They of the High Trails

"What was his name?"

"I don't know. We called him Smith."

"Was he the man that rode away this morning?"

"What does that matter to you?" asked the girl. "Why are you so inquisitive?"

He maintained his calm tone of mild authority. "I'm the sheriff of Uinta County, ma'am, and I'm looking for a man who's been hiding out in this basin. I was trailin' him close when the snow came on yesterday, and I didn't know but what these tracks was his."

Peggy turned toward Alice with an involuntary expression of enlightenment, and the sheriff read it quickly. Slipping between the two women, he said:

"Jest a minute, miss. What sort of a looking man was this Smith?"

Alice took up the story. "He was rather small and dark – wasn't he, Peggy?"

Peggy considered. "I didn't notice him particularly. Yes, I think he was."

The man outside called: "Hurry up, Cap. It's beginning to snow again."

The sheriff withdrew toward the door. "You're both lying," he remarked without heat, "but it don't matter. We'll mighty soon overhaul this man on the horse – whoever he is. If you've been harboring Hall McCord we'll have to take you, too." With that threat as a farewell he mounted his horse and rode away.

Peggy turned to Alice. "Did you know that young fellow was an outlaw?"

"Yes; I saw his picture and description on a placard in the railway station. I recognized him at once."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, I liked his looks, and, besides, I wanted to find out if he were really bad or only unfortunate."

"What has he done?"

"They say he held up a train!"

"Merciful Heavens! a train-robber! What's his real name?"

"The name on the placard was Hall McCord."

"And to think he was in the same room with us last night, and you were chumming with him! I can't understand you. Are you sure he is the robber?"

"Yes. He confessed to having tried to rob the express car."

"He seemed such a nice fellow. How did he come to do it?"

Alice concluded not to honor the other girl by bringing her into the discussion. "Oh, it is hard to say. Need of money, I suppose. Poor boy, I pity him."

"They'll get him, sure. They can follow his tracks as easy as anything. I don't suppose I ought to say it, but I hope he'll get away. Don't you?"

"Yes, I do!" was Alice's fervent response. "But see! it's snowing again. It may cover his trail."

Peggy went to the door and gazed long and keenly at the peaks. When she turned her face was solemn. "Allie, this is getting pretty serious for us. If the men don't come to-day they may get snowed up entirely."

Alice stifled a wail. "Oh, if I were only able to walk I wouldn't mind. I could help gather fuel and keep the fire going."

"There's plenty of wood for another day, but I'm worried about the men. Suppose they are up on that glacier?"

"I'm not worried about them, but I know they are worrying about us. They'll surely start back this morning; but they may not be able to reach us till night."

The light of the morning had turned gray and feeble. The air was still and the forest soundless, save now and then when a snow-laden branch creaked with its burden.

There was something majestic as well as menacing in this all-pervading solemn hush.

Peggy went about her duties as cheerfully as she could, but with a wider knowledge of mountaineering than Alice had. She was at heart quite terrified. "We're going to miss our nice outlaw," she remarked. "He was so effective as a purveyor of wood." Then she went to the door and looked out. "That sheriff will never keep his trail," she said.

"What's that?" suddenly asked Alice.

Both listened. "I hear it!" whispered Peggy. "It's a horse – there! Some one spoke."

"It's Freeman!" Alice joyously called out. "Coohoo!"

No one replied, and Peggy, rushing to the door, met the young outlaw, who appeared on the threshold with stern, set face.

"Who's been here since I left? Your party?"

Peggy recoiled in surprise and alarm, and Alice cried out, "Why did you come back?"

"Two men on horseback have been here since I left. Who were they?" His voice was full of haste.

"One of them said – he was the – the sheriff," Alice replied, faintly.

He smiled then, a kind of terrifying humor in his eyes. "Well, the chances are he knew. They took my trail, of course, and left in a hurry. Expected to overhaul me on the summit. They've got their work cut out for 'em."

"How did they miss you?" the girl asked, huskily.

