Produced by Al Haines. [Illustration: Cover art] [Illustration: "He looked down into her lifted face, believing yet not believing." Frontispiece. _See page_ 312.] *THE* *HEART OF THE RED FIRS* A STORY OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST BY *ADA WOODRUFF ANDERSON* ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES GRUNWALD BOSTON LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 1909 _Copyright, 1908,_ BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _All rights reserved_ Published April, 1908 Printers B. J. Parkhill & Co., Printers, Boston, U.S.A. TO THOSE FEW REMAINING PIONEERS, WHO KNEW THE NISQUALLY TRAIL INTO THE GREAT SOLITUDES, IN TIMES BEFORE THE LOGGING RAILROAD DEVASTATED THE PUGET SOUND HILLS, AND THE WILDER- NESS BEGAN TO RECEDE AT THE COMING OF THE BUILDER OF TOWNSITES. *CONTENTS* CHAPTER I. The Teacher and the Freak of the Strange Thoroughbred II. The Leaning Tower III. The Camp at the Headwaters IV. "Ther Biggest Coward in ther Woods" V. Strattonâs Way VI. Mose VII. The Instrument of Tyee Sahgalee VIII. "Iâm Going to Make Him White" IX. Uncle Silas X. Lem and the *Phantom* XI. The House-Raising XII. A Face in the Night XIII. The Pressure of the Thumb-Screw XIV. The Salmon-trollers XV. The Man in the Tide-rip XVI. The Fiery Lane XVII. The Man Who Bungled XVIII. Water-logged XIX. "Andromeda Has Found a Perseus" XX. The Grand Coup XXI. Hide and Seek XXII. For Little Silas XXIII. "As Long as We Two Live" XXIV. "A Man Of Straw" XXV. The Rockslide XXVI. The Judge XXVII. Lem Creates Fiction XXVIII. The Pressure of the Wilderness XXIX. The Crack of Doom XXX. The Lost Prospect *LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS* "He looked down into her lifted face, believing yet not believing" . . . Frontispiece "She paused, swaying in the hot gale" "âI like you as well as I could like any American with un-American waysâ" "He turned and looked into the fire" *THE HEART OF THE RED FIRS* *CHAPTER I* *THE TEACHER AND THE FREAK OF THE STRANGE THOROUGHBRED* The children were putting away their books. The afternoon sun, streaming through the uncurtained windows, made patches of heat on the hewn cedar flooring, and the new, unpainted desks sent forth pitch and the fragrance of fir. Suddenly a shadow crossed one of these squares of light, and Lem Myers, who was seated nearest the raised sash, whispered an audible warning: "Mose, your dadâs cominâ." The boy sprang to his feet and stood facing the open door. The intruder entered without ceremony. He had the lank black hair and mustache, eyes flashing under shaggy brows, of the Canadian-French, and the powerful shoulders and sinewy frame of a voyageur of the Hudson Bay Company. Two hounds which followed him, stopped with their forepaws on the threshold and reconnoitered the room suspiciously. He strode directly up the aisle to the waiting boy, and laying a hand roughly on his neck, said, with growing heat, "Dinâ I tell you doanâ tek dat gun? Oui, two, târee tam I ees say let eet âlone." Mose rocked under the grasp but he bore it with the silent fortitude inherited from an Indian mother; the white in him only found expression in the dull glow of his cheek, the tense arms and the hands clenched at his sides. "Dinâ I say Aâm goinâ târash you? Nawitka, for sure. Tâief! Cultus Siwash!" And with a climax of invective, hurled forth in a mixture of French, English and Indian, the man raised his hand and struck a hard blow. Before he could repeat it the teacher stepped between them. She had a bright, speaking face, eyes that laughed or stormed on occasion, a mouth mobile, alluring, with charm of lurking merriment, and a chin delicately square, that lifted when she spoke, with an indescribable air of decision. "How do you do, Mr. Laramie," she said, and offered her hand, while, at the same time, with the other palm she impelled Mose back into his seat. "You are just in time to hear us sing." He had ignored the hand, but she quickly placed her chair for him, smiling, and commenced in a clear, full mezzo: "We now are youthful sailors, we are not far from shore, But soon we mean to journey the ocean oâer and oâer." She lifted her music book from her desk and found the place for him, but he refused it with a shake of his head, and taking the seat with manifest reluctance, pulled his old squirrel-skin cap over his brows, scowling first at her, then more darkly at Mose, and finally in general at the school. The children swelled the chorus lustily. And the Canadian liked music. It was his vulnerable point. He began to beat time to this brisk measure with his clumsy boot; cautiously at first, then with great vigor, while his voice broke into a hoarse hum. The song was hardly finished when she tapped the bell for dismissal. "It ees greât museek," said Laramie, rising. "Oui, a greât song." His glance moved, challenging possible contradiction, and rested on Moseâs seat. It was vacant. "Dem it," he cried with returning wrath. But the teacher went swiftly down the aisle before him. "Here is your gun," she said, and dragged it from behind the door. Her voice trembled a little; entreaty rose through the courage in her eyes. He took the rifle, turning it in his brawny hands to give it a close scrutiny. When, with a final click of the hammer, he raised his glance, the entreaty was gone; she stood with her arms folded, chin high, watching him. It was as though she measured him. His mouth worked in an unaccustomed smile. "Say, Mees," he said, "what ees dis you tole dose chillun âbout de eartâ ees roun? You mek fun for dem, yaas?" There was a silent moment while the amazement