The Heart of Thunder Mountain
- -
- 100%
- +
“And I think she’s right, Seth Huntington!” exclaimed Claire, coming to Marion, and putting an arm, around her. “If there’s any ruffian it’s you, and I’m ashamed of you!”
Huntington’s jaw dropped, and he stared at them, his eyes bulging with astonishment. Then suddenly he turned, and bolted from the room. The door leading to the kitchen was flung shut behind him; then the outer door banged; and in a moment his heavy footsteps were heard on the veranda, where he strode to and fro in helpless rage and shame and wonder. He had a feeling of soreness over all his body, as if some one had roundly pummelled him; his face itched beneath his beard; he could not find a comfortable place for his hands. Well, he agreed with Haig about one thing: women were hell! And here was Claire siding with Marion against him; and calling him a ruffian! Was he a ruffian? What had he said to merit that? Couldn’t they take a joke? But this casuistry did not go down, though he tried to hammer it down with many violent gestures. He began to have certain qualms that he recognized as premonitory signs of weakening; and he struggled to bolster up his anger. Damn Haig! If he had only finished him that day in the timber, when the others had wanted to! But this was a vain regret. There remained the present situation. Gradually his steps faltered. He stopped often to look vacantly at the stars. They had nothing to say to him. He felt very solitary, alone in the world.
After a time the kitchen door was opened softly.
“Seth!” came a whisper from that direction.
“Well?” he answered uncertainly.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“No.”
“Well, we are. The fire’s going out.”
“Umph!”
“Won’t you please fetch some wood?”
No reply. Claire slipped out, and crept up to him.
“Come!” she commanded softly. “Do you want us to freeze?”
Still no reply.
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“It’s time you went to bed.”
“No, it isn’t. We’re not going to bed until you come in and beg Marion’s pardon.”
“No, I’ll be–”
She tried to clap her hand over his mouth, but succeeded only in hitting his nose a smart tap, which was just as effective, since it checked him.
“No swearing, either!” she went on. “You’ve been rude enough for one night, don’t you think? I’ll tell you my opinion of it later. She’s going to be easy with you because she’s sorry about it all. Come!”
Huntington did not move, or answer her.
“Do you want her to leave by the next stage–and have this all over the Park too–like Haig’s visit? Come!”
He groaned, but followed her. At the door of the living room he caught sight of Marion seated before the fireplace, where only embers glowed dull red.
“I’ll get some wood,” he said quickly, glad of even a few minutes’ grace.
Fortune tossed him a small favor: the wood bin near the kitchen door was empty–almost. Another time that would have brought a storm down on the head of the unlucky stable hand whose duty it was to keep the bin filled. But now Seth rejoiced at having to go to the wood yard, and found it much too near.
He re-entered the house with an armload of sticks, and placed them carefully on the embers; stirred up the glowing mass with a poker; readjusted the fresh wood; provoked the red coals once more; and at last, having exhausted the dilatory possibilities of the fire, stood up clumsily to face the ordeal.
“Well, Marion,” he began awkwardly, “I’m in for it, I reckon.”
She did not reply; she only looked at him. There were dark shadows around her eyes that heightened the pallor of her cheeks; but the eyes themselves were clear and piercing, and as cold now as they had been fiery before. For once in his life Huntington was conscious of his bulk; he felt conspicuous; and the wound in his shoulder, almost healed, began to itch and ache.–There were worse things than being shot.–If she would only turn those eyes away from him! And then it dawned upon him that she was waiting.
“I beg your pardon, Marion!” he stammered. “I was ugly. I didn’t really mean–I hope you’ll forgive me.”
For a minute longer she let him stew in his kettle, then lifted him out scrupulously, at the end of a very long fork, and dropped him steaming, as if he had been a lump of unsavory fat.
“Yes, I forgive you,” she said, very, very distantly. “You probably weren’t thinking.”
If that was forgiveness! But he did not know–even Claire did not know then–how deeply he had wounded Marion with his rude and accusing speech,–as if he had called a jeering crowd to look at the little flower that blooms but once, and very secretly, in a woman’s heart. Forgive him? She never would forgive him for that blundering outburst, which was indeed the more unforgivable because he did not seriously mean, and certainly did not believe, the thing he said.
“Thank you, Marion dear!” said Claire softly.
At that Marion suddenly rushed to Claire, and knelt by her chair. She had her own faults to be forgiven.
