The Forester's Daughter: A Romance of the Bear-Tooth Range Read online

  THE FORESTER'S DAUGHTER

  I

  THE HAPPY GIRL

  The stage line which ran from Williams to Bear Tooth (one of the mostauthentic then to be found in all the West) possessed at least onegenuine Concord coach, so faded, so saddened, so cracked, and sosplintered that its passengers entered it under protest, and alightedfrom it with thanksgiving, and yet it must have been built by honorablemen, for in 190- it still made the run of one hundred and twenty milestwice each week without loss of wheel or even so much as moulting a scrapof paint.

  And yet, whatever it may have been in its youth, it was in its age nolonger a gay dash of color in the landscape. On the contrary, it fittedinto the dust-brown and sage-green plain as defensively as a beetle in adusty path. Nevertheless, it was an indispensable part of a very movingpicture as it crept, creaking and groaning (or it may be it was thesuffering passenger creaking and groaning), along the hillside.

  After leaving the Grande River the road winds up a pretty high dividebefore plunging down into Ute Park, as they call all that region lyingbetween the Continental Range on the east and the Bear Tooth plateau onthe west. It was a big spread of land, and very far from an Eastern man'sconception of a park. From Dome Peak it seems a plain; but, in fact, whenclouds shut off the high summits to the west, this "valley" becomes averitable mountain land, a tumbled, lonely country, over which anoccasional horseman crawls, a minute but persistent insect. It is, to beexact, a succession of ridges and ravines, sculptured (in some far-off,post-glacial time) by floods of water, covered now, rather sparsely, withpinons, cedars, and aspens, a dry, forbidding, but majestic landscape.

  In late August the hills become iridescent, opaline with the translucentyellow of the aspen, the coral and crimson of the fire-weed, theblood-red of huckleberry beds, and the royal purple of the asters, whileflowing round all, as solvent and neutral setting, lies the gray-green ofthe ever-present and ever-enduring sage-brush. On the loftier heightsthese colors are arranged in most intricate and cunning patterns, withnothing hard, nothing flaring in the prospect. All is harmonious andrestful. It is, moreover, silent, silent as a dream world, and so floodedwith light that the senses ache with the stress of it.

  Through this gorgeous land of mist, of stillness, and of death, a fewyears ago a pale young man (seated beside the driver) rode one summer dayin a voiceless rapture which made Bill McCoy weary.

  "If you'd had as much of this as I have you'd talk of something else," hegrowled, after a half dozen attempts at conversation. Bill wasn't much tolook at, but he was a good driver and the stranger respected him for it.

  Eventually this simple-minded horseman became curious about the slimyoung fellow sitting beside him.

  "What you doing out here, anyhow--fishing or just rebuilding a lung?"

  "Rebuilding two lungs," answered the tourist.

  "Well, this climate will just about put lungs into a coffee-can,"retorted Bill, with official loyalty to his country.

  To his discerning eye "the tourist" now became "a lunger." "Where do youlive when you're to home?"

  "Connecticut."

  "I knew it."

  "How did you know it?" The youth seemed really interested to know.

  "I drove another fellow up here last fall that dealt out the same kind ofbrogue you do."

  This amused the tourist. "You think I have a 'brogue,' do you?"

  "I don't think it--I know it!" Bill replied, shortly.

  He was prevented at the moment from pursuing this line of inquiry by thediscovery of a couple of horsemen racing from a distant ranch toward theroad. It was plain, even to the stranger, that they intended to interceptthe stage, and Bill plied the lash with sudden vigor.

  "I'll give 'em a chase," said he, grimly.

  The other appeared a little alarmed, "What are they--bandits?"

  "Bandits!" sneered Bill. "Your eyesight is piercing. Them's _girls_."

  The traveler apologized. "My eyes aren't very good," he said, hurriedly.

  He was, however, quite justified in his mistake, for both riders worewide-rimmed sombreros and rode astride at a furious pace, bandanasfluttering, skirts streaming, and one was calling in shrill command, "OH,BILL!"

  As they neared the gate the driver drew up with a word of surprise. "Why,howdy, girls, howdy!" he said, with an assumption of innocence. "Were youwishin' fer to speak to me?"

  "Oh, shut up!" commanded one of the girls, a round-faced, freckled romp."You know perfectly well that Berrie is going home to-day--we told youall about it yesterday."

  "Sure thing!" exclaimed Bill. "I'd forgot all about it."

  "Like nothin'!" exclaimed the maid. "You've been countin' the hours tillyou got here--I know you."

  Meanwhile her companion had slipped from her horse. "Well, good-by,Molly, wish I could stay longer."

  "Good-by. Run down again."

  "I will. You come up."

  The young passenger sprang to the ground and politely said: "May I helpyou in?"