came and went in her face; a touch of merriment dimpled her mouth. Then, "It is quite true," she answered, gravely, "the earth is round." "Rounâ? SacrÃ©, Mees, but we musâ fall off." She shook her head. "Come, I will show you." And she led the way back to her desk, and taking a small globe in her hands, went through the usual explanation slowly, simply, with infinite patience, as she would have told a little child. But Laramie had convictions of his own. He had seen the great Pacific, oh, yes, often, when he had journeyed for the fur company to Nootka; and he had watched ships approach from the far horizon, but to see the masts first proved nothing; a vessel was most all sail. And it was true that once he had met a sailor who said he had taken a ship at Quebec and sailed straight on and on, and without turning back had found himself again at home. But plainly the man had lied, for how could one make la bon voyage up the Fraser, through the big lakes and down the St. Lawrence in a great vessel? Bah, every one knew it could only be done in a canoe. "De eartâ rounâ?" he concluded. "No, no, Mees, you doanâ mek me beliâve dat. But it ees greât joke; oui, a greât joke, ha, ha. Well, good-by, Mees. Tek care yourseâf." He shouldered the gun and strode away through the door. At the same time there was the snapping of a twig and a glimpse of retreating bare heels at the corner of the house, and while the Canadian moved down the river trail a pair of keen eyes, set in a ferret-shaped face, peered at him from behind the angle. They were the eyes of Lem Myers. When he had satisfied himself that Laramie was truly on his way he came cautiously to the threshold. The teacher was seated at her desk using her pencil with rapid, decisive strokes. He crossed the floor to the platform before she was conscious of his presence. "Well, Lem," and she smiled down at him, "are you waiting for me?" "Wal, yes; thort Iâd wait anâ see it out." He slipped up behind her chair to look over her shoulder, bending his head as she moved her hand, the better to follow her work. "Oh, gee," he exclaimed suddenly, slapping his knees, "gee. Youâre a-settinâ here a-makinâ er picture of him, anâ I âlowed all ther time you was scared." "Scared?" She suspended her pencil to look at him. "Yes, Mose was gone anâ ther wanât nobody else ter hit." "Hit? Do you mean he might have struck me?" She rose to her feet, facing the boy. "Do youâ Do men in this settlement ever strike the women?" He gave her a sidelong glance and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets. "You bet," he answered. There was a brief silence, then she said, and the vibration had not gone from her voice, "No, Lem, I was not afraid, but I might have been if I had known. Where I have lived men never strike women; they have other ways. I was just thinking of Mose. I wanted to ask Mr. Laramie not to be hard with him." "Oh, donât you bother âbout Mose. He kin take care hisself. Heâs got more muscle nowân any other boy in ther hull deestrict, anâ it wonât be long âfore he kin turn in anâ thrash ther ole man." There was another silence; the merriment again dimpled her mouth and she looked off through the open door. Lem stooped and picked up a loose sheet that had fluttered from the sketchbook to the floor. "Gee," he said, "gee, but you kin draw." "Yes?" Her glance returned and rested on the sheet interestedly. "What is it, Lem?" "Why, itâs er picture of ther timber-cruiser anâ that ther black horse oâ his. Hereâs ther same nice little star atween ther eyes, anâ Iâve seen him fling up his head anâ point one ear jes that erway." "So you know Colonel," she said, flushing, yet pleased at the recognition. "Mr. Forrest bought him when he was a colt. He broke him, and I am the only woman who ever mounted him." "I âlow then you kin ride some. Ther ainât never beân no sech stepper in this hull deestrict. Mill Thornton calcâlated he hed er prize when he raised ther sorrel filly, but gee, Iâve seen ther black leave her clear out oâ sight in lessân er minute." The teacher laughed softly. "I know, I know, the beauty. And his master, Lem. Did you ever see such a man in the saddle? So straight, so easy, so ready at just the right instant with a quiet word, or else that soft whistle." "He kin ride," admitted Lem. "Iâve never seen him fizzle, anâ heâs beân out here off anâ on considerable; timber-cruisinâ first anâ then prospectinâ. He âlowed last year heâd struck er gold mine or somethinâ." "I know," she repeated, "I know. It was only a few miles from here he found those splendid indications." "Yes," said the boy with his impish smile, "anâ lost âem." "The mineral is there," she said with an upward tilt of her chin. "The ore he brought down assayed remarkably rich. But he had broken his compass that day and a heavy mist settled over every peak and spur. There was absolutely nothing to mark a course from. Still, itâs there, Lem, locked in the heart of the hills. He will find it again, sometime." She went over and took her hat from its peg on the wall, and Lem followed, waiting on the steps while she locked the door. "There will be no more timber-cruising when he takes his position at the new mills," she said as they started up the trail; "no more chances to prospect. But he is coming out to the settlement before he goes to Seattle, for a last trip into the hills, and, if your mother can go with us, he intends to take me, to see the Cascades at close range, and the canyon and the leaning tower, and spend a night or two in his favorite camp at the headwaters." A few rods from the schoolhouse the trail to the Myers clearing, which