Max Brand (19 page)

Feeling this new emotion, the old horizons of her mind gave way and
widened; her gentle nature, which had known nothing but smiles,
admitted the meaning of a frown. Did she not ride under the very
shadow of that frown with her two horses? Was she not armed? She
touched the holster at her hip, and smiled. To be sure, she could
never hit a mark with that ponderous weapon, but at least the pistol
gave the feeling of a dangerous lone rider, familiar with the wilds.

It was about dark, and she was on the verge of looking about for a
suitable camping-place, when the bay halted sharply, tossed up his
head, and whinnied. From the far distance she thought she heard the
beginning of a whinny in reply. She could not be sure, but the
possibility made her pulse quicken. In this region, she knew, no
stranger could be a friend.

So she started the bay at a gallop and put a couple of swift miles
between her and the point at which she had heard the sound; no living
creature, she was sure, could have followed the pace the bay held
during that distance. So, secure in her loneliness, she trotted the
horse around a bend of the rocks and came on the sudden light of
a campfire.

It was too late to wheel and gallop away; so she remained with her
hand fumbling at the butt of the revolver, and her eyes fixed on the
flicker of the fire. Not a voice accosted her. As far as she could
peer among the lithe trunks of the saplings, not a sign of a living
thing was near.

Yet whoever built that fire must be near, for it was obviously newly
laid. Perhaps some fleeing outlaw had pitched his camp here and had
been startled by her coming. In that case he lurked somewhere in the
woods at that moment, his keen eyes fixed on her, and his gun gripped
hard in his hand. Perhaps—and the thought thrilled her—this little
camp had been prepared by the same power, human or unearthly, which
had watched over her early that morning.

All reason and sane caution warned her to ride on and leave that camp
unmolested, but an overwhelming, tingling curiosity besieged her. The
thin column of smoke rose past the dark trees like a ghost, and
reaching the unsheltered space above the trees, was smitten by a light
wind and jerked away at a sharp angle.

She looked closer and saw a bed made of a great heap of the tips of
limbs of spruce, a bed softer than down and more fragrant than any
manufactured perfume, however costly.

Possibly it was the sight of this bed which tempted her down from the
saddle, at last. With the reins over her arm, she stood close to the
fire and warmed her hands, peering all the while on every side, like
some wild and beautiful creature tempted by the bait of the trap, but
shrinking from the scent of man.

As she stood there a broad, yellow moon edged its way above the hills
and rolled up through the black trees and then floated through the
sky. Beneath such a moon no harm could come to her. It was while she
stared at it, letting her tensed alertness relax little by little,
that she saw, or thought she saw, a hint of moving white pass over the
top of the rise of ground and disappear among the trees.

She could not be sure, but her first impulse was to gather the reins
with a jerk and place her foot in the stirrup; but then she looked
back and saw the fire, burning low now and asking like a human voice
to be replenished from the heap of small, broken fuel nearby; and she
saw also the softly piled bed of evergreens.

She removed her foot from the stirrup. What mattered that imaginary
figure of moving white? She felt a strong power of protection lying
all about her, breathing out to her with the keen scent of the pines,
fanning her face with the chill of the night breeze. She was alone,
but she was secure in the wilderness.

For many a minute she waited by that camp-fire, but there was never a
sign of the builder of it, though she centered all her will in making
her eyes and ears sharper to pierce through the darkness and to gather
from the thousand obscure whispers of the forest any sounds of human
origin. So she grew bold at length to take off the pack and the
saddles; the camp was hers, built for her coming by the invisible
power which surrounded her, which read her mind, it seemed, and
chose beforehand the certain route which she must follow.

She resigned herself to that force without question, and the worry of
her search disappeared. It seemed certain that this omnipotence,
whatever it might be, was reading her wishes and acting with all its
power to fulfill them, so that in the end it was merely a question of
time before she should accomplish her mission—before she should meet
Pierre le Rouge face to face.

That night her sleep was deep, indeed, and she only wakened when the
slant light of the sun struck across her eyes. It was a bright day,
crisp and chill, and through the clear air the mountains seemed
leaning directly above her, and chief of all two peaks, almost exactly
similar, black monsters which ruled the range. Toward the gorge
between them the valley of the Old Crow aimed its course, and straight
up that diminishing canyon she rode all day.

The broad, sandy bottom changed and contracted until the channel was
scarcely wide enough for the meager stream of water, and beside it she
picked her way along a narrow path with banks on either side, which
became with every mile more like cliffs, walling her in and dooming
her to a single destination.

It was evening before she came to the headwaters of the Old Crow, and
rode out into the gorge between the two mountains. The trail failed
her here. There was no semblance of a ravine to follow, except the
mighty gorge between the two peaks, and she ventured into the dark
throat of this pass, riding through a gate with the guarding towers
tall and black on either side.

The moment she was well started in it and the steep shadow of the
evening fell across her almost like night from the west, her heart
grew cold as the air. A sense of coming danger filled her. Yet she
kept on, holding a tight rein, throwing many a fearful glance at the
vast rocks which might have concealed an entire army in every mile
of their extent.

When she found the cabin she mistook it at first for merely another
rock of singular shape. It was at this shape that she stared, and
checked her horse, and not till then did she note the faint flicker of
a light no brighter than the phosphorescent glow of the eyes of a
hunted beast.

Her impulse was to drive her spurs home and pass that place at a
racing gallop, but she checked the impulse sharply and began to
reason. In the first place, it was doubtless only the cabin of some
prospector, such as she had often heard of. In the second place, night
was almost upon her, and she saw no desirable camping-place, or at
least any with the necessary water at hand.

What harm could come to her? Among Western men, she well knew a woman
is safer than all the law and the police of the settled East can make
her, so she nerved her courage and advanced toward the faint,
changing light.