“I’ve been very foolish!” she cried. “I’ve caused you pain and humiliation. I’m sorry. Please forgive me!”
So they cried it out in each other’s arms, while Huntington rolled a cigarette, took one whiff of it, and tossed it into the fire. It required a stronger narcotic than tobacco to soothe his fevered spirits. After a while he whirled around and faced the two women.
“See here, Marion!” he said. “It’s all our fault for not telling you about Haig. But we didn’t want to annoy you with our troubles, and we never imagined you’d stumble on to him. Do you know now what this is all about?”
She spared him the answer that she had heard something on that point the day of the shooting.
“No; that is, very little.”
“Well, it’s just this: Before he came here we were all playing the game peacefully together. Each of us had just about enough land, with the cut hay and the winter pastures, to pull through the winter, and there was just enough free grazing up in the edges of the timber to keep the cattle going through the summer and early fall.”
“That was government land,” explained Claire.
“And open to all of us,” added Seth. “We never had any dispute with the Englishman who owned Haig’s ranch before him, and he got fair treatment, though he wasn’t here much of the time to look after it. We heard he had some family trouble, and one day when he’d been gone a long time–”
“That’s four years now,” interrupted Claire.
“Yes. Haig showed up, and said the ranch was his. He started in straight off to hog the whole thing. Bought a thousand head of cattle–that made thirteen hundred head–almost as many as all the rest of us had put together. He turned the thirteen hundred into the open range, and hired men to keep them moving the right way for the good feed, and–”
“He had a perfect right to do that, you see,” Claire put in hastily.
“Legal right, maybe,” Huntington went on. “But he didn’t have any real right to more than his share. We organized, bunched our cattle, and stayed with ’em. That way we were stronger than he, and soon had his cattle starving. Then he disappeared, and we didn’t see anything of him for three weeks. And what do you suppose the damned skunk–”
“Seth!” cried Claire warningly, with an anxious look at Marion.
Marion merely shook her head.
“Well, he fooled us. He went to Denver, got a lawyer on the job, looked up the records, found there’d been a mistake in the surveys, and came back to us with a government deed to almost half the forest reserve that we’d been using as free pasture. Then he ordered us off, and we went, with six Winchesters pointed at our fool backs. What do you think of that, Marion?”
“But why?” asked Marion. “I mean what was his motive in all that? He isn’t a cattleman. I mean–I don’t think he cares enough–”
She stopped, finding herself in dangerous waters.
“Why? Because he’s a–” Huntington checked himself. “Anyhow, he barely escaped a lynching that night. And if he only knew it, I’m the one that stopped it. I said we’d find some other way. But we haven’t found it. We had to bring most of our stock down to the pastures we needed for winter, and in winter we had to buy hay at eighteen dollars a ton. And Haig had hay to sell. Three of our men were driven out of business. Tom Jenkins, being dead broke and discouraged, with a family, killed himself. I had to sell off a third of my cattle, and twenty head disappeared, and I never saw them again. And maybe you can understand now how I felt when I saw him this evening, standing there in my own house, grinning at me. God!”
He turned, grabbed up the poker, and began jabbing viciously at the fire.
Yes, Marion could understand that, but–She was not satisfied. There was something missing from Seth’s narrative. Haig’s accusations that day at the post-office–his missing cattle, and the cut wires at the Forbidden Pasture–And if all that Seth had said was true, which she doubted, the mystery was only deepened. She was sure that Haig was only playing a part, that he was not a cattleman by choice, and that his heart was not in the game, whatever it was. She wanted to ask questions, but refrained, lest she should again arouse Seth’s suspicions. She would see Smythe.
CHAPTER X
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
The next afternoon Huntington, with painful diffidence, yet anxious to come to some sort of terms with Marion, proposed that she should begin her shooting lessons. She acquiesced in a manner that relieved him immensely, for she, on her side, was sorely in need of distraction. So they were presently on the hillside behind the ranch house with the rifles,–Seth’s Winchester and the little Savage he had bought for Claire, who, to his great disappointment, did not like guns, and never could be taught to see the sights with one eye closed. His delight, therefore, was unbounded when Marion took to the Savage with almost the quick adaptability of a man. True, her first shots went high and wild among the foliage, but she was fast getting the grip of the gun, and had actually once scraped the bark of the tree on which the target of white paper was tacked, when they were hailed by a cheerful voice demanding permission for an unarmed and perfectly harmless man to approach.