was her boarding-place, began an abrupt ascent across the face of a burned over ridge. They made the first part in silence, then she paused to look back on the desolate waste. "Oh," she said, "itâs like the end of the world. Itâs always so wretchedly hot on this dead side-hill; the gravel shifts so underfoot. Itâs very different on the Tumwater road." "Wharâs that?" asked Lem. "Why, itâs the way from Olympia to the Tumwater mills where Mr. Forrest has lived since he was a small boy. And itâs through the woods and down a great ridge, with glimpses of blue sea between the firs, and always, even in warmest weather, a cool, salt breeze. The lower falls of the Des Chutes plunge into the Sound there, at Tumwater, and their thunder fills the gorge. We used to go down often, walking or riding, and sometimes when the wind and tide were right, we sailed. I suppose, Lem, you never have seen a yacht?" "Wal, no, I dunnoâs I hev." "Then you have missed a great deal. But the first time I go down to the Sound Iâll take you; and Mr. Kingsley, my brother-in-law, will have us aboard the _Phantom_. Then, out past the old monastery on Priest Point, weâll catch a swinging breeze, and all the running waves will toss their whitecaps,âyouâll like that, even if the scud whips your face,âand someone, my sister perhaps, will start âThe White Squall.â Itâs the best sea song, made for the accompaniment of water on a cleaving keel." For a moment she forgot the boy. She stood looking off across the charred stumps and skeletons of trees, as though she saw far away that blue sea she loved, and expected to hear that rush and gurgle along a moving keel. And he, this urchin who had lived his life among the weasels and squirrels in the heart of the great forest, who knew nothing of whitecaps, to whom scud was a new and vague torment, waited with his ferret eyes upon her, sharp chin lifted, lips apart. Her glance fell. Their eyes met and she laughed. "Would you like to make that trip down to Puget Sound, Lem?" He dropped his head, and slipping back to his place at her heels as she resumed the climb, answered with brief emphasis, "You bet." At the top of the ridge the trail entered the forest. The boughs of the friendly firs clasped overhead; a carpet of needles was underfoot. Moss rioted everywhere, on logs, rocks, the trunks of the living trees. Still, it was less insistent than the salal, which pushed its stiff glossy leaves through dense growths of alder and hazel, and the fern, which sent up slender stems, forming a lattice for honeysuckle and pea, and high above her head spread umbrella fronds. It was cooler and she quickened her pace. Lem began to whistle, then to answer the birds, and presently she, too, was calling, cautiously at first, taking lessons from the boy, and all the wood was full of voices. At length there was the noise of running water and they came down to a brook. It was their half-way place. Mid-channel, Lem had built a water wheel. He had set a squirrel trap on the bank, and a larger one for mink, and had made a bench for the teacher, by rolling a short log against a trunk, securing it with stakes. She seated herself and he waded out into the stream. He plucked a leaf from an overhanging bough, and shaping a drinking-cup, brought her a draught. She laid her hat in her lap and resting her head on the trunk, idly watched him while he examined the traps, and drew from a hollow cedar his alder pole, equipped with primitive line, and baited the hook with a grasshopper. But while he tried pool and shallow ineffectually, her glance moved absently up-stream, and presently she sang in a soft undertone: She shone in the light of de - clin - ing day, And each sail was set, And each heart .. was ... gay: [Illustration: Music fragment] The noise of running water became the music of the sea; the bole on which she leaned was a heaving mast, and the stir of hemlock boughs above changed to the bellying of voluminous canvas. Once more the moon hung low over the Tumwater hills, silvering the cove, and on the port bow the Des Chutes plunged out of blackness and swayed, sparkling, like a curtain of roped pearls between beetling cliffs. Her sisterâs contralto, swelled by Kingsleyâs tenor, took up the chorus, but clearer, close beside her, subduing his fine baritone to her own voice, sang Paul Forrest. At last she drew a full breath and returned to the present. She brushed her hand across her eyes and looked at Lem. The next instant she was on her feet. She ran down the bank and out upon the stepping-stones, watching the boy. "Play him, Lem," she cried softly, "play him, tire him. Donât be in a hurry." "Gee, gee!" Lem set his teeth between the exclamations, and gripped the pole in both hands. "Oh, gee!" He began to move down-stream, splashing ankle-deep, plunging over his knees in hollows. His steps quickened. He tripped on a sunken snag, recovered, fell sprawling across a dipping log, and was up instantly, steadying, playing the jerking line. "Thatâs right, Lem, slowly, tire him. Nowâ" She clasped her hands over an imaginary rod, lifted in unison, and as though she felt that great weight on the boyâs lineâ"Now. Oh, you havenât, you havenât lost him?" The chagrined sportsman stood regarding his remaining bit of string. Then he threw the pole down disgustedly and returned to the crossing, He gave the teacher one sidelong look and dropped his eyes. "Never mind, Lem," she said. "It was fine. The gamiest I ever saw." He lifted his head. "You kin bet on that," he answered. "Therâs jes one of him in this here creek. Heâs ther great Tyee. But gee, gee, I donât see how he