They of the High Trails Read online

  IV

  THE LONESOME MAN

  The road that leads to the historic north shoulder of Solidor is lonelynow. The stages that once crawled painfully upward through its flowerymeadows are playhouses for the children of Silver Plume, and the brakesthat once howled so resoundingly on the downward way are rusting toashes in the weeds that spring from the soil of the Silverado Queen'sunused corral. The railway, half a hundred miles to the north, has leftthe famous pass to solitude and to grass.

  Once a week, or possibly oftener, a cattleman or prospector ridesacross, or a little band of tourists plod up or down,--thinking they arepenetrating to the heart of the Rockies,--but for the most part thetrail is passing swiftly to the unremembered twilight of the tragicpast. There are, it is true, one or two stamp-mills above Pemberton, butthey draw their supplies from the valley to the west and not from theplain's cities, and the upper camps have long since been deserted by therestless seeker of sudden gold.

  It is a desolate, unshaded country, made so by the reckless hand of thetenderfoot prospector, who, in the days of the silver rush, cut andburned the timber sinfully, and the great peaks are meticulated with therotting boles of noble pines and spotted with the decaying stumps ofthe firs which once made the whole land as beautiful as a park. Here andthere, however, a segment of this splendid ancient forest remains togive some hint of what the ranges were before the destroying horde ofsilver-seekers struck and scarred it.

  Along this trail and above the last vestige of its standing trees a mancould be seen, walking eastward and upward, one bright afternoon inAugust, a couple of years ago. He moved slowly, for he was heavily builtand obviously not much used to climbing, for he paused often to breathe.The air at that altitude is thin and, to the one not accustomed to it,most unsatisfying. In the intervals of his pauses the traveler's eyesswept the heights and explored each canyon wall as if in search of aresting-place. Around him the conies cried and small birds skimmed fromledge to ledge, but his dark face did not lighten with joy of the beautywhich shone over his head nor to that which flamed under his feet. Itwas plain that he was too preoccupied with some inner problem, toointent on his quest, to give eye or ear to the significance of bird orflower.

  Huge Solidor, bare and bleak, rose grandly to the north, propping thehigh-piled shining clouds, and the somber, dust-covered fields of snowshowed to what far height his proud summit soared above his fellows.Little streams of icy water trickled through close-knit, velvety swardwhereon small flowers, white and gold and lilac, showed like fairyfootprints. Down from the pass a chill wind, delicious and invigorating,rushed as palpably as if it were a liquid wave. In all this upper regionno shelter offered to the tired man.

  A few minutes later, as he rounded the sloping green bastion whichflanks the peak to the south, the man's keen eyes lighted upon a smallcabin which squatted almost unnoticeably against a gray ledge some fivehundred feet higher than the rock whereon he stood. The door of this hutwas open and the figure of a man, dwarfed by distance, could be detectedintently watching the pedestrian on the trail. Unlike mostcabin-dwellers, he made no sign of greeting, uttered no shout of cheer;on the contrary, as the stranger approached he disappeared within hisden like a marmot.

  There was something appealing in the slow mounting of the man on foot.He was both tired and breathless, and as he neared the cabin (which wasbuilt on ground quite twelve thousand feet above sea-level) his limbsdragged, and every step he made required his utmost will. Twice hestopped to recover his strength and to ease the beating of his heart,and as he waited thus the last time the lone cabin-dweller appeared inhis door and silently gazed, confronting his visitor with a strangelyinhospitable and prolonged scrutiny. It was as if he were a lonelyanimal, jealous of his ground and resentful even of the most casualhuman inspection.

  The stranger, advancing near, spoke. "Is this the trail to SilverPlume?" he asked, his heaving breast making his speech broken.

  "It is," replied the miner, whose thin face and hawk-like eyes betrayedthe hermit and the man on guard.

  "How far is it across the pass?"

  "About thirty miles."

  "A good night's walk. Are there any camps above here?"

  "None."

  "How far is it to the next cabin?"

  "Some twelve miles."

  The miner, still studying the stranger with piercing intensity,expressed a desire to be reassured. "What are you doing up here on thistrail? Are you a mining expert? A spy?" he seemed to ask.

  The traveler, divining his curiosity, explained. "I stayed last night atthe mill below. I'm a millwright. I have some property to inspect inSilver Plume, hence I'm walking across. I didn't know it was so far; Iwas misinformed. I'm not accustomed to this high air and I'm used up.Can you take care of me?"

  The miner glanced round at the heap of ore which betrayed his craft, andthen back at the dark, bearded, impassive face.

  "Come in," he said at last, "I'll feed you." But his manner was at oncesurly and suspicious.

  The walls of the hovel were built partly of logs and partly of boulders,and its roof was compacted of dirt and gravel; but it was decentlyhabitable. The furniture (hand-rived out of slabs) was scanty, and thefloor was laid with planks, yet everything indicated many days of wear.

