The Snowshoe Trail Part 11

The pack song, on the hilltop in the winter moon, was never a melody of laughter. Rather it was the song of life itself, life in the raw, and the sadness and pain and the hopeless war of existence find their echo in the wailing notes. None of the wilderness voices were joyous. When Bill had chosen his records he took those that answered his own mood and expressed his own being.

Not all of them were sad music, in the strictest sense. But they were all intense, poignant and tremulous with the deepest longings of the human soul.

"I haven't any ragtime," the man explained humbly. "I could only bring up a few records, and so I took just the ones I liked best. They're simple things--I'm sorry I haven't any more."

She looked at this man with growing wonder. Of course he would like the simple things. No man of her acquaintance had ever possessed truer standards: no sophistication or cultural growth such as she herself had know could have given him a truer gentility. What was this thing that men could learn in the woods and in the North that gave them such poise, such standards, and brought out such qualities of manhood? Yet she knew that the forests did not treat all men alike. Those of intrinsic virtue were made better, their strength was supplemented by the strength of the wilderness itself, but the weaklings perished quickly. This was not a land for soft men, for the weak and the cowardly and the vicious. The wild soon found them out, harried them by storms and broke their hearts and their spirits, and kept from them its gracious secrets. Perhaps in this latter thing lay the explanation. It seemed to her that Bill was always straining, listening for the faintest, whispered voices of the forest about him. He was always watching, always studying--his soul and his heart open--and Nature poured forth upon him her incalculable rewards.

He put on a record, closed the doors of the instrument tight to m.u.f.fle the sound, and set the needle. She recognized the melody at once. It was Drdla's "Souvenir"--and the first notes seemed to sweep her into infinity.

It was a beautiful, haunting thing, sweet as love, warm as a maiden's heart, tender as motherhood; and all at once Virginia was aware of a heart-stirring and incredible contrast. The melody did not drown out the sound of the storm. It rose above it, infinitely sweet and entreating, and all the time the wild strains of the storm outside made a strange and dreadful background. Yet the two songs mingled with such harmony as only old masters, devotees to music, can sometimes hear in their inmost souls but never express in notes.

She felt the tears start in her eyes. Her cheeks flamed. Her heart raced and thrilled. For all the exquisite beauty of the song, a vague dread and an incomprehensible fear seemed to come upon her. For all the stir and impulse of the melody, a strange but exquisite sadness engulfed her spirit. In that single instant the North drew aside its curtains of mystery and showed her its secret altar. For a breath at least she knew its soul,--its travail, its dreadful beauty, its infinite sadness, its merciless strength.

In her time Virginia had now and then known the fear of Death. Two nights previous, as the waters had engulfed her, she had known it very well. But never before had she known fear of life. That's what it was--fear of _life_--life that could only cost and could not pay, that could take and could not give, that could pain but could not heal. She knew now the dreadful persecution of the elements, cold and storm and the snow fields stretching ever from range to range. She knew the fear of hunger, of struggle to break the spirit and rend the body, of disaster that could not be turned aside, of cruel and immutable destiny.

She knew now why the waterfowl had circled all day so restlessly: they too had known the age-old fear of the northern winter. They had sensed, in secret ways, the swift approach of the storm.

Winter was at hand. It would lock the streams and sweep the land with snow, the sun would grow feeble in the sky, and the spirit of Cold would descend with its age-old terrors. And the creepy fear, the haunting terror known to all northern creatures, man or beast, crept into her like a subtle poison.

It was a moment of enchantment. The music rose high, fell in soaring leaps, trembled in infinite appeal, and slowly died away. Outside the storm increased in fury. The wind sobbed over the cabin roof, the trees complained, the snow beat against the window pane. And still the spell lingered. Her l.u.s.trous eyes gazed out through the darkened pane, but her thoughts carried far beyond it.

And it was well for her peace of mind that she did not glance at Bill.

The music had moved him too: besides the fear of the North he had been torn by even a deeper emotion, and for the instant it was written all to clearly upon his rugged features. He was watching the girl's face, his eyes yearning and wistful as no human being had ever seen them.

