They of the High Trails

Lonely, cut off from even the most formal intercourse with marriageable maidens, he was naturally extremely susceptible to the charm of this cultivated woman. The memory of her handsome foot, the clasp of her strong fingers, the lines of her lovely neck – all conspired to dull his appetite for food and keep him smoking and musing far into the night, and these visions were with him as he arose the next morning to resume his daily duties in the forest. They did not interrupt his work; they lightened it.

As the hours went by, the desire to see her grew more and more intense, and at last, a couple of days later while riding the trail not far above the Kauffman ranch, he decided that it was a part of his day's work to "scout round" that way and inquire how they were all getting on. He was strengthened in this determination by the reports which came to him from the ranchers he met. No other clue had developed, and the Kitsongs, highly incensed at the action of the jury, not only insisted that the girl was the murderess, but that the doctor was shielding her for reasons of his own – and several went so far as to declare their intention to see that the Kauffmans got their just punishment.

It is true, the jury admitted that they were divided in their opinion, but that the coroner's attitude brought about a change of sentiment. The fact that the woman didn't wear and couldn't wear so small a shoe was at the moment convincing. It was only later, when the Kitsong sympathizers began to argue, that they hesitated.

Mrs. Abe Kitsong was especially bitter, and it was her influence which brought out an expression of settled purpose to punish which led to the ranger's decision to go over and see if the old German and his daughter were undisturbed.

As he turned in at the Kauffman gate he caught a glimpse of the girl hoeing in the garden, wearing the same blue sunbonnet in which she had appeared at the inquest. She was deeply engaged with her potatoes and did not observe him till, upon hearing the clatter of his horse's hoofs upon the bridge, she looked up with a start. Seeing in him a possible enemy, she dropped her hoe and ran toward the house like a hare seeking covert. As she reached the corner of the kitchen she turned, fixed a steady backward look upon him, and disappeared.

Hanscom smiled. He had seen other women hurrying to change their workaday dress for visitors, and he imagined Helen hastily putting on her shoes and smoothing her hair. He was distinctly less in awe of her by reason of this girlish action – it made her seem more of his own rough-and-ready world, and he dismounted at her door almost at his ease, although his heart had been pounding furiously as he rode down the ridge.

She surprised him by reappearing in her working-gown, but shod with strong, low-heeled shoes. "Good evening, Mr. Forest Ranger," she said, smiling, yet perturbed. "I didn't recognize you at first. Won't you 'picket' and come in?" She said this in the tone of one consciously assuming the vernacular.

"Thank you, I believe I will," he replied, with candid heartiness. "I was riding one of my lower trails to-day, so I just thought I'd drop down and see how you were all coming on."

"We are quite well, thank you. Daddy's away just this minute. One of our cows hid her calf in the hills, and he's trying to find it. Won't you put your horse in the corral?"

"No; he's all right. He's a good deal like me – works better on a small ration. A standing siesta will just about do him."

A gleam of humor shone in her eyes. "Neither of you 'pear to be suffering from lack of food. But come in, please, and have a seat."

He followed her into the cabin, keenly alive to the changes in her dress as well as in her manner. She wore her hair plainly parted, as at the hearing, but it lay much lower about her brow and rippled charmingly. She stood perfectly erect, also, and moved with a fine stride, and the lines of her shoulders, even under a rough gray shirtwaist, were strong and graceful. Though not skilled in analyzing a woman's "outfit," the ranger divined that she wore no corset, for the flex of her powerful waist was like that of a young man.

Her speech was noticeably Southern in accent, as if it were a part of her masquerade, but she brought him a chair and confronted him without confusion. In this calm dignity he read something entirely flattering to himself.

"Evidently she considers me a friend as well as an officer," he reasoned.

"I hope you are a little hungry," she said. "I'd like to have you break bread in our house. You were mighty kind to us the other day."

"Oh, I'm hungry," he admitted, meeting her hospitality half-way. "Seems like I'm always hungry. You see, I cook my own grub, and my bill of fare isn't what you'd call extensive, and, besides, a man's cooking never relishes the way a woman's does, anyhow."

"I'll see what I can find for you," she said, and hurried out.