“Smythe!” growled Huntington, resenting the interruption. Then aloud, as heartily as he could: “Hello, Smythe! You’re quite safe.”
“What’s going on here, anyhow?” asked Smythe.
“Where are your boasted powers of observation?” retorted Marion.
“It’s more polite to ask.”
“In Paradise Park?” she queried, in a tone of mild surprise.
Seth’s face reddened as he stooped over a half-empty cartridge-box. He had congratulated himself too soon. But while Smythe and Marion exchanged more badinage he refilled the magazine of the Savage, and held it ready.
“Will you have another try?” he asked.
“Yes, please, if Mr. Smythe will only keep still. I know I can never hit anything if he talks.”
“I’m mum!” he answered.
The first shot went wild. So, indeed, the second and third.
“There! What did I tell you?” cried Marion petulantly.
“But I didn’t say a word!” protested Smythe.
“What were you thinking, then?”
“What a charming Diana–”
“Don’t think any more, please!”
“But I can’t stop thinking!”
“In that case you’d better talk. You certainly talk enough without thinking.”
“Bull’s-eye!” he cried joyously. “Now try again!”
“I suppose I must learn not to be bothered.”
She pressed her lips together, and steadied herself resolutely. She would show him! The next shot cut a furrow in the bark of the pine; the second struck within two inches of the target; and the third pinked the edge of the paper itself.
“That will do for this time,” she said, in some elation, as she handed the gun to Huntington.
“To-morrow you’ll do better,” he assured her. “And then we’ll try it at longer range.”
He began to pick up the cartridge boxes and his own rifle.
“You’re not riding to-day?” said Smythe.
“How did you guess it?” she demanded, laughing.
“Oh, a truce! A truce!” he pleaded. “I mean, if you are not going for a ride, will you walk up the hill there?”
He pointed toward the pines.
“Why?”
“To please me,” he answered.
But she caught a look in his eyes that decided her.
“Certainly, if you are so easily pleased.”
“Oh, I’m a very Lazarus at the table of life!” he retorted gaily. “Every crumb comforts me.”
She laughed, and stepped away with him among the rocks, while Huntington, still swearing at Smythe for a meddling fool, strode down the hill.
Marion surmised that Smythe had something to say to her. Had he heard already? Had the news of yesterday’s comedy, that was so near a tragedy, already spread far and wide over the Park? But that was scarcely possible, since Haig’s men would be silent, and Seth had kept Williams too busy all day for gossip.
They climbed the rocky slope without more words, clambering over bowlders and fallen tree trunks, until they reached the summit of the hill, and flung themselves down, hot and panting, on a great flat rock that commanded a sweeping view of the Park. At one side more hills rose, small mountains in themselves, thickly wooded, with white peaks towering behind. On the other, the valley of the Brightwater lay green and bronze in the sun, with the white stream curling and curving among the meadows. Far across the valley, beyond the ridge that divided the Park in unequal halves–that fateful ridge!–the western range of mountains glittered, dazzling white.
Marion’s eyes at once sought out Thunder Mountain. What would it say to her to-day? Storm! Its top was half-hidden in a gray-black swirl of clouds, though the sun was bright on the snow-clad peaks around it.
“What do you see?” asked Smythe, as soon as his lungs would consent to speech.
“My mountain,” she answered, without turning her head.
“Which is that?”
“Thunder Mountain.”
“Umph! You’re welcome to it!”
She was silent.
“Why your mountain?” he asked presently.
“I don’t know.”
“But there must be a reason–or something.”
“That’s just it–something. It’s hideous, but it fascinates me. I can’t help thinking that–”
“That what?”
“I don’t know.”
They laughed together.
“It’s got a bad reputation,” said Smythe.
“Perhaps that’s the reason.”
Then she was embarrassed, thinking unexpectedly of another bad reputation in the Park.
“Perhaps,” he answered, smiling at the back of her head, where the tawny hair curved up adorably from the soft, white neck.
“Tell me about it!” she said at length.
“It’s a death trap.”
“You mean–men have gone up there?”
“Oh, yes!”
“How?”
“There’s a trail, what’s left of it. The Warpath, they call it.”
“The Warpath?”