The soaring notes, with the dreadful accompaniment of the storm, had brought home a truth to him that for days on the trail he had tried to deny. "I love you, Virginia," cried the inaudible voice of his soul.

"Oh, Virginia--I love you, I love you."

XI

It was one of Bill Bronson's basic creeds to look his situations squarely in the face. It was part of the training of the wilderness, and up till now he had always abided by it. But for the past few days he had found himself trying to look aside. He had tried to avoid and deny a truth that ever grew clearer and more manifest,--his love for Virginia.

He had told himself he wouldn't give his love to her. He would hold back, at least. He had reminded himself of the bridgeless gap that separated them, that they were of different spheres and that it only meant tragedy, stark and deep, for him to let himself go. He had fought with himself, had tried to shut his eyes to her beauty and his heart to her appeal. But there was no use of trying further. In the stress and pa.s.sion of the melody he had found out the truth.

And this was no moment's pa.s.sion,--the love that he had for her. Bill was not given to fluency of emotion. He was a northern man, intense as fire but slow to emotional response. He had known the great discipline of the forest; he was not one to lose himself in infatuation or sentimentality. He only knew that he loved her, and no event of life could make him change.

He had had dreams, this man; but they were never so concrete, so fond as these dreams that swept him now. In the soft candlelight the girl's beauty moved him and glorified him, the very fact of her presence thrilled him to the depths, the wistfulness and appeal in her face seemed to burn him like fire. This northern land was never the home of weak or half-felt emotions. The fine shades and subtle gradations of feelings were unknown to the northern people, but they had full knowledge of the primordial pa.s.sions. They could hate as the she-wolf hates the foe that menaces her cubs, and they could love to the moment of death. He knew that whatever fate life had in store for him it could not change his att.i.tude toward her. She would leave the North and go back to her own people, and still he would be true.

Even in the first instant he knew enough not to hope. They would have their northern adventure together, and then she would leave him to his snows and his trackless forests. She would go to her own land, a place of mirth and joy and warmth, to leave him brooding and silent in his waste places. He knew that all his days this same dream would be before his eyes, this wistful-eyed, tender girl, this lovely flower of the South. Nothing could change him. The years would come and go--spring and summer flowering in the forest, dancing once and tripping on to a softer, gentler land; fall would touch the shrubs with color, whisk off the golden leaves of the quivering aspen, and speed way; and winter, drear and cheerless, would shroud the land in snow--and find his love unswerving. The forest folk would mate in fall, the caribou calves would open their wondering eyes in spring, the moose would bathe and wallow in the lakes in summer, and in winter the venerable grizzly would seek his lair, and still his dreams, in his lonely cabin, would be unchanged. His love would never lessen or increase. He had held none of it back; no more could be given or taken away. He had given his all.

But if he couldn't keep this knowledge from himself, at least he could hold it from the girl. It would only bring her unhappiness. It would destroy the feeling of comradeship for him that he had begun to observe in her. It would put an insurmountable wall between them. Besides, he didn't believe that she could understand. Perhaps it would only offend her,--that this son of the forests should give her his love. She had never dealt with men of his breed before, and she had no inkling of the smoldering, devouring fires within the man. He would not invite her pity and her distrust by letting her know.

Strangest of all, he felt no bitterness or resentment. This development was only a fitting part of the tragedy of his life: first his father's murder, his dreams that had never come true, his lost boyhood, his exile in the waste places, and now the lonely years that stretched before him with nothing to atone or redeem. He knew that there could be no other woman in his life. It was well enough for the men of cities to give and take back their love; for them it was only wisdom and good sense, but such a course was impossible to such sons of the forest as he. Life gives but one dream to the forest folk, and they follow it till they die. He knew that the yearning in his heart and the void in his life could never be filled.

Yet he didn't rail at fate. He had learned what fate could do to him, and he had learned to take its blows with a strange fatalism and composure. Besides, would he not have the joy of her presence for many days to come? Their adventure had just begun: weeks would pa.s.s before she could go home. In those days he could serve her, toil for her, devote himself wholly to her happiness. He could see her face and know her beauty, and it was all worth the price he paid. For life in the North is life in its simplest phases; and the northern men have had a chance to learn that strangest truth of all,--that he who counts the cost of his hour of pleasure shall be crushed in the jaws of Destiny, and that a day of joy may be worth, in the immutable balance of being, a whole life of sorrow.

