Told in the Hills: A Novel

  CHAPTER VII.

  UNDER THE CHINOOK MOON.

  Ikt polaklie konaway moxt.

  Over the crowns of the far hills the moon wheeled slowly up into thesky, giving the shadows a cloak of blue mist, and vying with theforgotten torch in lighting up the group in the gulch. The night windsrustled through the leaves and sighed through the cedars; and the girl'svoice, scarcely louder than the whispers of the wood, said: "Genesee!Tillie!"

  "Yes, Miss," the man answered, as he lowered her head from his shoulderto the sward, making a pillow for her of his hat. With returning lifeand consciousness she again slipped out of his reach or possession, andhimself and his emotions were put aside, to be hidden from her eyes.

  Through the blessing of death, infinite possession comes to so manysouls that life leaves beggared; and in those hurried moments ofuncertainty, she belonged to him more fully than he could hope for whileshe lived.

  "Is it you, Genesee?" she said, after looking at him drowsily for alittle. "I--I thought Tillie was here, crying, and kissing me."

  "No, Miss, you fainted, I reckon, and just dreamed that part of it," heanswered, but avoiding the eyes that, though drowsy, looked so directlyat him.

  "I suppose so," she agreed. "I tried to reach you when I felt myselfgoing; but you wouldn't look around. Did you catch me?"

  "Yes; and I don't think you were quite square with me back there; youtold me you were all right; but you must have got hurt more than youowned up to. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "But I am not--indeed I am not!" she persisted. "I was not at allinjured except for the jar of the fall; it leaves me dizzy and sick whenI sit upright in the saddle--that is all."

  "And it is enough," he returned decidedly; "do you 'spose, if you'd toldme just how you felt, I should have set you there to ride through thesehills and hollows?"

  "What else could you do?" she asked; "you couldn't bring a carriage forme."

  "May be not, but I could have ridden Mowitza myself and carried you."

  "That would be funny," she smiled. "Poor Mowitza! could she carrydouble?"

  "Yes," he answered curtly; perhaps the situation did not strike him in ahumorous light. "Yes, she can, and that's what she will have to do. Letme know when you feel able to start."

  "I think I do now," she said, raising herself from the ground; "I am alittle shaky, but if I do not have to sit upright I can keep my witsabout me, I believe. Will you help me, please?"

  He lifted her into the saddle without a word, and then mounting himself,he took her in front of him, circling her with one arm and guidingMowitza with the other, with as much unconcern as if he had carrieddamsels in like cavalier fashion all his life.

  They rode on in silence for a little through the shadows of the valley,where the moon's light only fell in patches. His eyes were straightahead, on the alert for gullies and pitfalls along the blind trail. Heseemed to have no glances for the girl whose head was on his shoulder,but whom he held most carefully. Once he asked how she felt, and if shewas comfortable; and she said "Yes, thank you," very demurely, with thatmocking smile about her lips. She felt like laughing at the wholesituation--all the more so because he looked so solemn, almost grim. Shealways had an insane desire to laugh when in circumstances where anyconventional woman would be gathering up her dignity. It had got herinto scrapes often, and she felt as if it was likely to do so now. Themovement of the horse no longer made her ill, since she did not have tosit upright; she was only a little dizzy at times, as if from therocking of a swing, and lazily comfortable with that strong arm andshoulder for support.

  "I am afraid I am getting heavy," she remarked after a while; "if Icould get my arm around back of you and hold either the saddle or reachup to your shoulder, I might not be such a dead weight on your arm."

  "Just as you like," was the brief reply that again aroused her desire tolaugh. It did seem ridiculous to be forced into a man's arms like that,and the humorous part of it was heightened, in her eyes, by his apparentsulkiness over the turn affairs had taken.

  She slipped her arm across his back, however, and up to his shoulder,thus lightening her weight on the arm that circled her, an attempt towhich he appeared indifferent. And so they rode on out of the valleyinto the level land at the foot of the hills, and then into the oldtrail where the route was more familiar and not so much care needed.

  The girl raised her head drowsily as she noted some old landmarks in themisty light.

  "Poor Mowitza!" she said; "she did not have such a load when she cameover this road before; it was the day after you joined us, do youremember?"

  "Yes."

  Remember! It had been the gateway through which he had gained a glimpseinto a new world--those days that were tinged with the delightfulsuggestions of dawn. He smiled rather grimly at the question, but shecould not see his face very well, under the shadow of his wide hat.

  "Has Mowitza ever before had to carry double?"

  There was a little wait after her question--perhaps he was trying toremember; then he said:

  "Yes."

  She wanted to ask who, and under what circumstances, but someway wasdeterred by his lock-and-key manner, as she called it. She rathercommended herself for her good humor under its influence, and wonderedthat she only felt like laughing at his gruffness. With any other personshe would have felt like retaliating, and she lay there looking up intothe shadowy face with a mocking self-query as to why he was made anexception of.

