IX
FURTHER PERPLEXITIES
Wayland, for his part, was not deceived by Siona Moore. He knew her kind,and understood her method of attack. He liked her pert ways, for theybrought back his days at college, when dozens of just such misses lentgrace and humor and romance to the tennis court and to the footballfield. She carried with her the aroma of care-free, athletic girlhood.Flirtation was in her as charming and almost as meaningless as thepreening of birds on the bank of a pool in the meadow.
Speaking aloud, he said: "Miss Moore travels the trail with all knownaccessories, and I've no doubt she thinks she is a grand campaigner; butI am wondering how she would stand such a trip as that you took lastnight. I don't believe she could have done as well as I. She's theimitation--you're the real thing."
The praise involved in this speech brought back a little of Berrie'shumor. "I reckon those brown boots of hers would have melted," she said,with quaint smile.
He became very grave. "If it had not been for you, dear girl, I would belying up there in the forest this minute. Nothing but your indomitablespirit kept me moving. I shall be deeply hurt if any harm comes to you onaccount of me."
"If it hadn't been for me you wouldn't have started on that trip lastnight. It was perfectly useless. It would have been better for us both ifwe had stayed in camp, for we wouldn't have met these people."
"That's true," he replied; "but we didn't know that at the time. We actedfor the best, and we must not blame ourselves, no matter what comes ofit."
They fell silent at this point, for each was again conscious of their newrelationship. She, vaguely suffering, waited for him to resume thelover's tone, while he, oppressed by the sense of his own shortcomingsand weakness, was planning an escape. "It's all nonsense, my remaining inthe forest. I'm not fitted for it. It's too severe. I'll tell McFarlaneso and get out."
Perceiving his returning weakness and depression, Berea insisted on hislying down again while she set to work preparing dinner. "There is notelling when father will get here," she said. "And Tony will be hungrywhen he comes. Lie down and rest."
He obeyed her silently, and, going to the bunk, at once fell asleep. Howlong he slept he could not tell, but he was awakened by the voice of theranger, who was standing in the doorway and regarding Berrie with around-eyed stare.
He was a tall, awkward fellow of about thirty-five, plainly of thefrontier type; but a man of intelligence. At the end of a briefexplanation Berrie said, with an air of authority: "Now you'd better rideup the trail and bring our camp outfit down. We can't go back that way,anyhow."
The ranger glanced toward Wayland. "All right, Miss Berrie, but perhapsyour tenderfoot needs a doctor."
Wayland rose painfully but resolutely. "Oh no, I am not sick. I'm alittle lame, that's all. I'll go along with you."
"No," said Berrie, decisively. "You're not well enough for that. Get upyour horses, Tony, and by that time I'll have some dinner ready."
"All right, Miss Berrie," replied the man, and turned away.
Hardly had he crossed the bridge on his way to the pasture, when Berriecried out: "There comes daddy."
Wayland joined her at the door, and stood beside her watching theSupervisor, as he came zigzagging down the steep hill to the east, withall his horses trailing behind him roped together head-to-tail.
"He's had to come round by Lost Lake," she exclaimed. "He'll be tiredout, and absolutely starved. Wahoo!" she shouted in greeting, and theSupervisor waved his hand.
There was something superb in the calm seat of the veteran as he sliddown the slope. He kept his place in the saddle with the air of the riderto whom hunger, fatigue, windfalls, and snowslides were all a part of theday's work; and when he reined in before the door and dropped from hishorse, he put his arm about his daughter's neck with quiet word: "Ithought I'd find you here. How is everything?"
"All right, daddy; but what about you? Where have you been?"
"Clean back to Mill Park. The blamed cayuses kept just ahead of me allthe way."
"Poor old dad! And on top of that came the snow."
"Yes, and a whole hatful. I couldn't get back over the high pass. Had togo round by Lost Lake, and to cap all, Old Baldy took a notion not tolead. Oh, I've had a peach of a time; but here I am. Have you seen Mooreand his party?"
"Yes, they're in camp up the trail. He and Alec Belden and two women. Areyou hungry?"
He turned a comical glance upon her. "Am I hungry? Sister, I am a wolf.Norcross, take my horses down to the pasture."
She hastened to interpose. "Let me do that, daddy, Mr. Norcross is badlyused up. You see, we started down here late yesterday afternoon. It wasraining and horribly muddy, and I took the wrong trail. The darknesscaught us and we didn't reach the station till nearly midnight."
Wayland acknowledged his weakness. "I guess I made a mistake, Supervisor;I'm not fitted for this strenuous life."
McFarlane was quick to understand. "I didn't intend to pitchfork you intothe forest life quite so suddenly," he said. "Don't give up yet awhile.You'll harden to it."
"Here comes Tony," said Berrie. "He'll look after the ponies."
Nevertheless Wayland went out, believing that Berrie wished to be alonewith her father for a short time.