hed water ânough ter keep him erfloat." The teacher laughed softly. She started on over the stream, but, lifting her glance from the dripping boy, she met suddenly the amused gaze of an auditor who had stopped on the bank. His mount, a dappled chestnut with a silver mane, the alert head, depth of chest, long, sleek body and nimble limbs of a thoroughbred, was, in that forest settlement, remarkable, but the man himself possessed a striking personality. He carried his large frame with almost military erectness and yet with the freedom of young muscles bred to the saddle. He wore cavalry boots and English-made riding-clothes, and his coat opened on an immaculate silk shirt bosom. His face, stamped with inherited fineness of living, was undeniably handsome, but his lip took a mocking curve when he smiled, his chin had length rather than breadth, and in his eyes, which were singularly light under black lashes and brows, smouldered a magnetic heat; they drew or repelled. The rise from the brook was abrupt, the path narrow, and the teacher waited on a larger stone while the stranger rode down into the ford. He removed his hat with the usual salutation of the trail, and crushing it carelessly under his arm, would have passed directly on, but the horse, suspicious of some movement of Lemâs, made a sudden dÃ©tour that brought him almost upon her. She started to spring to another rock, her foot slipped, and to steady herself she threw up her hand. It came in contact with the chestnutâs bridle below the bit. Instantly he reared, wheeled, and coming down, gripped the bank with his forefeet, and was off like a bird. Lem crawled out of the pool into which he had plunged to avoid those striking hoofs, and the teacher hurried on over the crossing. But, unexpectedly, at the top of the bank she met the rider returning, and she and the boy crowded quickly into the salal to give him room. He still carried his hat under his bridle arm; a rifle in a leather case swung, undamaged, from the saddle; a small canvas-covered pack rested, unbroken, above the crupper, and the thoroughbred paced gently down into the stream and moving on slowly, trotted up the opposite side and disappeared among the firs. "He kin ride," said Lem at last. "Anâ I âlow that ther chestnut kin travel. But heâd be mighty oncertain in er race. Ef it kem to it,"âhe paused to follow the teacher back into the trail,â"ef it kem to it, I dunno but what Iâd resk my pile on ther timber-cruiser anâ ther black." *CHAPTER II* *THE LEANING TOWER* Suddenly Forrest, who had taken the lead, turned and laid his hand on his horseâs rein. "Back, Colonel," he said, "back. Steady, now, steady." The trail, which ran between the edge of a windfall and the brink of a cliff, was cut off by a slide. Presently, when there was room, the teacher slipped down from the saddle, and Forrest turned the black and led him into a small open on the level shoulder to which they had climbed. Below them they heard the voices of the settlers urging Ginger, the other horse, up the sharp incline; then, with a final clatter of tin and scraping of hoofs, he appeared over the spur. He dropped his muzzle abjectly to the heather, showing covertly the whites of his eyes; his legs seemed to shorten like set posts, while Mrs. Myers, who followed closely, stopped to look at the pack. She tucked in a loose end of canvas and made a new hitch in a length of rope. She had a deft yet masculine touch, and it was her husbandâs standing tribute that she knew more about packing than he did; when Marthy fixed a load, it stayed. There was nothing weak and little effeminate about Martha. Her scant cotton gown, without decoration, was shortened above a streak of coarse gray hose; her shoes were of calf, heavy, unshapely, and her hat, Ebenâs winter one, had seen protracted service. It shaded a face darkened by exposure to wind and sun, and seamed not by age but habitual anxiety. The settler mounted a log and cast a slow glance along the windfall. There were mighty firs, centuries old, with their trunks hurled in air; boles of ancient cedars snapped mid-length; giant hemlocks held uptilted and forming a breastwork for living trees; gnarled roots locking with green branches; all dropped together like jackstraws, the playthings of Titan winds. Presently Martha joined him and they began to work along the labyrinth, picking a course for the horses. Forrest had tied the black, and, taking advantage of the delay, led the teacher to a better view-point of the canyon, which swept below them, rounding the opposite ridge in the shape of a crescent. A granite tower, crowning a higher cliff, held the curve. It was a curious pile, of boulders fitted nicely, block on block, with loophole and parapet, and the whole structure tilted slightly, leaning towards the precipice. The girl seated herself on a stone in the shade of a stunted fir, and Forrest, a little worn from the long tramp, threw himself on the ground, putting aside his hat and resting his head on his hand, his elbow on the earth, while he looked off down the gorge. "Somewhere in there," he said, "beyond that curve, I ought to find my lost prospect. The mother lode should crop out in one of those lower bluffs towards the Des Chutes. The thunder of the river reached me not long before,âI remember that clearly,âbut I wish the place I staked that day had only been in range of that fine old landmark, the tower." She looked down thoughtfully into the wooded gorge. "In such a tangle you might pass the place a dozen times. Your stakes must have been overgrown in a few weeks with fern and salal, or shoots of