  "Genesee!" she began, after one of those long spells of silence; andthen the utterance of the name suggested a new train of thought--"by theway, is your name Genesee?"

  He did not answer at once--was he trying to remember that also?

  "I wish you would tell me," she continued, more gently than was usualwith her. "I am going away soon; I should like to know by what real nameI am to remember you when I am back in Kentucky. Is your name JackGenesee?"

  "No," he said at last; "Genesee is a name that stuck to me from somemines where I worked, south of this. If I went back to them I would becalled Kootenai Jack, perhaps, because I came from here. Plenty of menare known by names out here that would not be recognized at home, ifthey have a home.

  "But your name is Jack" she persisted.

  "Yes, my name is Jack."

  But he did not seem inclined to give any further information on thesubject that just then was of interest to her, and she did not like toquestion further, but contented herself with observing:

  "I shan't call you Genesee any more."

  "Just as you like, Miss."

  Again came that crazy desire of hers to laugh, and although she keptsilent, it was a convulsive silence--one of heaving bosom and quiveringshoulders. To hide it, she moved restlessly, changing her positionsomewhat, and glancing about her.

  "Not much farther to go," she remarked; "won't they be surprised to findyou carrying me into camp like this? I wonder if Betty came this way, orif they found her--the little vixen! There is only one more hill tocross until we reach camp--is there not?"

  "Only one more."

  "And both Mowitza and yourself will need a good rest when we get there,"she remarked. "Your arm must feel paralyzed. Do you know I was justthinking if you had found me dead in that gulch, you would have had tocarry me back over this trail, just like this. Ugh! What a dismal ride,carrying a dead woman!"

  His arm closed around her quickly, and he drew a deep breath as helooked at her.

  "I don't know," he said in a terse way, as if through shut teeth;"perhaps it wouldn't have been so dismal, for I might never have comeback. I might have staid there--with you."

  She could see his eyes plainly enough when he looked at her like that;even the shadows could not cover their warmth; they left little to beexpressed in words, and neither attempted any. Her face turned away fromhim a little, but her hand slipped into the clasp of his fingers, and sothey rode on in silence.

  The brow of the last hill was reached. Down below them could be seen thefaint light from the camp-fire, and
for an instant Mowitza was haltedfor a breathing-spell ere she began the descent. The girl glanced downtoward the fire-light, and then up to his face.

  "You can rest now," she said, with the old quizzical smile about herlips, even while her fingers closed on his own. "There is the camp;alta nika wake tsolo" (now you no longer wander in the dark).

  But there was no answering smile on his face--not even at the pleasureof the language that at times had seemed a tacit bond between them. Heonly looked at her in the curious way she had grown accustomed to inhim, and said:

  "The light down there is for you; I don't belong to it. Just try andremember that after--after you are safe with your folks."

  "I shall remember a great deal," returned the girl in her independenttone; "among other things, the man who brought me back to them. Now, whydon't you say, 'Just as you like, Miss?' You ought to--to be natural."

  But her raillery brought no more words from him. His face had again itssombre, serious look, and in silence he guided Mowitza's feet downtoward the glow-light. Once a puff of wind sent the girl's hair blowingacross her face, and he smoothed it back carefully that he might see hereyes in the moonlight; but the half-caress in the movement was as ifgiven to a child. All the quick warmth was gone from his eyes and speechafter that one comprehensive outbreak, and the girl was puzzled at thechange that had come in its stead. He was so gentle, but so guarded--thetouch even of his fingers on her shoulder was tremulous, as if with theweight of resistance forced into them. She did not feel like laughingany longer, after they began the descent of the hill. His manner hadimpressed her too strongly with the feeling of some change to come withthe end of that ride and the eventful moonlight night, but no words cameto her; but her hand remained in his of its own accord, not because itwas held there, and she lay very quiet, wondering if he would notspeak--would say nothing more to her ere they joined the others, to whomthey were moving nearer at every step.

  He did not. Once his fingers closed convulsively over her own. His eyesstraight ahead caused her to glance in that direction, and she sawTillie and Hardy clearly, in the moonlight, walking togetherhand-in-hand down toward the glow of the camp-fire. On a ledge of rockthat jutted out clear from the shadowy brush, they lingered for aninstant. The soft blue light and the silence made them look a littleghostly--a tryst of spirits--as the tall shoulders drooped forward withcircling arms into which Tillie crept, reaching upward until their facesmet. The eyes of those two on horseback turned involuntarily toward eachother at the sight of those married lovers, but there was no echo of acaress in their own movements, unless it was the caress of a glance; andin a few moments more they were within speaking distance of the camp.

  "We are here," he said slowly, as Hardy and his wife, hearing the stepsof the horse, hurried toward them.

  "Yes, I know," she whispered.

  It was their good-bye to the night.