“Yes. It was first a war trail, when fighting tribes lived in these mountains. But even the Indians didn’t use it often–only in midsummer. It’s a trail over bare rocks, marked by stones set up at long intervals. The Indians didn’t mark it. They had their own ways of knowing it. But after the Indians came trappers, hunters, prospectors, and some of them set up the stones. It would be a valuable short cut between the Park and the San Luis country, if it were safe. But it’s not. I’m told that many lives have been lost on it. I can’t find details except of one tragedy. Some ten years ago a party of English people, guests at the ranch that Haig now owns, went on a pleasure trip to Thunder Mountain. They meant to go only as far as timber line. It’s not difficult as far as the foot of the scarp that lifts to the flat top you see yonder. It’s done on horseback to that point–and across too, if you care to try it. But on top–that’s another matter. It isn’t the mountain itself that gets you. It’s the storms. The English party ventured on top, and three of them never came back. The wind hurled them into a chasm, and their bodies were never recovered. That’s enough for me, thank you!”
“Has nobody in the Park ever been across?” Marion persisted.
“Old Parker–Jim Parker’s father–crossed it once, many years ago. But he came back another way, around by Tellurium. Young Parker has been as far as the Devil’s Chair. That’s the top of the notch where the wind sucks you into it–unless, by good chance, it blows you away from it.”
“And no one else?” Marion insisted, breathless.
“One other man has gone to the Twin Sisters. That’s halfway over.”
“Who was that?” she asked; as if she did not know.
“He balked at the women, you see.”
Smythe chuckled.
“The Twin Sisters,” Smythe went on, “are two huge gray rocks, I’m told, vaguely resembling carved figures. The trail passes between them. There’s no other possible way, and when the wind is blowing it shoots out between them like water from a fire-hose. Haig was caught just there by a storm. He came back fighting mad, and swore he’d cross Thunder Mountain yet, or die there. But that reminds me. I’ve got news for you.”
“News?” asked Marion, with a start.
Her first thought was of Sunnysides. Had Haig decided not to wait for Farrish? But no! It would be something about yesterday’s sensation.
“It keeps well, I see,” she said lightly.
“I didn’t want to excite you so soon after that long climb.”
“Thank you! If you think I can’t stand it you just keep it to yourself–if you can!”
“But I came expressly to tell you.”
“Then why don’t you expressly tell me? Don’t be exasperating, Mr. Smythe!”
He grinned exultantly.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve been eavesdropping.”
“What?”
“Not intentionally. Pure accident. But I didn’t stick my fingers in my ears.”
“No, I can understand that.”
“Thanks. It was this way: I was fishing–for fish, really. Under a clump of willows, just where the road from Haig’s joins the main valley road. You know?”
“Yes, yes!”
“Haig and another man, Higgins, it turned out to be–he’s a Denver lawyer–with his family for an outing down at Cobalt Lake. It appeared he’d been up to see Haig partly on business and partly just for a friendly visit. They separated there, after a little conversation.
“‘It’s strange you’ve never heard a word from him,’ said Higgins.
“‘Four years,’ answered Haig.
“‘He’s probably off in South Africa somewhere.’
“‘Or India. It’s a long trail be followed, no doubt.’
“‘You can only wait, I suppose,’ Higgins said.
“‘Well, I’ve nothing else to do,’ Haig replied, with a laugh.” Smythe paused.
“That’s something to think about,” he said musingly. “Who is this ‘he’? And why is Haig waiting for him? Well, that was all I heard about that. Higgins next asked Haig if he wouldn’t please change his mind about riding down to see them.
“‘No,’ Haig answered. ‘I never go anywhere. I’m not very sociable, no longer a gregarious creature. Ask my neighbors about that!’
“‘Oh, hang your neighbors! This is different. We’re not living here, and we can’t pester you. But you see I got Hail Columbia from my wife for not bringing you to see her in Denver, and she’s dead set on getting acquainted with you here. She says you’re the most unselfish man in the world. I’d be jealous if–’
“‘Oh, come now!’ protested Haig, laughing.
“‘It’s true. So you’ll drop this hermit business for once, won’t you? It will give my wife much pleasure.’
“There was a little silence.
“‘Well, have your own way,’ said Haig at last ‘I suppose a man’s got to humor his lawyer, if he doesn’t want to lose a plain case some day. But I warn you. I’m not very amusing, that is, I trust not.’
“‘Good!’ cried Higgins. ‘We’ll not keep you long. The day after to-morrow, shall we say? Right! Now good-by! And don’t let Huntington pot you–before you’ve seen Mrs. Higgins.’