alder. Itâs really beginning again." "Almost." He set his square jaw and a vertical line deepened between his eyes. "Still, itâs there and sooner or later Iâll find it. But I must make the most of this trip; I canât hope for many days off at the Freeport mills. Thatâs the worst of it,"âhe smiled, shaking his head,â"no more timber-cruising; nothing to take me out-of-doors." "Do you know, I canât think of Tumwater, the mills, the falls, the ridge road, without remembering you? Youâve been a part of it, Paul; the spirit of it all." "Thatâs nice of you." He gave her a swift look of appreciation. His eyes, a deep, clear hazel, were his most expressive feature; they put weight and character into his slightest remark. "But a man must step out of his cradle, sometime, and Judge Kingsley has made me a fine offer. He is sure to gain the election,âno man is better known, or as popular in the whole territory; no one has the interests of the country more at heart. And when he goes to Congress he means to leave the Freeport mills under my management altogether; that is with the co-operation of Philip." "The co-operation of Philip? Do you think because Phil Kingsley has put his money into that property it will make any difference?" "The Judge thinks it will be the making of him." "Phil Kingsleyâs gain," she said slowly, "is always someone elseâs loss. You ought to know it." Forrest laughed, his short, pleasant laugh. "I think," he said, "you can trust me to take care of myself. Of course you know," he went on presently, "Phil means to live at the mills. His uncle opposes it. If he goes to Washington the house at Olympia will have to be leased to strangers or closed, and it will be a miserable place, at the mills, for your sister and little Si. She had better take a house over the harbor at Seattle. But she is going to live at Freeport. Like you she is determined." "Freeport is different. Itâs just a bleak, wind-swept beach, shut off from the green earth by a towering bluff. Indeed, I wouldnât live there. Here, I have the woods and mountains all around. And I love the Nisqually. Itâs freedom." "Your sister will be disappointed. She still hopes that when the novelty of all this has worn off, you will be ready to come back and make your home with her." She shook her head. "I never can do that again. I canât help disapproving of Philip. The habit grows. I object to him more and more. We often quarrelânow." Forrest laughed softly. "Of course you do; of course. But the Judge," he went on gravely, "is miserable. He says if you wonât let him help you it isnât necessary to bury yourself out here in the wilderness, in a nest of outlaws. If you are determined to be independent, you could teach or paint, or put your music to advantage in town." "Oh," she answered, "he doesnât see. I was meant for a pioneer, Paul; itâs in the blood. You ought to understand. I love the great spaces, just as you do, and your life in the big out-of-doors." A soft enthusiasm shone in her face; she looked off absently at the tower. Her hands were clasped loosely on her knee, and the sunlight, sifting between the boughs of the fir, brought out the gold in her hair; the wind roughened it under her close velvet cap, and twisted it into minute spirals about her neck and ears. The young man watching her set his lips over a quick breath and turned his eyes away. She loved these things, yes, but as a bird loves light and air; not as he loved them, to work for them, to build, reclaim, spend himself for them, fight if the time came. No, not for one foolish moment could he expect it of her. "Was ever anything as nicely balanced as that tower?" he said. "To look like a touch would send it toppling and yet to withstand the gales that sweep these hills. But the eternal forces are busy around it; some day it will go." "Itâs wonderful," she answered. "It looks like it had been built there to protect the gorge. What a stronghold it would make." "Stronghold? For whom?" "Why, for Pete Smith, Dick Slocum, any of them." "Who is Slocum?" She shook her head slowly. "I donât really know. But he came in while we were at dinner the night before last. His clothes were torn and his hat gone, and there were twigs and needles clinging to his hair. He was very hungry. The sheriff and a posse were hunting him. They had passed up the trail half an hour before, and he hurried, scowling at every one, and before any one spoke was gone, taking part of the meal in his hands." "Freeport couldnât be as bad as this. Own you were afraid." "Afraid? No, why should I have been? It was Dick Slocum who was frightened. He was running away. Mr. Myers said he had shot a man. But," she admitted grudgingly, "I was afraid of Pete Smith, and of the bear." "Smith?" He changed his position a little, dropping his arm and resting his shoulder against a rock. "What of Smith? I thought he was safe in the penitentiary." "He escaped. It was very stormy the night he came back. Trees were falling on the ridge, and after school Lem and I went home with Mose. Mr. Laramie was away with his traps, and his wife, you know, is a Yakima, the daughter of Yelm Jim. It would have been all right if the boys hadnât entertained me with stories of the rising, but they were dreadful to hear with the wind whistling, boughs soughing, rain driving on the shingles, and just the light of the backlog in the fireplace. When Lem followed Mose off to bed in the barn loft I was a little unnerved. "There were two beds in the room; mine was curtained. But I couldnât sleep. I kept listening and waiting for something to happen. There was a rifle on the wall near the door; I