  Bill stared, the girl smiled, and her companion called: "Be careful,Berrie, don't hurt yourself, the wagon might pitch."

  The youth, perceiving that he had made another mistake, stammered anapology.

  The girl perceived his embarrassment and sweetly accepted his hand. "I ammuch obliged, all the same."

  Bill shook with malicious laughter. "Out in this country girls arewarranted to jump clean over a measly little hack like this," heexplained.

  The girl took a seat in the back corner of the dusty vehicle, and Billopened conversation with her by asking what kind of a time she had beenhaving "in the East."

  "Fine," said she.

  "Did ye get as far back as my old town?"

  "What town is that, Bill?"

  "Oh, come off! You know I'm from Omaha."

  "No, I only got as far as South Bend."

  The picture which the girl had made as she dashed up to the pasture gate(her hat-rim blown away from her brown face and sparkling eyes), unitedwith the kindliness in her voice as she accepted his gallant aid, entereda deep impression on the tourist's mind; but he did not turn his head tolook at her--perhaps he feared Bill's elbow quite as much as hisguffaw--but he listened closely, and by listening learned that she hadbeen "East" for several weeks, and also that she was known, and favorablyknown, all along the line, for whenever they met a team or passed a ranchsome one called out, "Hello, Berrie!" in cordial salute, and the men, oldand young, were especially pleased to see her.

  THE GIRL BEHIND HIM WAS A WONDROUS PART OF THIS WILDAND UNACCOUNTABLE COUNTRY]

  Meanwhile the stage rose and fell over the gigantic swells like a tinyboat on a monster sea, while the sun blazed ever more fervently from thesplendid sky, and the hills glowed with ever-increasing tumult of color.Through this land of color, of repose, of romance, the young travelerrode, drinking deep of the germless air, feeling that the girl behind himwas a wondrous part of this wild and unaccountable country.

  He had no chance to study her face again till the coach rolled down thehill to "Yancy's," where they were to take dinner and change horses.

  Yancy's ranch-house stood on the bank of a fine stream which purled--inkeen defiance of the hot sun--over a gravel bed, so near to the mountainsnows that their coolness still lingered in the ripples. The house, along, low, log hut, was fenced with antlers of the elk, adorned withmorning-glory vines, and shaded by lofty cottonwood-trees, and its greengrass-plat--after the sun-smit hills of the long morning's ride--was verygrateful to the Eastern man's eyes.

  With intent to show Bill that he did not greatly fear his smiles, theyouth sprang down and offered a hand to assist his charmingfellow-passenger to alight; and she, with kindly understanding, againaccepted his aid--to Bill's chagrin--and they walked up the path side byside.

  "This is all very new and wonderful to me," the young man said inexplanation; "but I suppose it's quite commonplace to you--and Bill."

  "Oh no--it's home!"

  "You were born here?"

  "No, I was bor
n in the East; but I've lived here ever since I was threeyears old."

  "By East you mean Kansas?"

  "No, Missouri," she laughed back at him.

  She was taller than most women, and gave out an air of fine unconscioushealth which made her good to see, although her face was too broad to bepretty. She smiled easily, and her teeth were white and even. Her hand henoticed was as strong as steel and brown as leather. Her neck rose fromher shoulders like that of an acrobat, and she walked with the sense ofsecurity which comes from self-reliant strength.

  She was met at the door by old lady Yancy, who pumped her hand up anddown, exclaiming: "My stars, I'm glad to see ye back! 'Pears like thecountry is just naturally goin' to the dogs without you. The dance lastSaturday was a frost, so I hear, no snap to the fiddlin', no gimp to thejiggin'. It shorely was pitiful."

  Yancy himself, tall, grizzled, succinct, shook her hand in his turn."Ma's right, girl, the country needs ye. I'm scared every time ye go awayfer fear some feller will snap ye up."

  She laughed. "No danger. Well, how are ye all, anyway?" she asked.

  "All well, 'ceptin' me," said the little old woman. "I'm just about ableto pick at my vittles."

  "She does her share o' the work, and half the cook's besides,"volunteered Yancy.

  "I know her," retorted Berrie, as she laid off her hat. "It's me for adip. Gee, but it's dusty on the road!"

  The young tourist--he signed W. W. Norcross in Yancy's register--watchedher closely and listened to every word she spoke with an intensity ofinterest which led Mrs. Yancy to say, privately:

  "'Pears like that young 'lunger' ain't goin' to forgit you if he can helpit."

  "What makes you think he's a 'lunger'?"

  "Don't haf to think. One look at him is enough."

  Thereafter a softer light--the light of pity--shone in the eyes of thegirl. "Poor fellow, he does look kind o' peaked; but this climate willbring him up to the scratch," she added, with optimistic faith in herbeloved hills.