"Well, you see, when I got up where I could view the sky I was dead sure we were in for a whooping big snow-storm, and I just couldn't leave you girls up here all alone, so I struck right down the cañon in the bed of the creek – the short cut. I don't like to back-trail, anyway; it's a bad habit to get into. I like to leave as blind a trail as I can." His face lighted up, grew boyish again. "They're sure up against a cold proposition about now. They'll lose my track among the rocks, but they'll figure I've hustled right on over into Pine Creek, and if they don't freeze to death in the pass they'll come out at Glover's hay-meadow to-morrow night. How's the wood-pile holding out?"

"Please go!" cried Alice. "Take your chance now and hurry away."

"I'm not used to leaving women in such a fix. The moment I saw that the blizzard was beginning all over again I turned back."

"You haven't had any breakfast?" said Peggy.

"Nothing to speak of," he replied, dryly. "I wasn't thinking of breakfast when I pulled out."

"I'll get you some."

Alice could not throw off the burden of his danger. "What will you do when my people return?"

"I don't know – trust to luck."

"You are very foolish. They are certain to come to-day."

"They won't know who I am if you women don't give me away."

"I'm sure Freeman – Professor Ward – will know you, for he also saw the placard."

"That's no sign. Suppose he does – maybe he won't think it is his job to interfere. Anyway" – here his voice became decisive – "I won't leave you in such a fix as this." His eyes spoke to her of that which his tongue could not utter. "I wanted an excuse to come back, anyway," he concluded. "No matter what comes now, my job is here to protect you."

She did not rebuke him, and Peggy – though she wondered at his tone – was too grateful for his presence even to question Alice's motive in permitting such remarks.

As for Alice, she felt herself more and more involved in the tangled skein of his mysterious life. His sudden and reckless abandonment of the old love which had ruined him, and the new and equally irrational regard which he now professed for her, filled her with a delicious marveling.

He appealed to a woman's imagination. He had the spice of the unknown. In her relationship with Ward there was no danger, no mystery – his courtship narrowly escaped being commonplace. She had accepted his attentions and expected to marry him, and yet the thought of the union produced, at its warmest, merely a glow of comfort, a sense of security, whereas the hint of being loved and protected by this Rob Roy of the hills, this reckless Rough Rider of the wilderness, was instinct with romance. Of course his devotion was a crazy folly, and yet, lying there in her rough bunk, with an impenetrable wall of snow shutting out the rest of the world, it was hard not to feel that this man and his future had become an inescapable part of her life – a part which grew in danger and in charm from hour to hour.

Full two miles above the level of her own home, surrounded by peaks unscalably wild and lonely, deserted by those who should care for her, was it strange that she should return this man's adoring gaze with something of the primal woman's gratitude and submission?

The noon darkened into dusk as they talked, slowly, with long pauses, and one by one the stirring facts of the rover's life came out. From his boyhood he had always done the reckless thing. He had known no restraint till, as a member of the Rough Riders, he yielded a partial obedience to his commanders. When the excitement of the campaigns was over he had deserted and gone back to the round-up wagon and the camp-fire.

In the midst of his confidences he maintained a reserve about his family which showed more self-mastery than anything else about him. That he was the black sheep of an honorable flock became increasingly evident. He had been the kind of lad who finds in the West a fine field for daredevil adventure. And yet there were unstirred deeps in the man. He was curious about a small book which Alice kept upon her bed, and which she read from time to time with serene meditation on her face.

"What is that?" he asked.

"My Bible."

"Can I see it?"

"Certainly."

He took it carefully and read the title on the back, then turned a few of the leaves. "I'm not much on reading," he said, "but I've got a sister that sends me tracts, and the like." He returned to the fly-leaf. "Is this your name?"

"Yes."

"'Alice Mansfield,'" he read; "beautiful name! 'New York City'! That's pretty near the other side of the world to me." He studied the address with intent look. "I'd like to buy this book. How much will you take for it?"

"I'll trade it for your weapon," she replied.

He looked at her narrowly. "You mean something by that. I reckon I follow you. No, I can't do that – not now. If I get into business over the line I'll disarm, but in this country a fellow needs to be protected. I want this book!"

"For the fly-leaf?"

He smiled in return. "You've hit it."

She hesitated. "I'll give you the book if you'll promise to read it."

He clapped the covers together and put the volume in his pocket. "It's mine! I'll read every word of it, if it takes an age, and here's my hand on it."