The cabin was hidden very cunningly. Crouched among the mighty
boulders which earthquakes and storms of some wilder, earlier epoch
had torn away from the side of the crags above, the house was like
another stone, leaning its back to the mountain for support.

When she drew very close she knew that the light which glimmered at
the window must come from an open fire, and the thought of a fire
warmed her. She hallooed, and receiving no answer, fastened the horses
and entered the house. The door swung to behind her, as if of its own
volition it wished to make her a prisoner.

The place consisted of one room, and not a spacious one at that, but
arranged as a shelter, not a home. The cooking, apparently, was done
over the open hearth, for there was no sign of any stove, and,
moreover, on the wall near the fireplace hung several soot-blackened
pans and the inevitable coffeepot. There were two bunks built on
opposite sides of the room, and in the middle a table was made of a
long section split from the heart of a log by wedges, apparently, and
still rude and undressed, except for the preliminary smoothing off
which had been done with a broad-ax.

The great plank was supported at either end by a roughly constructed
sawbuck. It was very low, and for this reason two fairly square
boulders of comfortable proportions were sufficiently high to serve
as chairs.

For the rest, the furniture was almost too meager to suggest human
habitation, but from nails on the wall there hung a few shirts and a
pair of chaps, as well as a much-battered quirt. But a bucket of
water in a corner suggested cleanliness, and a small, round, highly
polished steel plate, hanging on the wall in lieu of a mirror, further
fortified her decision that the owner of this place must be a man
somewhat particular as to his appearance.

Here she interrupted her observations to build up the fire, which was
flickering down and apparently on the verge of going out. She worked
busily for a few minutes, and a roaring blaze rewarded her; she took
off her slicker to enjoy the warmth, and in doing so, turned, and saw
the owner of the place standing with folded arms just inside the door.

"Making yourself to home?" asked the host, in a low, strangely
pleasant voice.

"Do you mind?" asked Mary Brown. "I couldn't find a place that would
do for camping."

And she summoned her most winning smile. It was wasted, she knew at
once, for the stranger hardened perceptibly, and his lip curled
slightly in scorn or anger. In all her life Mary had never met a man
so obdurate, and, moreover, she felt that he could not be wooed into a
good humor.

"If you'd gone farther up the gorge," said the other, "you'd of found
the best sort of a camping place—water and everything."

"Then I'll go," said Mary, shrinking at the thought of the strange,
cold outdoors compared with this cheery fire. But she put on the
slicker and started for the door.

At the last moment the host was touched with compunction. He called:
"Wait a minute. There ain't no call to hurry. If you can get along
here just stick around."

For a moment Mary hesitated, knowing that only the unwritten law of
Western hospitality compelled that speech; it was the crackle and
flare of the bright fire which overcame her pride.

She laid off the slicker again, saying, with another smile: "For just
a few minutes, if you don't mind."

"Sure," said the other gracelessly, and tossed his own slicker onto a
bunk.

Covertly, but very earnestly, Mary was studying him. He was hardly
more than a boy—handsome, slender.

Now that handsome face was under a cloud of gloom, a frown on the
forehead and a sneer on the lips, but it was something more than the
expression which repelled Mary. For she felt that no matter how she
wooed him, she could never win the sympathy of this darkly handsome,
cruel youth; he was aloof from her, and the distance between them
could never be crossed. She knew at once that the mysterious bridges
which link men with women broke down in this case, and she was
strongly tempted to leave the cabin to the sole possession of her
surly host.

It was the warmth of the fire which once more decided against her
reason, so she laid hands on one of the blocks of stone to roll it
nearer to the hearth. She could not budge it. Then she caught the
sneering laughter of the man, and strove again in a fury. It was no
use; for the stone merely rocked a little and settled back in its
place with a bump.

"Here," said the boy, "I'll move it for you." It was a hard lift for
him, but he set his teeth, raised the stone in his slender hands, and
set it down again at a comfortable distance from the fire.

"Thank you," smiled Mary, but the boy stood panting against the wall,
and for answer merely bestowed on her a rather malicious glance of
triumph, as though he gloried in his superior strength and despised
her weakness.

Some conversation was absolutely necessary, for the silence began to
weigh on her. She said: "My name is Mary Brown."

"Is it?" said the boy, quite without interest. "You can call me Jack."

He sat down on the other stone, his dark face swept by the shadows of
the flames, and rolled a cigarette, not deftly, but like one who is
learning the mastery of the art. It surprised Mary, watching his
fumbling fingers. She decided that Jack must be even younger than
he looked.

She noticed also that the boy cast, from time to time, a sharp, rather
worried glance of expectation toward the door, as if he feared it
would open and disclose some important arrival. Furthermore, those old
worn shirts hanging on the wall were much too large for the throat and
shoulders of Jack.

Apparently, he lived there with some companion, and a companion of
such a nature that he did not wish him to be seen by visitors. This
explained the lad's coldness in receiving a guest; it also stimulated
Mary to linger about a few more minutes.

Not that she stayed there without a growing fear, but she still felt
about her, like the protection of some invisible cloak, the presence
of the strange guide who had followed her up the valley of the
Old Crow.

It seemed as if the boy were reading her mind.

"See you got two horses. Come up alone?"

"Most of the way," said Mary, and tingled with a rather feline
pleasure to see that her curtness merely sharpened the interest
of Jack.

The boy puffed on his cigarette, not with long, slow breaths of
inhalation like a practiced smoker, but with a puckered face as though
he feared that the fumes might drift into his eyes.

"Why," thought Mary, "he's only a child!"

Her heart warmed a little as she adopted this view of her surly host.
Being warmed, and having much to say, words came of themselves. Surely
it would do no harm to tell the story to this queer urchin, who might
be able to throw some light on the nature of the invisible protector.