  A moment later the down-coming stage pulled in, loaded to the side-lines,and everybody on it seemed to know Berea McFarlane. It was hello here andhello there, and how are ye between, with smacks from the women and opencries of "pass it around" on the part of the men, till Norcross marveledat the display.

  "She seems a great favorite," he observed to Yancy.

  "Who--Berrie? She's the whole works up at Bear Tooth. Good thing shedon't want to go to Congress--she'd lay Jim Worthy on the shelf."

  Berea's popularity was not so remarkable as her manner of receiving it.She took it all as a sort of joke--a good, kindly joke. She shook handswith her male admirers, and smacked the cheeks of her female friends withan air of modest deprecation. "Oh, you don't mean it," was one of herphrases. She enjoyed this display of affection, but it seemed not totouch her deeply, and her impartial, humorous acceptance of the courtshipof the men was equally charming, though this was due, according toremark, to the claims of some rancher up the line.

  She continued to be the theme of conversation at the dinner-table and yetremained unembarrassed, and gave back quite as good as she received.

  "If I was Cliff," declared one lanky admirer, "I'd be shot if I let youout of my sight. It ain't safe."

  She smiled broadly. "I don't feel scared."

  "Oh, _you're_ all right! It's the other feller--like me--that getshurt."

  "Don't worry, you're old enough and tough enough to turn a steel-jacketedbullet."

  This raised a laugh, and Mrs. Yancy, who was waiting on the table, put ina word: "I'll board ye free, Berrie, if you'll jest naturally turn uphere regular at meal-time. You do take the fellers' appetites. It's theonly time I make a cent."

  To the Eastern man this was all very unrestrained and deeply diverting.The people seemed to know all about one another notwithstanding the factthat they came from ranches scattered up and down the stage line twenty,thirty miles apart--to be neighbors in this country means to be anywherewithin a sixty-mile ride--and they gossiped of the countryside asminutely as the residents of a village in Wisconsin discuss their kind.News was scarce.

  The north-bound coach got away first, and as the girl came out to takeher place, Norcross said: "Won't you have my seat with the driver?"

  She dropped her voice humorously. "No, thank you, I can't stand forBill's clack."

  Norcross understood. She didn't relish the notion of being so close tothe frankly amorous driver, who neglected no opportunity to be personal;therefore, he helped her to her seat inside and resumed his place infront.

  Bill, now broadly communicative, minutely detailed his tastes in food,horses, liquors, and saddles in a long monologue which would have beentiresome to any one but an imaginative young Eastern student. Bill had avast knowledge of the West, but a distressing habit of repetition. He wasself-conscious, too, for the reason that he was really talking for thebenefit of the girl sitting in critical silence behind him, who, thoughhe frequently turned to her for confirmation of some of the morestartling of his statements, refused to be drawn into controversy.

  In this informing way some ten miles were traversed, the road climbingever higher, and the mountains to right and left increasing in grandeureach hour, till of a sudden and in a deep valley on the bank of anotherswift stream, they came upon a squalid saloon and a minute post-office.This was the town of Moskow.

  Bill, lumbering down over the wheel, took a bag of mail from the boot anddragged it into the cabin. The girl rose, stretched herself, and said:"This stagin' is slow business. I'm cramped. I'm going to walk onahead."

  "May I go with you?" asked Norcross.

  "Sure thing! Come along."

  As they crossed the little pole bridge which spanned the flood, thetourist exclaimed: "What exquisite water! It's like melted opals."

  "Comes right down from the snow," she answered, impressed by the poetryof his simile.

  He would gladly have lingered, listening to the song of the water, but asshe passed on, he followed. The opposite hill was sharp and the roadstony, but as they reached the top the young Easterner called out, "Seethe savins!"

  Before them stood a grove of cedars, old, gray, and drear, as weirdlyimpressive as the cacti in a Mexican desert. Torn by winds, scarred bylightnings, deeply rooted, tenacious as tradition, unlovely as Egyptianmummies, fantastic, dwarfed and blackened, these unaccountable creaturesclung to the ledges. The dead mingled horribly with the living, and whenthe wind arose--the wind that was robustly cheerful on the highhills--these hags cried out with low moans of infinite despair. It was asif they pleaded for water or for deliverance from a life that was a kindof death.

  The pale young man shuddered. "What a ghostly place!" he exclaimed, in alow voice. "It seems the burial-place of a vanished race."

  Something in his face, some note in his voice profoundly moved the girl.For the first time her face showed something other than childish goodnature and a sense of humor. "I don't like these trees myself," sheanswered. "They look too much like poor old squaws."

  For a few moments the man and the maid studied the forest of immemorial,gaunt, and withered trees--bright, impermanent youth confrontingtime-defaced and wind-torn age. Then the girl spoke: "Let's get out ofhere. I shall cry if we don't."