  "You've been here some time," the stranger remarked rather than asked.

  "Ten years."

  Thereafter the two men engaged in a silent duel. The millwright, leaningback in his rude chair, stretched his tired limbs and gazed down thevalley with no further word of inquiry, while his grudging host prepareda primitive meal and set it upon a box which served as a table.

  "You may eat," he curtly said.

  In complete silence and with calm abstraction the stranger turned to thefood and ate and drank, accepting it all as if this were a roadhouse andhe a paying guest. The sullen watchfulness of his host seemed not todisturb him, not even to interest him.

  At length the miner spoke as if in answer to a question--the question hefeared.

  "No, my mine has not panned out well--not yet. The ore is low-grade andthe mill is too far away."

  To this informing statement the other man did not so much as lift aneyebrow. His face was like a closed door, his eyes were curtainedwindows. He mused darkly as one who broods on some bitter defeat.

  Nevertheless, he was a human presence and the lonely dweller on theheights could not resist the charm of his guest's personality, remote ashe seemed.

  "Where do you live?" he asked.

  There was a moment's hesitation.

  "In St. Paul."

  "Ever been here before?"

  The dark man shook his shaggy head slowly, and dropped his eyes as ifthis were the end of the communication. "No, and I never expect to comeagain."

  The miner perceived power in his guest's resolute taciturnity, and thevery weight of the silence eventually opened his own lips. From momentto moment the impulse to talk grew stronger within him. There wassomething as compelling as heat in this reticent visitor whose soul wasso intent on inward problems that it perceived nothing of interest in anepaulet of gold on the shoulder of Mount Solidor.

  "Few come this trail now," the miner volunteered, as he cleared thetable. "I am alone and seldom see a human being drifting my way. I donot invite them."

  The stranger refilled his pipe and again leaned back against the wall inponderous repose. If he heard his host's remark he gave no sign of it,and yet, despite the persistence of his guest's silence--perhaps becauseof it--the lonely gold-seeker babbled on with increasing candor,contradicting himself, revealing, hiding, edging round his story,confessing to his hopes of riches, betraying in the end the secrets ofhis lonely life. It was as if the gates of his unnatural reserve hadbroken down and the desire to be heard, to be companioned, hadover-borne all his early caution.

  "It's horribly lonesome up here," he confessed. "Sometimes I think I'llgive it all up and go back to civilization. When I came here the passhad its traffic; now no one rides it, which is lucky for me
," he added."I have no prying visitors--I mean no one to contest my claim--and yet aman can't do much alone. Even if my ore richens I must transport it orbuild a mill. Sometimes I wonder what I'm living for, stuck away in thishole in the hills. I was born to better things--"

  He checked himself at this moment, as if he were on the edge ofself-betrayal, but his listener seemed not vitally interested in thesepersonal details. However, he made some low-voiced remark, and, as ifhypnotized, the miner resumed his monologue.

  "The nights are the worst. They are endless--and sometimes when I cannotsleep I feel like surrendering to my fate--" Here again he broke offsharply. "That's nonsense, of course. I mean, it seems as if a life weretoo much to pay for a crazy act--I mean a mine. You'll ask why I don'tsell it, but it's all I have and, besides, no one has any faith in itbut myself. I cannot sell, and I can't live down there among men."

  Gabbling, keeping time to his nervous feet and hands, endlesslyrepeating himself, denying, confessing, the miner raged on, and throughit all the dark-browed guest smoked tranquilly, too indifferent to ask aquestion or make comment; but when, once or twice, he lifted his eyes,the garrulous one shuddered and turned away, a scared look on hishaggard face. He seemed unable to endure that steady glance.

  At last, for a little space, he remained silent; then, as if compelledby some increasing magic in his hearer, he burst forth:

  "I'm not here entirely by my own fault--I mean my own choice. A man is aproduct of his environment, you know that, and mine made me idle,wasteful. Drink got me--drink made me mad--and so--and so--here I amstruggling to win back a fortune. Once I gambled--on the wheel; now I amgambling with nature on the green of these mountain slopes; but I'llwin--I have already won--and soon I shall sell and go back to the greatcities."

  Again his will curbed his treacherous tongue, and, walking to thedoorway, he stood for a moment, looking out; then he fiercely snarled:

  "Oh, God, how I hate it all--how I hate myself! I am going mad with thislife! The squeak of these shadowy conies, the twitter of these unseenlittle birds, go on day by day. They'll drive me mad! If you had notcome to-night I could not have slept--I would have gone to the mill, andthat means drink to me--drink and oblivion. You came and saved me. Ifeared you--hated you then; now I bless you."

