter now and then will help," he suggested.

The train, panting, wheezing, hot with speed, came to a creeping halt, and the conductor, swinging out upon the side track, greeted the ranger pleasantly. "Hello, Hans! What are you doing here?"

Hanscom returned his greeting gravely. "Billy, here are some friends of mine, just down from the hills. Take good care of them for me, will you?"