While waiting he studied the room in which he sat with keenest interest. It was rather larger than the usual living-room in a mountain home, but it had not much else to distinguish it. The furniture was of the kind to be purchased in the near-by town, and the walls were roughly ceiled with cypress boards; but a few magazines, some books on a rude shelf, a fiddle-box under the table, and a guitar hanging on a nail gave evidence of refinement and taste and spoke to him of pleasures which he had only known afar. The guitar especially engaged his attention. "I wonder if she sings?" he asked himself.

Musing thus in silence, he heard her moving about the kitchen with rapid tread, and when she came in, a few minutes later, bearing a tray, he thought her beautiful – so changed was her expression.

"I didn't wait for the coffee," she smilingly explained. "You said you were hungry and so I have brought in a little 'snack.' The coffee will be ready soon."

"Snack!" he exclaimed. "Lady! This is a feast!" And as she put the tray down beside him he added: "This puts me right back in Aunt Mary's house at Circle Bend, Nebraska. I don't rightly feel fit to sit opposite a spread like that."

She seemed genuinely amused by his extravagance. "It's nothing but a little cold chicken and some light bread. I made the bread yesterday; and the raspberry jam is mine also."

"It's angels' food to me," he retorted, as he eyed the dainty napkins and the silver spoons and forks. "You don't know what this means to a man who lives on rice and prunes and kittle bread. I have a guilty feeling; I do, indeed. Seems like I'm getting all this thanksgiving treat under false pretenses. Perhaps you think I'm an English nobleman in disguise. But I'm not – I'm just a plain dub of a forest ranger, ninety dollars a month and board myself."

She laughed at his disclaimer, and yet under her momentary lightness he still perceived something of the strong current of bitter sadness which had so profoundly moved him at the inquest and which still remained unexplained; therefore he hesitated about referring to the Watson case.

As he ate, she stood to serve him, but not with the air of a serving-maid; on the contrary, though her face was bronzed by the winds, and her hands calloused by spade and hoe, there was little of the rustic in her action. Her blouse, cut sailor fashion at the throat, displayed a lovely neck (also burned by the sun), and she carried herself with the grace of an athlete. Her trust and confidence in her visitor became more evident each moment.

"No," she said in answer to his question. "We hardly ever have visitors. Now and then some cowboy rides past, but you are almost the only caller we have ever had. The settlers in the valley do not attract me."

"I should think you'd get lonesome."

She looked away, and a sterner, older expression came into her face. "I do, sometimes," she admitted; then she bravely faced him. "But my health is so much better – it was quite broken when I came – that I have every reason to be thankful. After all, health is happiness. I ought to be perfectly content, and I am when I think how miserable I once was."

"Health is cheap with me," he smilingly replied. "But I get so lonesome sometimes that I pretty near quit and go out. Do you intend to stay here all winter?"

"We expect to."

He thought it well to warn her. "The snow falls deep in this valley – terribly deep."

She showed some uneasiness. "I know it, but I'm going to learn to snow-shoe."

"I wish you'd let me come over and teach you."

"Can you snow-shoe? I thought rangers always rode horseback."

He smiled. "You've been reading the opposition press. A forest ranger who is on the job has got to snow-shoe like a Canuck or else go down the valley after the snow begins to fall. It was five feet deep around my cabin last year. I hate to think of your being here alone. If one of you should be sick, it would be – tough. Unless you absolutely have to stay here, I advise you to go down the creek."

"Perhaps our neighbors and not the snow will drive us out," she replied. "They've already served notice."

He looked startled. "What do you mean by that?"

Without answering, she went to the bookshelf and took down a folded sheet of paper. "Here is a letter I got yesterday," she explained, as she handed it to him.

It was a rudely penciled note, but entirely plain in its message. "Spite of what the coroner found, most folks believe you killed Ed Watson," it began, abruptly. "Some of us don't blame you much. Others do, and they say no matter what the jury reports you've got to go. I don't like to see a woman abused, so you'd better take warning and pull out. Do it right away." It was signed, "A Friend."

The ranger read this through twice before he spoke. "Did this come through the mail?"

"Yes – addressed to me."