She gave him her hand, and in this clasp something came to her from his clutching fingers which sobered her. She drew her hand away hastily and said: "If you read that book – and think about it – it will change your whole world."

He, too, lost his brightness. "Well, I'm not so anxious to keep up this kind of life. But if anybody changes me it will be you."

"Hush!" she warned with lifted finger.

He fell back, and after a little silence went out to wait upon the fire.

"It seems to me," said Peggy, reprovingly, "that you're too gracious with this mountaineer; he's getting presumptuous."

"He doesn't mean to be. It's his unsophisticated way. Anyhow, we can't afford to be captious to our host."

"That's true," admitted Peggy.

The night shut down with the snow still falling, but with a growing chill in the air.

"The flakes are finer," the outlaw announced, as he came in a little later. "That is a good sign. It is growing colder and the wind is changing. It will pinch hard before sun-up, and the worst of it, there's no way to warm the cabin. We can't have the door open to-night. I'm worried about you," he said to Alice. "If only those chumps had left a man-size ax!"

The two women understood that this night was to bring them into closer intimacy with the stranger than before. He could not remain outdoors, and though they now knew something of his desperate character, they had no fear of him. He had shown his chivalry. No one could have been more considerate of them, for he absented himself at Peggy's request instantly and without suggestion of jocularity, and when he came in and found them both in bed he said:

"I reckon I'll not make down to-night – you'll need all your blankets before morning"; and thereupon, without weighing their protests, proceeded to spread the extra cover over them.

Alice looked up at him in the dim light of the candle and softly asked: "What will you do? You will suffer with cold!"

"Don't worry about me; I'm an old campaigner. I still have a blanket to wrap around my shoulders. I'll snooze in a corner. If you hear me moving around don't be worried; I'm hired to keep the fire going even if it doesn't do us much good inside."

The chill deepened. The wind began to roar, and great masses of snow, dislodged from the tall trees above the cabin, fell upon its roof with sounds like those of soft, slow footfalls. Strange noises of creaking and groaning and rasping penetrated to Alice's ears, and she cowered half in fear, half in joy of her shelter and her male protector. Men were fine animals for the wild.

She fell asleep at last, seeing her knight's dim form propped against the wall, wrapped in a blanket Indian-wise, his head bowed over the book she had given him, a candle smoking in his hand.

She woke when he rose to feed the fire, and the current of cold air which swept in caused her to cover her mouth with the blanket. He turned toward her.

"It's all over for sure, this time," he said. "It's cold and goin' to be colder. How are you standing it? If your feet are cold I can heat a stone. How is the hurt foot?" He drew near and looked down upon her anxiously.

"Very much easier, thank you."

"I'm mighty glad of that. I wish I could take the pain all on myself."

"You have troubles of your own," she answered, as lightly as she could.

"That's true, too," he agreed in the same tone. "So many that a little one more or less wouldn't count."

"Do you call my wound little?"

"I meant the foot was little – "

She checked him.

"I didn't mean to make light of it. It sure is no joke." He added, "I've made a start on the book."

"How do you like it?"

"I don't know yet," he answered, and went back to his corner.

She snuggled under her warm quilts again, remorseful, yet not daring to suggest a return of the blanket he had lent. When she woke again he was on his feet, swinging his arms silently. His candle had gone out, but a faint light was showing in the room.

"Is it morning?" she asked.

"Just about," he replied, stretching like a cat.

The dawn came gloriously. The sun in far-splashing splendor slanted from peak to peak, painting purple shadows on the snow and warming the boles of the tall trees till they shone like fretted gold. The jays cried out as if in exultation of the ending of the tempest, and the small stream sang over its icy pebbles with resolute cheer. It was a land to fill a poet with awe and ecstatic praise – a radiant, imperial, and merciless landscape. Trackless, almost soundless, the mountain world lay waiting for the alchemy of the sun.

The morning was well advanced when a far, faint halloo broke through the silence of the valley. The ranger stood like a statue, while Peggy cried out:

"It's one of our men!"

Alice turned to the outlaw with anxious face. "If it's the sheriff stay in here with me. Let me plead for you. I want him to know what you've done for us."