As he took his seat McFarlane said: "You stayed in camp till yesterdayafternoon, did you?"
"Yes, we were expecting you every moment."
He saw nothing in this to remark upon. "Did it snow at the lake?"
"Yes, a little; it mostly rained."
"It stormed up on the divide like a January blizzard. When did Moore andhis party arrive?"
"About ten o'clock this morning."
"I'll ride right up and see them. What about the outfit? That's at thelake, I reckon?"
"Yes, I was just sending Tony after it. But, father, if you go up toMoore's camp, don't say too much about what has happened. Don't tell themjust when you took the back-trail, and just how long Wayland and I werein camp."
"Why not?"
She reddened with confusion. "Because--You know what an old gossip Mrs.Belden is. I don't want her to know. She's an awful talker, and our beingtogether up there all that time will give her a chance."
A light broke in on the Supervisor's brain. In the midst of hispreoccupation as a forester he suddenly became the father. His eyesnarrowed and his face darkened. "That's so. The old rip could make awhole lot of capital out of your being left in camp that way. At the sametime I don't believe in dodging. The worst thing we could do would be totry to blind the trail. Was Tony here last night when you came?"
"No, he was down the valley after his mail."
His face darkened again. "That's another piece of bad luck, too. How muchdoes the old woman know at present?"
"Nothing at all."
"Didn't she cross-examine you?"
"Sure she did; but Wayland side-tracked her. Of course it only delaysthings. She'll know all about it sooner or later. She's great at puttingtwo and two together. Two and two with her always make five."
McFarlane mused. "Cliff will be plumb crazy if she gets his ear first."
"I don't care anything about Cliff, daddy. I don't care what he thinks ordoes, if he will only let Wayland alone."
"See here, daughter, you do seem to be terribly interested in thistourist."
"He's the finest man I ever knew, father."
He looked at her with tender, trusting glance. "He isn't your kind,daughter. He's a nice clean boy, but he's different. He don't belong inour world. He's only just stopping here. Don't forget that."
"I'm not forgetting that, daddy. I know he's different, that's why I likehim." After a pause she added: "Nobody could have been nicer all throughthese days than he has been. He was like a brother."
McFarlane fixed a keen glance upon her. "Has he said anything to you? Didyou come to an understanding?"
Her eyes fell. "Not the way you mean, daddy; but I think he--likes me.But do you know who he is? He's the son of W. W. Norcross, that bigMichiga
n lumberman."
McFarlane started. "How do you know that?"
"Mr. Moore asked him if he was any relation to W.W. Norcross, and hesaid, 'Yes, a son.' You should have seen how that Moore girl changed hertune the moment he admitted that. She'd been very free with him up tothat time; but when she found out he was a rich man's son she became asquiet and innocent as a kitten. I hate her; she's a deceitful snip."
"Well, now, daughter, that being the case, it's all the more certain thathe don't belong to our world, and you mustn't fix your mind on keepinghim here."
"A girl can't help fixing her mind, daddy."
"Or changing it." He smiled a little. "You used to like Cliff. You likedhim well enough to promise to marry him."
"I know I did; but I despise him now."
"Poor Cliff! He isn't so much to blame after all. Any man is likely toflare out when he finds another fellow cutting in ahead of him. Why, hereyou are wanting to kill Siona Moore just for making up to your youngtourist."
"But that's different."
He laughed. "Of course it is. But the thing we've got to guard against isold lady Belden's tongue. She and that Belden gang have it in for me, andall that has kept them from open war has been Cliff's relationship toyou. They'll take a keen delight in making the worst of all this campingbusiness." McFarlane was now very grave. "I wish your mother was herethis minute. I guess we had better cut out this timber cruise and goright back."
"No, you mustn't do that; that would only make more talk. Go on with yourplans. I'll stay here with you. It won't take you but a couple of days todo the work, and Wayland needs the rest."
"But suppose Cliff hears of this business between you and Norcross andcomes galloping over the ridge?"
"Well, let him, he has no claim on me."
He rose uneasily. "It's all mighty risky business, and it's my fault. Ishould never have permitted you to start on this trip."
"Don't you worry about me, daddy, I'll pull through somehow. Anybody thatknows me will understand how little there is in--in old lady Belden'sgab. I've had a beautiful trip, and I won't let her nor anybody elsespoil it for me."
McFarlane was not merely troubled. He was distracted. He was afraid tomeet the Beldens. He dreaded their questions, their innuendoes. He hadperfect faith in his daughter's purity and honesty, and he liked andtrusted Norcross, and yet he knew that should Belden find it to hisadvantage to slander these young people, and to read into their actionthe lawlessness of his own youth, Berea's reputation, high as it was,would suffer, and her mother's heart be rent with anxiety. In his growingpain and perplexity he decided to speak frankly to young Norcrosshimself. "He's a gentleman, and knows the way of the world. Perhaps he'llhave some suggestion to offer." In his heart he hoped to learn thatWayland loved his daughter and wished to marry her.