  A neigh from the renegade Betty was answered by Mowitza, and in aninstant all the group about the camp was alive to the fact of thereturn. But the eager questions received few answers, for Genesee handedRachel into the arms of Hardy, and said to Tillie:

  "Don't let them pester her with questions to-night, Mrs. Hardy. She hasno injuries, I guess, only she's used up and needs rest badly. I foundher ready to faint in a gulch back from the trail about three miles.She'll be all right to-morrow, I reckon; only see that she gets a goodrest and isn't bothered to-night."

  No need to tell them that. Their gladness at her safe return made themall consideration.

  Genesee and Mowitza also came in for a share of their solicitude, andthe former for a quantity of thanks that met with rather brusqueresponse.

  "That's nothing to thank a man for," he said a little impatiently, asthe Houghtons were contributing their share. "I reckon you don't knowmuch about the duties of a scout or guide in this country, or you wouldknow it was my business to go for the lady--just as it would be to huntup lost stock, if any had strayed off. There wasn't much of a trick infinding her--Betty left too clear a trail; and I reckon it's time we allturned in to sleep instead of talking about it."

  In the morning Rachel awoke refreshed and expectant in a vague way. Theincidents of the night before came crowding to her memory, sending theblood tingling through her veins as she thought of their meeting; of theride; of those few significant words of his, and his face as he hadspoken. She wondered at herself accepting it all so dreamily--as if in alethargy. She was far from a stupor at the thought of it in the light ofthe early day, as she watched the blue mists rising up, up, from thevalleys. Was he watching them, too? Was he thinking as she was of thatride and its revelations? Would he meet her again with that queer,distant manner of his? Would he--

  Her ruminations were cut short by Tillie, who thought to awaken her withthe proffer of a cup of hot coffee, and who was surprised to find herawake.

  "Yes, I am awake, and hungry, too," she said briskly; "you did not giveme nearly enough to eat last night. Is breakfast all ready? I wonder howpoor Mowitza is this morning after her heavy load. Say, Tillie, did welook altogether ridiculous?"

  "No, you did not," said Tillie stoutly. "It was wonderfully kind of himto bring you so carefully. I always said he had a great deal of heart inhim; but he is gone, already."

  "Gone!--where?" And the cup of coffee was set on the grass as if thehunger and thirst were forgotten. "Where?"

  "We don't know," said Tillie helplessly. "Clara says back to his tribe;but she always has something like that to say of him. It's the queerestthing; even Hen is puzzled. He was wakened this morning about dawn byGenesee, who told him his time was up with the party; that we couldfollow the trail alone well enough now; and that he had to join someIndian hunters away north of this to-night, so had to make an earlystart. I guess he forgot to speak of it last night, or else was tootired. He left a good-bye for Hen to deliver for him to the rest of us,and a klahowya to you."

  "Did he?" asked the girl with a queer little laugh. "That was thoughtfulof him. May his hunting be prosperous and his findings be great."

  "Dear me!" said Tillie weakly, "you are just as careless about it asClara, and I did think you would be sorry to lose him. I am, and so isHen; but evidently persuasions were of no avail. He said he could noteven wait for breakfast; that he should have gone last night. And thequeerest thing about it is that he utterly refused any money from Hen,on the plea that the whole affair had been a pleasure ride, not work atall; and so--he is gone."

  "And so--he is gone," said the girl, mimicking her tone; "what atragical manner over a very prosaic circumstance! Tillie, my child,don't be so impressible, or I shall have to tell Hen that our guide hastaken your affections in lieu of greenbacks."

  "Rachel!"

  "Matilda!" said the other mildly, looking teasingly over the rim of thecoffee-cup she was slowly emptying. "Don't startle me with that tonebefore breakfast, and don't grieve over the exodus of Mr. Genesee Jack.I shall take on my own shoulders the duties of guide in his stead, soyou need not worry about getting home safely; and in the meantime I amwoefully hungry."

  She was still a little dizzy as she rose to her feet, and very stiff andsore from her ride; but, joking over her rheumatic joints, she limpedover to where the breakfast was spread on a flat rock.

  "There is one way in which I may not be able to take Mr. Genesee Jack'splace, in your estimation," she said lowly to Tillie as they were aboutto join the others. "I shall not be able to tell you stories of Indianconjurors or sing you Indian love-songs. I can't do anything butwhistle."

  "Hen, she wasn't the least bit interested about him leaving like that!"said Tillie confidentially to her husband a few hours later. "She neverdoes seem to have much feeling for anything; but after he brought herback so carefully, and after the chumminess there was between them for awhile, one would naturally think--"

  "Of course one would," agreed her husband laughingly, "especially if onewas an affectionate, match-making little person like yourself, andaltogether a woman. But Rache--" and his glance wande
red ahead to wherethe slim figure of the girl was seen stubbornly upright on Betty--"well,Rache never was like the rest of the girls at home, and I fancy she willnever understand much of the sentimental side of life. She is toolevel-headed and practical."