The look that came upon his face turned her cold with fear. "If it is the sheriff – " He did not finish, but she understood.

The halloo sounded nearer and the outlaw's face lightened. "It's one of your party. He is coming up from below."

Impatiently they waited for the new-comer to appear, and though he seemed to draw nearer at every shout, his progress was very slow. At last the man appeared on the opposite bank of the stream. He was covered with snow and stumbling along like a man half dead with hunger and fatigue.

"Why, it's Gage!" exclaimed Peggy.

It was indeed the old hunter, and as he drew near his gaunt and bloodless face was like that of a starved and hunted animal. His first word was an anxious inquiry, "How are ye?"

"All well," Peggy answered.

"And the crippled girl?"

"Doing nicely. Thanks to Mr. Smith here, we did not freeze. Are you hungry?"

The guide looked upon the outlaw with glazed, protruding eyes. "Hungry? I'm done. I've been wallerin' in the snow all night and I'm just about all in."

"Where are the others?" called Alice from her bed.

Gage staggered to the door. "They're up at timber-line. I left them day before yesterday. I tried to get here, but I lost my bearin's and got on the wrong side o' the creek. 'Pears like I kept on the wrong side o' the hogback. Then my horse gave out, and that set me afoot. I was plum scared to death about you folks. I sure was."

Peggy put some food before him and ordered him into silence. "Talk later," she said.

The outlaw turned to Alice. "That explains it. Your Professor Ward trusted to this man to take care of you and stayed in camp. You can't blame him."

Gage seemed to have suddenly become old, almost childish. "I never was lost before," he muttered, sadly. "I reckon something must have went wrong in my head. 'Pears like I'm gettin' old and foolish."

Alice exchanged glances with the outlaw. It was plain that he was in no danger from this dazed and weakened old man who could think of nothing but the loss of his sense of direction.

As the day advanced the sun burned clear. At noon it was warm enough to leave the door open, and Alice, catching glimpses of the flaming world of silver and purple and gold, was filled with a desire to quit her dark corner.

"I'm going to get up!" she exclaimed. "I won't lie here any longer."

"Don't try it!" protested Peggy.

"I'm going to do it!" she insisted. "I can hobble to the door if you help me."

"I'll carry you," said the outlaw. "Wrap her up and I'll get her a seat."

And so, while Mrs. Adams wrapped her patient in a blanket, the outlaw dragged one of the rough, ax-hewn benches to the door and covered it with blankets. He put a stone to heat and then re-entered just as Alice, supported by Peggy, was setting foot to the floor. Swiftly, unhesitating, and very tenderly he put his arms about her and lifted her to the bench in the doorway before the fire.

It was so sweet to feel that wondrous body in his arms. His daring to do it surprised her, but her own silent acquiescence, and the shiver of pleasure which came with the embarrassment of it, confused and troubled her.

"That's better," he said as he dropped to the ground and drew the blankets close about her feet. "I'll have a hot stone for you in a minute."

He went about these ministrations with an inward ecstasy which shone in his eyes and trembled in his voice. But as she furtively studied his face and observed the tremor of his hands in tender ministration she lost all fear of him.

After three days in her dark corner of the hut the sunshine was wondrously inspiring to the girl, although the landscape on which she gazed was white and wild as December. It was incredible that only a few hours lay between the flower-strewn valley of her accident and this silent and desolate, yet beautiful, wilderness of snow. And so, as she looked into the eyes of the outlaw, it seemed as though she had known him from spring to winter, and her wish to help him grew with every hour of their acquaintanceship.

She planned his defense before Ward and Adams. "When they know how kind and helpful he has been they can but condone his one rash deed," she argued in conclusion.

He was sitting at her feet, careless of time, the law, content with her nearness, and mindful only of her comfort, when a distant rifle-shot brought him to his feet with the swiftness of the startled stag.

"That's your expedition," he said, "or some one who needs help."

Again the shots rang out, one, two, three—one, two, three. "It's a signal! It's your party!"

Peggy uttered a cry of joy and rushed outside, but Alice turned an unquiet gaze on the outlaw. "You'd better fly!"

"What is the use?" he answered, bitterly. "The snow is so deep there is no show to cross the range, and my horse is weak and hungry."