Wayland was down on the bridge leaning over the rail, listening to thesong of the water.
McFarlane approached gravely, but when he spoke it was in his usual softmonotone. "Mr. Norcross," he began, with candid inflection, "I am verysorry to say it; but I wish you and my daughter had never started on thistrip."
"I know what you mean, Supervisor, and I feel as you do about it. Ofcourse, none of us foresaw any such complication as this, but now that weare snarled up in it we'll have to make the best of it. No one of us isto blame. It was all accidental."
The youth's frank words and his sympathetic voice disarmed McFarlanecompletely. Even the slight resentment he felt melted away. "It's no usesaying _if_," he remarked, at length. "What we've got to meet is SethBelden's report--Berrie has cut loose from Cliff, and he's red-headedalready. When he drops onto this story, when he learns that I had tochase back after the horses, and that you and Berrie were alone togetherfor three days, he'll have a fine club to swing, and he'll swing it; andAlec will help him. They're all waiting a chance to get me, and they'remean enough to get me through my girl."
"What can I do?" asked Wayland.
McFarlane pondered. "I'll try to head off Marm Belden, and I'll have atalk with Moore. He's a pretty reasonable chap."
"But you forget there's another tale-bearer. Moore's daughter is withthem."
"That's so. I'd forgotten her. Good Lord! we are in for it. There's nouse trying to cover anything up."
Here was the place for Norcross to speak up and say: "Never mind, I'mgoing to ask Berrie to be my wife." But he couldn't do it. Something rosein his throat which prevented speech. A strange repugnance, a kind ofsullen resentment at being forced into a declaration, kept him silent,and McFarlane, disappointed, wondering and hurt, kept silence also.
Norcross was the first to speak. "Of course those who know your daughterwill not listen for an instant to the story of an unclean old thing likeMrs. Belden."
"I'm not so sure about that," replied the father, gloomily. "Peoplealways listen to such stories, and a girl always gets the worst of asituation like this. Berrie's been brought up to take care of herself,and she's kept clear of criticism so far; but with Cliff on edge and thisold rip snooping around--" His mind suddenly changed. "Your being the sonof a rich man won't help any. Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
"I didn't think it necessary. What difference does it make? I havenothing to do with my father's business. His notions of forestspeculation are not mine."
"It would have made a difference with me, and it might have made adifference with Berrie. She mightn't have been so free with you at thestart, if she'd known who you were. You looked sick and kind of lonesome,and that worked on her sympathy."
"I _was_ sick and I was lonesome, and she has been very sweet and lovelyto me, and it breaks my heart to think that her kindness and yourfriendship should bring all this trouble and suspicion upon her. Let's goup to the Moore camp and have it out with them. I'll make any statementyou think best."
"I reckon the less said about it the better," responded the older man."I'm going up to the camp, but not to talk about my daughter."
"How can you help it? They'll force the topic."
"If they do, I'll force them to let it alone," retorted McFarlane; but hewent away disappointed and sorrowful. The young man's evident avoidanceof the subject of marriage hurt him. He did not perceive, as Norcrossdid, that to make an announcement of his daughter's engagement at thismoment would be taken as a confession of shameful need. It is probablethat Berrie herself would not have seen this further complication.
Each hour added to Wayland's sense of helplessness and bitterness. "I amin a trap. I can neither help Berrie nor help myself. Nothing remains forme but flight, and flight will also be a confession of guilt."
Once again, and in far more definite terms, he perceived the injustice ofthe world toward women. Here with Berrie, as in ages upon ages of othertimes, the maiden must bear the burden of reproach. "In me it will beconsidered a joke, a romantic episode, in her a degrading misdemeanor.And yet what can I do?"
When he re-entered the cabin the Supervisor had returned from the camp,and something in his manner, as well as in Berrie's, revealed the factthat the situation had not improved.
"They forced me into a corner," McFarlane said to Wayland, peevishly. "Ilied out of one night; but they know that you were here last night. Ofcourse, they were respectful enough so long as I had an eye on them, buttheir tongues are wagging now."
The rest of the evening was spent in talk on the forest, and in goingover the ranger's books, for the Supervisor continued to plan forWayland's stay at this station, and the young fellow thought it best notto refuse at the moment.
As bedtime drew near Settle took a blanket and went to the corral, andBerrie insisted that her father and Wayland occupy the bunk.
Norcross protested; but the Supervisor said: "Let her alone. She's betterable to sleep on the floor than either of us."
This was perfectly true; but, in spite of his bruised and aching body,the youth would gladly have taken her place beside the stove. It seemedpitifully unjust that she should have this physical hardship in additionto her uneasiness of mind
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