He pretended to make light of it. "I wouldn't spend much time over that. It's only some smart Aleck's practical joke."

"I don't think so," she soberly replied. "It reads to me like a sincere warning – from a woman. I haven't shown it to daddy yet, and I don't know whether to do so or not. I thought of going over to see you, but I was not sure of the way. I'm glad Providence sent you round to-day, for I am uncertain about what to do."

"I'm a little uneasy about that warning myself," he confessed, after a pause. "I hear the Kitsong gang is bitterly dissatisfied with the result of the inquest thus far. They still insist on connecting you in some way with the shooting. Fact is, I came over to-day to see if they had made any new move."

All the lightness had gone out of his face now, and in the girl's eyes the shadow deepened as she said:

"It seems to me that I have drawn more than my share of trouble. I came out here hoping to find a sanctuary, and I seem to have fallen into a den of wolves. These people would hang me if they could. I don't understand their hate of us. They resent our being here. Sometimes I feel as if they were only trying to drive us from our little ranch."

"Of course, all this talk of violence is nonsense," he vigorously went on. "They can make you a whole lot of discomfort, but you are in no danger."

Her glance was again remote as she said: "I cannot take that murder case seriously. It all seems a thousand miles away from me now. And yet I am afraid for daddy's sake. Why connect me with it? Is there no other woman to accuse? Do you suppose a woman did the shooting? I don't."

"No. I think the footprints were accidental. I figure the killing was done by some man who had it in for Watson. He was always rowing with his help, and there are two or three Mexicans who have threatened to get him. At the same time, I don't like this letter. They're a tough lot in this valley." He mused a moment. "Yes, I guess you'd better plan to go."

Her gaze wandered. "I hate to leave my garden and my flowers," she said, sadly. "After all, I've had some very peaceful hours in this nook." Her face brightened. She became the genial hostess again. "If you have finished your lunch, I wish you would come out and see my crops."

He followed her gladly, and their talk again became cheerfully impersonal. Truly she had done wonders in a small space and in a short time. Flower-beds glowed beside the towering rocks. Small ditches supplied the plants with water, and from the rich red soil luscious vegetables and fragrant blooms were springing.

All animation now, she pointed out her victories. "This is all my work," she explained, proudly. "Daddy isn't much of a hand with the spade or the hoe. Therefore I leave the riding and the cows to him. I love to paddle in the mud, and it has done me a great deal of good."

"What will you do with all this 'truck'?"

"Daddy intends to market it in town."

"He's away a good deal, I take it."

"Yes, I'm alone often all day, but he's always home before dark."

He voiced his concern. "I don't like to think of your being alone, even in the daytime." He spoke as one who had been swiftly advanced from stranger to trusted friend. "I'll tell you what I'll do," he continued, as if moved by a sudden thought. "I'll go into camp across the creek for to-night, and then if anything goes wrong I'll be within call."

"Oh no! Don't think of doing that! You must not neglect your duties. Daddy is a pretty good marksman, and I have learned to handle a rifle, and, besides" – here her tone became ironic – "in the chivalrous West a woman need not fear."

"There is a whole lot of hot air about that Western chivalry talk," he retorted. "Bad men are just as bad here as anywhere, and they're particularly bad on the Shellfish. But, anyhow, you'll call on me if I can be of any use, won't you?"

"I certainly shall do so," she responded, heartily, and there was confidence and liking in her eyes as well as in the grip of her hand as she said good-by.

When in the saddle and ready to ride away he called to her, "You won't mind my coming over here again on Saturday, will you?"

"No, indeed. Only it is so far."

"Oh, the ride is nothing. I don't like to think of your being here alone."

"I'm not afraid. But we shall be glad to see you just the same."

And in appreciation of her smile he removed his hat and rode away with bared head.

The young ranger was highly exalted by this visit, and he was also greatly disturbed, for the more he thought of that warning letter and the conditions which gave rise to it, the more menacing it became. It was all of a piece with the tone and character of the Shellfish gang, for this remote valley had long borne an evil reputation, and Watson and Kitsong had been its dominating spirits for more than twenty years and deeply resented Kauffman's settlement in the cañon.