began to wish I had it. Moseâs mother was surely asleep, I heard her regular breathing from the other bed, and finally I crept over softly and took the gun down. It was heavy and I let the stock strike the floor. Still she didnât move, and I hurried back and stood it inside the curtains where I could reach it instantly, felt safer then and at last went to sleep." She paused, looking off again absently to the tower. It was as though she saw that room, the sleeping squaw, she herself in the curtained bed with the rifle at hand. "It must have been nearly morning when I wakened. There was still light from the smouldering backlog, and between the curtains I saw Moseâs mother standing near the door and talking to a man. His clothes were wet and torn as if he had pushed through underbrush; an old, soft hat shaded his face, and perhaps it was the shadows or the flicker of the firelight, but it seemed the most hideous face in the world. She pointed to my corner and he started towards me. My heart leaped, But she stopped him. He spoke to her in Yakima, throwing off her hand and stamping his foot. Then she came over cautiously and looked in at me. I pretended I was asleep, but the perspiration started; I could have screamed. I quite forgot the gun until I felt she had taken it and was going quickly back to the man." She paused again to give her listener a swift look with the mounting fun in her eyes. "He took the rifle," she added, "and went out." Her laugh was irresistible. "And it was Smith?" he asked directly, "Yes, it was all explained the next morning when Lem noticed the vacant place on the wall and said, âI see Peteâs out again; heâs beân fur his gun.â" Forrest laughed again at her perfect mimicry of the boy, then he turned his face again to the gorge. He thought of a good many things, but he felt the futility of saying any of them. He only asked finally, "And what of the bear?" "Oh, he was berrying, I suppose, and I happened to overtake him on the trail, I had been down the river making a sketch of Yelm Jim, fishing, and Lem had gone home without me. I noticed the bear moving ahead of me towards the creek, but I thought he was just a great pig until he lumbered around to look at me. And the moment I caught his profile, you may be sure I turned and went flying back to the river, on over the log where I had left the old chiefâhe gave me right of wayâand into the midst of the Laramie barn-raising. âCome, quick,â I said, âI have seen a bear.â And they all came; two had guns. But he was gone; he hadnât left a track, and I found myself, suddenly, standing there under the scrutiny of the whole settlement. It was only my second week, then, and teachers, up the Nisqually, are more unusual than bears." But the amusement went out of Forrestâs face. "You should have at least the security of a good horse. You must take Colonel. I canât use him at the new mills," he explained quickly, "and I donât want to sell him. He never knew another master. Will you keep him while I stay at Freeport?" "I keep Colonel? Oh, thereâs nothing I should like better; nothing. You are the best, the most generous man I ever knew." She leaned a little towards him, all delight, eagerness, charm. "I canât ever hope to repay you, Paul, but Iâd be glad of the opportunity to do anythingâanything in the worldâfor you." "I wish I could be sure of that. See here,"âhis voice deepened and shook,â"I donât ask you to come to Freeport, or anywhere, until I can offer you something worth while, onlyâif you care enough for me to wait for me, Aliceâtell me so." She drew back; the delight went out of her face; she rose in consternation to her feet. "You," she faltered. "Youâ Oh, what made you, Paul? What made you?" "How could I help it?" He, too, rose and stood looking down into her flushed face. "I always have loved you, Alice,âdonât you know it?âeven when you were a small girl and I carried your books to school. Once I was late and you came up the road to meet me.âDonât you remember?âIt was my last year at the Academy, when you were twelve. You were reading your first Waverley novel, and you told me that morning, some day your knight would come riding down the ridge. I never forgot. I was the better horseman for it. Long afterwards, when I bought Colonel, I thought of it. I always meant to be that knight." He smiled, half ashamed of that boyish dream, but she drew herself straight and turned her eyes again to the tower. "You," she said, "whom I have known my whole life through." "Yes, does that count so much against me?" "Iâm so sorry. Youâve been the best friend I ever had; the one I could always depend on. Oh, I wishâI wish it hadnât happened." He laid his hand, bracing himself a little, on the bole of the fir, and turned his own face away, looking off once more down the canyon. Myers, coming back to the edge of the windfall, called, but neither of them answered. Presently she reached and broke a sprig from a lower bough and began slowly to strip it of its needles. "But I seeâI seeâhow much Iâve been to blame," she said. "I canât forgive myself, ever. I never thought of youâinâthat way, Paul. You never seemedâlike other men. And I seeâI seeâI shouldnât have spoken, as I did just now, about Colonel." "Why, itâs all right." He swung around and looked at her. "Itâs all right. Donât let it trouble you; donât give it another thought. And, of course, you will keep Colonel." She shook her head. "How can I?" "Donât make me feel you hold him in the light of a bribe. Understand, itâs just a favor to me. I think a good deal of my horse; it means a lot to me to be able to leave him with some one I