  Once more he seemed to answer an unspoken query:

  "I have no people. My mother is dead, my father has disowned me--he doesnot even know I am alive. I'm the black devil of the family--but I shallgo back--"

  His face was working with passion, and though he took a seat oppositehis guest, his hands continued to flutter aimlessly and his head movedrestlessly from side to side.

  "I don't know why I am telling all this to you," he went on after apause. "I reckon it's because of the weakness of the thirst that iscoming over me. Some time I'll go down to those hell-holes at the millsand never come back--the stuff they sell to me is destructive asfire--it is poison! You're a man of substance, I can see that--you're nohobo like most of the fellows out here--that's why I'm talking to you.You remind me of some one I know. There's something familiar in youreyes."

  The man with the beard struck the ashes from his pipe and began scrapingit. "There is always a woman in these cases," he critically remarked.

  The miner took this simple statement as a challenging question. Hisexcitement visibly increased, but he did not at once reply. He talked onaimlessly, incoherently, struggling like a small animal in a torrent. Herose at last, and as he stood in the doorway, breathing deeply, his facelivid in the sunset light, the muscles of his jaw trembled.

  The stranger observed his host's agitation, but put away his pipe withslow and steady hand. He said nothing, and yet an observer would havedeclared he held the other and weaker man in the grasp of an inexorablehypnotic silence. Finally he fixed a calm, cold glance upon his host, asif summoning him to answer.

  "Yes," the miner confessed, "there is always a woman in thecase--another and more fortunate man. The woman is false, the man istreacherous. You trust and they betray. Such beings ruin andmadden--they make outlaws such as I am--"

  "Love is above will," asserted the millwright, with decision.

  The other man fiercely turned. "I know what you mean--you mean the womanis not to be condemned--that love goes where it is drawn. That is true,but deceit is not involuntary--it is deliberate--"

  "Sometimes we deceive ourselves."

  "In her case it was deceit," retorted the miner, who was now so deeplyengaged with his own story that each general observation on the part ofhis guest was taken to be specific and personal.

  The room was growing dusky, and the stranger's glance appeared keener,more insistent, as his body melted into the shadow. His shaggy head andblack beard all but disappeared; only the faint outlines of his foreheadremained, and yet, as his physical self faded into the gloom, hispersonality, his psychic self, loomed larger. His will enveloped thehermit, drawing upon him with irresistible power. It was as if he werewringing him dry of a confession as the priest closes in upon theculprit.

  "I had my happy days--my days of care-free youth," the unquiet man wassaying. "But my time of innocence was short. Evil companions came earlyand reckless deeds followed.... I knew I was losing something, I knew Iwas being drawn downward, but I could not escape. Day and night I calledfor help, and then--_she_ came--"

  "Who came?"

  "The one who made me forget all the others, the one who made meashamed."

  "And then?"

  "And then for a time I was happy in the hope that I might win her and soredeem my life."

  "And she?"

  "She pitied me--at first--and loved me--at least I thought so."

  As his excitement increased his words came slower, burdened withpassion. He spoke like a prisoner addressing a judge, his voice but ahusky whisper.

  "I told her I was unworthy of her--that was when I believed her to be anangel. I promised to begin a new life for her sake. Then she promisedme--helped me--and all the while she was false to me--false as ahell-cat!"

  "How?" queried the almost invisible man, and his voice was charged withstern demand.

  "All the time she was promised to another man--and that man my enemy."

  Here his frenzy flared forth in a torrent of words.

  "Then--then I went mad. My brain was scarred and numb. I lost all senseof pity--all fear of law--all respect for woman. I only knew mywrongs--my despair--my hate. I watched, I waited, I found themtogether--"

  "And then? What did you do then?" demanded the stranger, rising from hisseat with sudden energy, his voice deep, insistent, masterful. "Tell mewhat you did?"

  The miner's wild voice died to a hesitant whisper. "I--I fled."

  "But before that--before you fled?"

  "What is it to you?" asked the hermit, gazing with scared eyes at theman who towered above him like the demon of retribution. "Who are you?"

  "I am the avenger!" answered the other. "The man you hated was mybrother. The woman you killed was his wife."

  The fugitive fell upon his knees with a cry like that of one beingstrangled.

  Out of the darkness a red flame darted, and the crouching man fell tothe floor, a crumpled, bloody heap.

  For a long time the executioner stood above the body, waiting, listeningfrom the shadow to the faint receding breath-strokes of his victim. Whenall was still he restored his weapon to its sheath and stepped over thethreshold into the keen and pleasant night.

  As he closed the door behind him the stranger raised his eyes toSolidor, whose sovereign, cloud-like crest swayed among the stars.

  "Now I shall rest," he said, with solemn satisfaction.

  THE TRAIL TRAMP

  _--mounted wanderer, horseman of the restless heart, still rides from place to place, contemptuous of gold, carrying in his parfleche all the vanishing traditions of the West._