"It would be just like old Kit to take the law into his own hands," the ranger admitted to himself. "And the writing in that letter looked to me like Mrs. Abe Kitsong's."

Instead of going up to the Heart Lake sheep-camp, as he had planned to do, he turned back to his station, moved by a desire to keep as near the girl as his duties would permit. "For the next few days I'd better be within call," he decided. "They may decide to arrest her – and if they do, she'll need me."

He went about his evening meal like a man under the influence of a drug, and when he sat down to his typewriter his mind was so completely filled with visions of his entrancing neighbor that he could not successfully cast up a column of figures. He lit his pipe for a diversion, but under the spell of the smoke his recollection of just how she looked, how she spoke, how she smiled (that sad, half-lighting of her face) set all his nerves atingle. He grew restless.

"What's the matter with me?" he asked himself, sharply, but dared not answer his own question. He knew his malady. His unrest was that of the lover. Thereafter he gave himself up to the quiet joy of reviewing each word she had uttered, and in doing so came to the conclusion that she was in the mountains not so much for the cure of her lungs or throat as to heal the hurt of some injustice. What it was he could not imagine, but he believed that she was getting over it. "As she gets over it she'll find life on the Shellfish intolerable and she'll go away," he reasoned, and the thought of her going made his country lonesome, empty, and of no account.

"I wish she wouldn't go about barefoot," he added, with a tinge of jealousy. "And she mustn't let any of the Shellfish gang see her in that dress." He was a little comforted by remembering her sudden flight when she first perceived him coming across the bridge, and he wondered whether the trustful attitude she afterward assumed was due entirely to the fact that he was a Federal officer – he hoped not. Some part of it sprang, he knew, from a liking for him.

The wilderness was no place for a woman. It was all well enough for a vacation, but to ask any woman to live in a little cabin miles from another woman, miles from a doctor, was out of the question. He began to perceive that there were disabilities in the life of a forester. His world was suddenly disorganized. Life became complex in its bearings, and he felt the stirrings of new ambitions, new ideals. Civilization took on a charm which it had not hitherto possessed.

He was awakened at dawn the following morning by the smell of burning pine – a smell that summons the ranger as a drum arouses a soldier. Rushing out of doors, he soon located the fire. It was off the forest and to the southeast, but as any blaze within sight demanded investigation, he put a pot of coffee on the fire and swiftly roped and saddled one of his horses. In thirty minutes he was riding up the side of a high hill which lay between the station and Otter Creek, a branch of the Shellfish, at the mouth of which, some miles below, stood Kitsong's ranch.

It was not yet light, the smoke was widely diffused, and the precise location of the blaze could not be determined, but it appeared to be on the Shellfish side of the ridge, just below Watson's pasture. Hence he kept due south over the second height which divided the two creeks. It was daylight when he reached the second hogback, and the smoke of the fire was diminishing, but he thought it best to ride on to renew his warning against the use of fire till the autumn rains set in, and he had in mind also a plan to secure from Mrs. Kitsong a specimen of her handwriting and to pick up whatever he could in the way of gossip concerning the feeling against the Kauffmans.

He was still some miles from the ranch, and crossing a deep ravine, when he heard the sound of a rifle far above him. Halting, he listened intently. Another shot rang out, nearer and to the south, and a moment later the faint reports of a revolver. This sent a wave of excitement through his blood. A rifle-shot might mean only a poacher. A volley of revolver-shots meant battle.

Reining his cayuse sharply to the right and giving him the spur, he sent him on a swift, zigzagging scramble up the smooth slope. A third rifle-shot echoed from the cliff, and was answered by a smaller weapon, much nearer, and, with his hair almost on end with excitement, he reached the summit which commanded the whole valley of the Otter, just in time to witness the most astounding drama he had ever known.

Down the rough logging road from the west a team of horses was wildly galloping, pursued at a distance by several horsemen, whose weapons, spitting smoke at intervals, gave proof of their murderous intent. In the clattering, tossing wagon a man was kneeling, rifle in hand, while a woman, standing recklessly erect, urged the flying horses to greater speed. Nothing could have been more desperate, more furious, than this running battle.