“They both laughed at that. Higgins drove off down the valley in his road wagon, and Haig galloped toward home. And then I found a trout had run away with my hook. Big fellow too, and clever as Satan. Scuttled away under a rock and worked loose before I could get after him. But it was a good day’s fishing just the same, don’t you think?”
She did not reply at once; and Smythe discreetly busied himself tossing stones at an impertinent chipmunk that popped in and out among the rocks and fallen limbs.
“Have you seen this Mrs. Higgins?” asked Marion suddenly.
“No,” Smythe answered gravely, though his eyes twinkled wickedly. “But Higgins is sixty at least, and I fancy his wife’s too old to be–” A warning look checked him. “But really, Miss Gaylord, you ought not to jump down my throat after I’ve brought you such an interesting knot for your pretty hands to untie.”
She laughed at his lugubrious countenance, then stood up, and reached out a hand to him, letting him hold it for just a breath of time.
“No, you’re a good friend. I know it.”
“I’m not very deep,” he said, with a touch of dejection. “Nobody ever takes me very seriously. But I hope you’ll trust me!”
“Indeed I will! But come! We must go back.”
So they went slipping and sliding down the hill, digging their heels into the ground, clinging to rocks and trees to check their swift descent, laughing at their wild plunges and gyrations. At the house, when they had rested a while on the veranda, Marion dismissed Smythe as quickly as she could without abruptness; and when he had gone she hastened to her room, and locked the door, and flung herself down on the bed, with her hands clasped behind her head, to stare up at the ceiling in a whirl of thoughts. There was a mystery! There was a motive behind Haig’s conduct! “The most unselfish man in the world” And she repeated the words over and over again, and gathered them to her heart.
CHAPTER XI
AVALANCHE
Huntington soon had his revenge on Marion, though, in his blindness, he never knew it. She and Claire, after an unusually protracted Small Talk the night before, arose late one morning to find the house topsy-turvy from masculine activity. On the veranda they discovered Seth cleaning rifles, surrounded by cartridge boxes, hunting knives, canvas bags and wrappings, rubber coats, leather straps, fishing tackle and what not.
“In the name of goodness, Seth Huntington! What are you doing?” shrilled Claire.
“Guess!” replied Huntington, with a rather heavy attempt at tantalizing.
“Oh, I know! Camping. But you don’t mean to-day?”
“Sure!”
“But why didn’t you ask us?” demanded Claire. “Maybe we don’t choose–”
“But you do, though. I promised Marion that as soon as I–”
He stopped, for even his habitually veiled eyes could not miss the look of consternation on Marion’s face.
“Why–I thought–” he began uncertainly. “Of course, if you don’t want to go–”
The oiled rag dropped from his hand. His descent from elation (he had planned a little surprise) to dejection and chagrin was a tumble that touched Marion’s commiseration and disarmed her. She did not want to go camping; she did not want to leave the Park for even a day, an hour; she did not want to miss any opportunity to see Haig. More than ever now was she determined to solve his mystery. So Huntingdon’s “surprise” was a greater shock to her than he, simple man, could possibly have foreseen or perceived. But even if she had not been moved by his rather ludicrous disappointment she would not have dared to refuse acquiescence in his programme. She had indeed expressed an ardent–oh, too ardent!–desire to go camping, and any explanation she could think of on the instant would have led her into regions where she could not trust herself.
“Indeed, I want to go!” she cried quickly, though there was a big lump in her throat. “You took me by surprise, that’s all.”
“I should say so!” said Claire. “Think you’re smart, don’t you? We might have been all dressed for it if you’d only told us. When do we start, Big Boss?”
Huntington recovered his good spirits quickly, assured that he had succeeded after all.
“I thought we’d ride to Ely’s to-day, sleep there to-night, and make Mount Avalanche to-morrow evening.”
“Then we must hurry,” said Claire. “Come, Marion.”
“How long–shall we be gone?” asked Marion, struggling to appear enthusiastic.
“Four or five days, I suppose.”
Her heart sank. She could have cried with vexation. But she managed to conceal her real feelings in the bustle of preparation. There were provisions to be packed: cans and jars and bottles; bacon and ham and flour against the possible event of bad luck with the guns and rods; warm clothes and bedding; medicines and bandages. So fully occupied were her hands and brain with these details, and later with her first real experience with the mountain trails, that her heart must perforce keep its peace until some hour of solitude.