can trust." Her lip trembled; she brushed her hand across her eyes. "You are the bestâthe noblest man in the world," she said. Eben called again and Forrest answered with a clear "Hello." He began to walk back towards the windfall. Presently he stopped to pick up a small, morocco-bound book which she had lost from her pocket in crossing a boulder on the way out to the cliff. He slipped the volume into his own pocket and turned to help her over the rock. "See here," he said, "I want you to know that Iâm glad to be that best friend, the one you depend on. You neednât be afraid of me; youâve given me a character that Iâve got to live up to." "You meanâ" the light came back to her faceâ"you do mean you are not going to let it make any difference between us." "Of course. Why should it? Onlyâtell me thisâ" the rock was smooth and difficult; he watched her footingâ"is there some one else?" "No, there is no one elseâyet." She paused on the word, for suddenly, lifting her glance beyond Forrestâs shoulder, she saw the stranger she had met at the creek on the school trail. He stopped a few yards from the boulder, and, dismounting, took the chestnutâs halter, and, making it fast to a sapling, stood waiting. Forrest gave him a straight look and slight nod, and would have passed directly on, but the man smiled and held out his hand. "I hope you have not forgotten me," he said. "I am Stratton, lately of Victoria. I met you with the Kingsleys, when you came over to see the new mills at Seattle." Forrest gave him another look from under slightly knotted brows. "I remember. You were going on a cruise with the Captain in the _Phantom_. Iâve heard, too, of you through my friend Bates, of the Customs Service." Stratton dropped his disregarded hand. A wave of color swept his face, and the latent heat flared and died in his eyes. Then he said, evenly, "I am out here on a little hunting trip, and, incidentally, to see what can be picked up in the way of furs. I am interested in the trade, as you probably know, and I find Laramie has been taking some prime beaver." His glance had moved to Alice; apparently the explanation was meant for her, and she looked at Forrest, waiting for the obvious introduction. It was withheld. "But," Stratton went on after a moment, and he moved a few steps in the direction of the gorge, "I was stopped just now at this windfall. Myers told me the trail was impassable, and he spoke of a curious old tower worth turning aside here to see." "Yes," answered Forrest, "itâs the most prominent landmark in these hills." And he walked on towards his horse. Alice went with him, and directly Stratton halted to send a look after them. "So," he said softly, "so it is what you have heard, through Bates, against the friend of a Kingsley. But you were rash to show your hand, young fellow, you were rash." Then his glance rested on the girl and he smiled. "I never yet wanted to know a pretty woman," he added, "that I could not find a way." He turned and walked out to the cliff. He stood for an interval under the stunted fir, and scanned the gorge, bluff after bluff, down to the tower; afterwards he went along the precipice a short distance and climbed a bald knob of rock. He waited again, posed, with his head and shoulders etched on the sky, while he searched the opposite heights, the walls of the canyon; then, with a sweeping glance behind him, he looked once more in the direction of the leaning bastion. Presently he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and held it by one corner at armâs length to the breeze. In a little while a thread of smoke rose from the rear of the tower. He took out another handkerchief, a black one, and repeated the signal, twice. Almost directly the smoke ceased. He left the place then, and went back to his horse. Picking up the trail, he rode along the front of the windfall, on over the shoulder of the hill which he had lately climbed, and returned towards the settlement. *CHAPTER III* *THE CAMP AT THE HEADWATERS* At last Forrest and Alice stopped before a huge fallen cedar; its boughs, still green and fragrant, were under their feet. Some distance beyond the settlers had paused to choose a way, and the horses, heated and thirsty, stood in a small open between. "I knew the trip would be rough," he said, "but I didnât expect this; we should have turned back at the slide." "Back? No, no." Her face was pink and moist and she spoke between short, quick breaths. "You should know, Paul, when once I undertake a thing, itâs in me to carry it through." "Come, then." He found footing on a higher bough, and leaping on the log, turned to reach his hands down to her. "Come." And when she had gained the place he was on the ground again, calling her attention to the surest step. But she took it incautiously, missed, and fell. He could only throw out his arms to break the fall, and for that instant her head was on his breast. Their young eyes met; a mist was in hers and the pink deepened in her face. "You do love me," he said. "Some day you are going to tell me so." Then he put her on the boughs at his feet, and turned and looked off over the windfall. His lips were set and his brows contracted in a deep, vertical line. But when Martha moved on with Ginger he went to his horse and brought him back to the cedar. "I think we are through the worst," he said quietly, "and if you are rested, you can ride now." He stooped, offering his hand for her foot, and when she was up, he led the horse, stopping to hold aside a trailing bough, breaking another short off, making Colonel step the logs, or if that were impossible, skirting and