"My God! It's the Kauffman team!" he exclaimed, and with a shrill shout snatched his revolver from its holster and fired into the air, with intent to announce his presence to the assailing horsemen. Even as he did so he saw one of the far-off pursuing ruffians draw his horse to a stand and take deliberate aim over his saddle at the flying wagon. The off pony dropped in his traces, and the vehicle, swinging from the road, struck a boulder and sent the man hurtling over the side; but the girl, crouching low, kept her place. Almost before the wheels had ceased to revolve she caught up the rifle which her companion had dropped and sent a shot of defiance toward her pursuers.

"Brave girl!" shouted Hanscom, for he recognized Helen. "Hold the fort!" But his voice, husky with excitement, failed to reach her.

She heard the sound of his revolver, however, and, believing him to be only another of the attacking party, took aim at him and fired. The bullet from her rifle flew so near his head that he heard its song.

Again her rifle flashed, this time at the man above her, and again the forester shouted her name. In the midst of the vast and splendid landscape she seemed a minute brave insect defending itself against invading beasts. Her pursuers, recognizing the ranger's horse, wheeled their ponies and disappeared in the forest.

Hanscom spurred his horse straight toward the girl, calling her name, but even then she failed to recognize him till, lifting his hat from his head, he desperately shouted:

"Don't shoot, girl – don't shoot! It's Hanscom – the ranger!"

She knew him at last, and, dropping her rifle to the ground, awaited his approach in silence.

As he leaped from his horse and ran toward her she lifted her hands to him in a gesture of relief and welcome, and he took her in his arms as naturally as he would have taken a frightened child to his breast.

"Great God! What's the meaning of all this?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

She was white, but calm. "No, but daddy is – " And they hastened to where the old man lay crumpled up beside a rock.

Hanscom knelt to the fallen man and examined him carefully. "He's alive – he isn't wounded," he said. "He's only stunned. Wait! I'll bring some water."

Running down to the bank, he filled his hat from the flood, and with this soon brought the bruised and sadly bewildered rancher back to consciousness.

Upon realizing who his rescuer was Kauffman's eyes misted with gratitude. "My friend, I thank God for you. We were trying to find you. We were on our way to claim your protection. We lost our road, and then these bandits assaulted us."

The girl pieced out this explanation. She told of being awakened in the night by a horse's hoofs clattering across the bridge. Some one rode rapidly up to the door, dismounted, pushed a letter in over the threshold, and rode away. "I rose and got the letter," she said. "It warned us that trouble was already on the way. 'Get out!' it said. I roused daddy, we harnessed the horses and left the house as quickly as we could. We dared not go down the valley, so we tried to reach you by way of the mill. We took the wrong road at the lake. Our pursuers trailed us and overtook us, as you saw."

It was all so monstrous that the ranger could scarcely believe it true – and yet, there lay the dead horse and here was the old man beside the stone. He did not refer to his own narrow escape, and apparently Helen did not associate him with the horseman at whom she had fired with such bewildering zeal.

It was a rugged and barren setting for love's interchange, and yet these two young souls faced each other, across the disabled old man, with spirits fused in mutual understanding. Helen's face softened and her eyes expressed the gratitude she felt. At the moment the ranger's sturdy frame and plain, strong-featured face were altogether admirable to her. She relied upon him mentally and physically, as did Kauffman, whose head was bewildered by his fall.

Hanscom roused himself with effort. "Well, now, let's see what's to be done next. One of your horses appears to be unhurt, but the other is down." He went to the team and after a moment's examination came back to say: "One is dead. I'll harness my own saddler in with the other, and in that way we'll be able to reach my cabin. You must stay there for the present."

Quickly, deftly, he gathered the scattered goods from the ground, restored the seat to the wagon, untangled the dead beast from its harness, and substituted his own fine animal, while Helen attended to Kauffman. He recovered rapidly, and in a very short time was able to take his seat in the wagon, and so they started down the road toward the valley.

"It's a long way round by the wagon road," Hanscom explained. "But we can make the cabin by eleven, and then we can consider the next move."

To this Helen now made objection. "We must not bring more trouble upon you. They will resent your giving us shelter. Take us to the railway. Help us to leave the state. I am afraid to stay in this country another night. I want to get away from it all to-day."