  In a few moments the dolorous voices were left behind, and the cheerfullight of the plain reasserted itself. Norcross, looking back down uponthe cedars, which at a distance resembled a tufted, bronze-green carpet,musingly asked: "What do you suppose planted those trees there?"

  The girl was deeply impressed by the novelty of this query. "I neverthought to ask. I reckon they just grew."

  "No, there's a reason for all these plantings," he insisted.

  "We don't worry ourselves much about such things out here," she replied,with charming humor. "We don't even worry about the weather. We just takethings as they come."

  They walked on talking with new intimacy. "Where is your home?" heasked.

  "A few miles out of Bear Tooth. You're from the East, Bill says--'the farEa
st,' we call it."

  "From New Haven. I've just finished at Yale. Have you ever been to NewYork?"

  "Oh, good Lord, no!" she answered, as though he had named the ends of theearth. "My mother came from the South--she was born in Kentucky--thataccounts for my name, and my father is a Missourian. Let's see, Yale isin the state of Connecticut, isn't it?"

  "Connecticut is no longer a state; it is only a suburb of New YorkCity."

  "Is that so? My geography calls it 'The Nutmeg State.'"

  "Your geography is behind the times. New York has absorbed all ofConnecticut and part of Jersey."

  "Well, it's all the same to us out here. Your whole country looks likethe small end of a slice of pie to us."

  "Have you ever been in a city?"

  "Oh yes, I go to Denver once in a while, and I saw St. Louis once; but Iwas only a yearling, and don't remember much about it. What are you doingout here, if it's a fair question?"

  He looked away at the mountains. "I got rather used up last spring, andmy doctor said I'd better come out here for a while and build up. I'mgoing up to Meeker's Mill. Do you know where that is?"

  "I know every stove-pipe in this park," she answered. "Joe Meeker is kindo' related to me--uncle by marriage. He lives about fifteen miles overthe hill from Bear Tooth."

  This fact seemed to bring them still closer together. "I'm glad of that,"he said, pointedly. "Perhaps I shall be permitted to see you now andagain? I'm going to be lonesome for a while, I'm afraid."

  "Don't you believe it! Joe Meeker's boys will keep you interested," sheassured him.

  The stage overtook them at this point, and Bill surlily remarked: "Ifyou'd been alone, young feller, I'd 'a' give you a chase." His resentmentof the outsider's growing favor with the girl was ludicrously evident.

  As they rose into the higher levels the aspen shook its yellowish leavesin the breeze, and the purple foot-hills gained in majesty. Great newpeaks came into view on the right, and the lofty cliffs of the Bear Toothrange loomed in naked grandeur high above the blue-green of the pineswhich clothed their sloping eastern sides.

  At intervals the road passed small log ranches crouching low on the banksof creeks; but aside from these--and the sparse animal life aroundthem--no sign of settlement could be seen. The valley lay as it had lainfor thousands of years, repeating its forests as the meadows of the lowerlevels send forth their annual grasses. Norcross said to himself: "I havecircled the track of progress and have re-entered the border America,where the stage-coach is still the one stirring thing beneath the sun."

  At last the driver, with a note of exultation, called out: "Grab a root,everybody, it's all the way down-hill and time to feed."

  And so, as the dusk came over the mighty spread of the hills to the east,and the peaks to the west darkened from violet to purple-black, the stagerumbled and rattled and rushed down the winding road through thickeningsigns of civilization, and just at nightfall rolled into the little townof Bear Tooth, which is the eastern gateway of the Ute Plateau.

  Norcross had given a great deal of thought to the young girl behind him,and thought had deepened her charm. Her frankness, her humor, her superbphysical strength and her calm self-reliance appealed to him, and themore dangerously, because he was so well aware of his own weakness andloneliness, and as the stage drew up before the hotel, he fervently said:"I hope I shall see you again?"

  Before she could reply a man's voice called: "Hello, there!" and a tallfellow stepped up to her with confident mien.

  Norcross awkwardly shrank away. This was her cowboy lover, of course. Itwas impossible that so attractive a girl should be unattached, and theknowledge produced in him a faint but very definite pang of envy andregret.

  The happy girl, even in the excitement of meeting her lover, did notforget the stranger. She gave him her hand in parting, and again hethrilled to its amazing power. It was small, but it was like a steelclamp. "Stop in on your way to Meeker's," she said, as a kindly man wouldhave done. "You pass our gate. My father is Joseph McFarlane, the ForestSupervisor. Good night."

  "Good night," he returned, with sincere liking.

  "Who is that?" Norcross heard her companion ask.

  She replied in a low voice, but he overheard her answer, "A poor'lunger,' bound for Meeker's--and Kingdom Come, I'm afraid. He seems anice young feller, too."

  "They always wait till the last minute," remarked the rancher, withindifferent tone.