doubling to avoid the leap. But he had nothing more to say, and he kept his eyes turned resolutely from her, with still frowning brows. The ascent became steeper. They emerged from the windfall and took breath on a rocky shoulder. Over them rose the round crown of the great hilltop, bald or tufted with heather. The settlers, picking up the trail, pushed on. From time to time a stone gave under the reluctant Gingerâs hoofs and rattled down the incline. In places he stopped morosely, setting his legs like posts. Then Martha tugged vehemently at the halter, as though she hoped to uproot him bodily, while Eben, with the judicious use of a hazel, admonished and urged from behind. When these resources failed, Colonel charged the little cayuse, nipping him smartly in the flank, and started him in a panic. But at last the final stretch was finished and they were on the summit. Alice dismounted and they walked a few yards to the eastern side, which broke away in great, treeless steps. Far below, the forest stretched like a smooth plain, through which the Nisqually trailed and doubled like a changeable ribbon in the sun. But the girlâs eager eyes turned first northwestward, where, sixty miles distant, the Olympic Mountains shone dimly through summer haze, a pastel of blue and white, and enclosed in their hollow a turquoise sea. Was that bright moving speck a bit of cloud or was it the _Phantom_ with the light on her sails? Her glance came back and before her clear-cut, near, rose the bastioned heights of the Cascade Range, and, over-topping icy minarets and domes, vast, mighty, in Alpine splendor, loomed the triple crest of Mt. Rainier. "Well," said Forrest finally, "is it worth the effort?" "Effort?" she repeated. "I could fight a hundred windfalls for this." She paused, swaying in the hot gale that swept the hilltop. "But this isnât enough, Paul; I must go there." [Illustration: "She paused, swaying in the hot gale."] "To Rainier?" "Yes, if I were only a man I shouldnât wait a day; Iâd push right on to-morrow." Forrest smiled, shaking his head. "The only two men who ever made that summit," and he looked off again to the brilliant slopes, "nearly perished. But Philip is talking of a trip to the mountain. He has promised your sister that he will bring her out to the Nisqually to see you before they go to Freeport, and he thinks he can go on, then, to Rainier." "Then he must take me." She lost her hold against the wind, and for a moment it beat her back, struggling, laughing, from the bluff. "There are Indian trails," she went on. "Though they are afraid of the mountain, they go as far as the warm springs and hunt on the lower slopes." She battled another interval and ended by staying herself with her hand on Forrestâs arm. The touch, her nearness, shook him more than the gale. "But," she finished, "Phil Kingsley will find a way. He loves an adventure; itâs the one point where we ever agree; and if he goes to Rainier, I know he will take me." Forrest laughed, again shaking his head. He turned and looked back along the face of the ridge. There was that landmark, the leaning tower, holding the curve in the sister height, but the canyon had lost those familiar lines he expected to see. From this view-point the second sweep of the gorge, doubling the hill, seemed to terminate abruptly. It was baffling, mysterious, altogether strange; yet, somewhere, in that rough corner of the landscape, unrolled like a map at his feet, he should be able to locate his lost prospect. But it was impossible to linger on the hilltop. The heat was growing intolerable, and not a fissure or depression in the rocky surface held water; the flask, filled at the last stream, had long been empty. They returned to the horses, and trailed down the southern slope, into a cool glade which was carpeted with short, thick grass. It became a natural park; trees of mighty girth, almost free of undergrowth, rose in straight columns, one hundred and fifty feet to the lowest limbs. They were ringed by centuries, yet were sound to the core. Finally a moist breeze drew between the boles and brought the noise of running water. Colonel pricked his ears sensitively. He swung, looking towards a line of thicket that marked the watercourse, then he broke into a trot. The sound became the thunder of a cataract. Alice leaned low in her saddle; her wide eyes tried to penetrate the jungle ahead. The black pushed on between boughs, snorting gently, tossing his mane. There was a flash of foam through the foliage, then, clear, cold, fresh from near snowfields, plunged the upper falls of the Des Chutes. Her foot was out of the stirrup; she slipped to the ground, and reaching the brink, threw herself full length, and stretching her palms down to the torrent, and bringing them up, cuplike, drank. She laved her face, and putting her hands together, dipped and drank from their hollow, again and again. There were two falls, and the ledge upon which she had thrown herself projected over the second plunge. It was narrow and thin, and trembled with the shock of the torrent and with her weight. When she lifted her eyes the spray of the upper cataract was in her face; looking down, she saw a great square room cut from solid basalt, which received the second fall and poured it, seething, through a fissure, set doorlike in the lower wall. She shrank back to her knees, overcome with sudden dizziness. The next instant she was drawn to her feet, then lifted off of them by a pair
{'title': 'The Heart of the Red Firs: A Story of the Pacific Northwest by Anderson', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}