Gage appeared at the door. "Lemme take your gun, stranger; I want to answer the signal."

"Where's your own?"

"I left it on my horse," the old man answered, sheepishly.

The young fellow looked at Alice with a keen glitter in his eyes. "I'll make answer myself," he said; "I'm very particular about my barkers."

Alice, as she heard his revolver's answering word leap into the silent air and bound and rebound along the cliffs, was filled with a sudden fear that the sheriff might be guided back by the sound – and this indeed the fugitive himself remarked as he came back to his seat beside her.

"If he's anywhere on this side of the divide he'll sure come back. But I've done my best. The Lord God Almighty has dropped the snow down here and shut me in with you, and I'm not complaining."

There was no answer to be made to this fatalism of utterance, and none to the worship of his eyes.

"Lift me up!" commanded Alice; "I want to look out and see if I can see anybody."

The outlaw took her in his arms, supporting her in the threshold in order that she might see over the vast sea of white. But no human being was to be seen.

"Take me back – inside," Alice said to the man who had her in his arms. "I feel cold here."

Once again, and with a feeling that it was, perhaps, for the last time, he carried her back to her bench and re-enveloped her in her blankets.

"Stay here with me now," she whispered to him, as she looked up into his face.

And the outlaw, filled with gladness and pride, threw himself on the floor beside her.

The signal pistol-shots came nearer and nearer, but very slowly; and as the outlaw sat beside Alice's couch he took her Bible from his pocket and said:

"I made a stab at reading this last night."

She smiled. "I saw you. How did you like it?"

"I didn't exactly get aboard someway."

"What was the trouble?"

"I guess it was because I kept thinking of you – and my own place in the game. Three days ago I didn't care what became of me, but now I want a chance. I don't see any chance coming my way, but if I had it I'd make use of it." He looked at her a moment in silence, then with sudden intensity broke forth. "Do you know what you mean to me? When I look at your face and eyes I'm crazy hungry for you."

She shrank from him and called to Mrs. Adams.

He went on. "Oh, you needn't be afraid. I just wanted to say it, that's all. If there was only some other way to straighten myself – but I can't go to jail. I can't stand up to be clipped like a poodle-dog, then put on striped clothing and walk lock-step – I can't do it! They'll put me in for ten years. I'd be old when I got out." He shuddered. "No, I won't do that! I'd rather die here in the hills."

She grew white in sympathy. "It is a frightful price to pay for one insane act, and yet – crime should be punished."

"I'm getting my punishment now," he replied, with darkly brooding glance. "There's a good old man and two women, my sisters, waitin' for me down the slope. If I could reach home I'd try to live straight, but it's a long and dangerous trail between here and there."

Peggy now ran into the cabin. "It's the expedition," she announced. "I can see Freeman."

"I reckon this is where I get off," said the outlaw in a tone of mingled relief and dismay.

"No, no!" Alice entreated. "Stay till Freeman comes. He will help you. Let me explain to him. I know he will not betray you."

He looked at her again with that intent, longing worship in his eyes, and answered, "I accept the chance for the sake of one more hour with you."

The outlaw stepped to the door, and he saw a man at the head of his train mid-leg deep in snow, leading his horse, breaking the way for his followers, who were all on foot, crawling, stumbling, and twisting among the down-timber, unmindful of the old trail.

At sight of that big and resolute leader, with flowing black beard and ruddy face, the outlaw was filled with jealous sadness. To find Ward a man of superb physical prowess, the kind that measures peaks for the fun of it, was disturbing, and without defining his feeling he was plunged into melancholy musing. And when later Ward entered, and, stooping over the couch, kissed Alice, the end of his idyl seemed to him announced.

In the bustle of the moment, in the interchange of anxious, hurried inquiries, the outlaw stood aside in the corner, unnoticed, till Alice caught Ward's arm and said:

"Freeman, this is Mr. Smith, to whom we owe a great deal. He has taken the utmost care of us. We would have frozen but for him."

Ward shook hands with the outlaw, but wonderingly asked of Alice, "But where was Gage?"

The outlaw answered, "Gage got lost and only turned up a couple of hours ago."

Ward turned to Alice in horror. "Good Lord! And you were here alone – crippled – in this storm?"