Virginia had no suspicion of his thoughts. She was still enthralled by the after-image of the music, and her own thoughts were soaring far away. But soon the noise of the storm began to force itself into her consciousness. It caused her to consider her own prospects for the night.

Vaguely she knew that this night was different from the others. The two previous nights she had been ill and half-unconscious: her very helplessness appealed to Bill's chivalry. To-night she stood on her own feet. Matters were down to a normal basis again, and for the first time she began to experience a certain embarra.s.sment in her position. She was suddenly face to face with the fact that the night stretched before her,--and she in a snowswept cabin in the full power of a strange man.

She felt more than a little uneasy.

Already she was tired and longed to go to sleep, but she was afraid to speak her wish. As the silence of the cabin deepened, and the noise of the storm grew louder--bl.u.s.tering at the roof, shaking the door, and beating on the window pane--her uneasiness gave way to stark fear.

But all at once she looked up to find Bill's eyes upon her, full of sympathy and understanding. "You'll want to turn in now," he told her.

"You take the bunk again, of course--I'll sleep on the floor. I'm comfortable there--I could sleep on rocks if need be."

"Can't you get some fir boughs--to-morrow?" The girl spoke nervously.

"They'd be in the way, but maybe I can arrange it. And now I've got to fix your boidoir."

He took one of the boxes that served as a chair and stood it up on the floor, just in front of her bunk. Then, holding one of the blankets in his arm and a few nails in his hand, he climbed upon the box. She understood in an instant. He was curtaining off the entire end of the cabin where Virginia slept.

The girl's relief showed in her face. Her eyes lighted, her apprehension was largely dispelled. She wasn't blind to his thoughtfulness, his quick sympathy; and she felt deeply and speechlessly grateful. And she was also vaguely touched with wonder.

"You can go in there now," he told her. "But there's one thing--I want to show you--before you turn in."

"Yes?"

"I want to show you this little pistol." He took a light arm of blue steel from his belt,--the small-calibered and automatic weapon with which he had gilled the grouse. "It's only a twenty-two," Bill went on, "but it shoots a long cartridge, and it shoots ten of 'em, fast as you pull the trigger. You could kill a caribou with it, if you hit him right."

"Yes?" And she wondered at this curious interlude in their moment of parting.

"You see this little catch behind the trigger guard?" The girl nodded.

"When you want to fire it, all you have to do is to push up the little catch with your thumb and pull the trigger. To-morrow I'm going to teach you how to shoot with it--I mean shoot straight enough to take the head off a grouse at twenty feet. And so it will bring you luck, I want you to sleep with it,--under your pillow."

Understanding flashed through her, and a slow, grateful smile played at her lips. "I don't want it, Bill," she told him.

"You'd feel safer with it," the man urged. He slipped it under her pillow. "And even before you learn to shoot it well--you could--if you had to--shoot and kill a man."

He smiled again and drew her curtain.

Bill was true to his promise to teach Virginia to shoot. The next day he put up an empty can out from the door of the cabin and they had target practice.

First he showed her how to hold the weapon and to stand. "See the can just over the sights and press back gradually," he urged.

The first shot went wide of its mark. The second and third were no better. But by watching her closely, Bill found out her mistake.

"You flinch," he told her. "It's an old mistake among hunters--and the only way you can avoid it is by deepest concentration. Skill in hunting--as well as in everything else--depends upon throwing the whole energy of your mind and body into that one little part of an instant when you pull the trigger. It's all right to be excited before.

You're not human if, the game knocked over, you're not excited after.

But unless you can hold like iron for that fraction of a second, you can't shoot and you never can shoot."

"But I'm not excited now," she objected.

"You haven't got full discipline of your nerves, just the same.

You're a little afraid of the sound and the explosion, and you flinch back--just a little movement of your hand--when you pull the trigger.

If it is only an eighth of an inch here, it's quite a miss by the time the bullet gets out there. Try again, but convince yourself first that you won't flinch. You won't jerk or throw off your aim."