The Man of the Forest, Zane Grey [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

It was the

savage who did not think.

 

Helen saw Dale stand erect once more and gaze into the

forest.

 

“Reckon Roy ain’t comin’,” he soliloquized. “An’ that’s

good.” Then he turned to the girls. “Supper’s ready.”

 

The girls responded with a spirit greater than their

activity. And they ate like famished children that had been

lost in the woods. Dale attended them with a pleasant light

upon his still face.

 

“Tomorrow night we’ll have meat,” he said.

 

“What kind?” asked Bo.

 

“Wild turkey or deer. Maybe both, if you like. But it’s well

to take wild meat slow. An’ turkey — that ‘ll melt in your

mouth.”

 

“Uummm!” murmured Bo, greedily. “I’ve heard of wild turkey.”

 

When they had finished Dale ate his meal, listening to the

talk of the girls, and occasionally replying briefly to some

query of Bo’s. It was twilight when he began to wash the

pots and pans, and almost dark by the time his duties

appeared ended. Then he replenished the campfire and sat

down on a log to gaze into the fire. The girls leaned

comfortably propped against the saddles.

 

“Nell, I’ll keel over in a minute,” said Bo. “And I oughtn’t

— right on such a big supper.”

 

“I don’t see how I can sleep, and I know I can’t stay

awake,” rejoined Helen.

 

Dale lifted his head alertly.

 

“Listen.”

 

The girls grew tense and still. Helen could not hear a

sound, unless it was a low thud of hoof out in the gloom.

The forest seemed sleeping. She knew from Bo’s eyes, wide

and shining in the campfire light, that she, too, had

failed to catch whatever it was Dale meant.

 

“Bunch of coyotes comin’,” he explained.

 

Suddenly the quietness split to a chorus of snappy,

high-strung, strange barks. They sounded wild, yet they held

something of a friendly or inquisitive note. Presently gray

forms could be descried just at the edge of the circle of

light. Soft rustlings of stealthy feet surrounded the camp,

and then barks and yelps broke out all around. It was a

restless and sneaking pack of animals, thought Helen; she

was glad after the chorus ended and with a few desultory,

spiteful yelps the coyotes went away.

 

Silence again settled down. If it had not been for the

anxiety always present in Helen’s mind she would have

thought this silence sweet and unfamiliarly beautiful.

 

“Ah! Listen to that fellow,” spoke up Dale. His voice was

thrilling.

 

Again the girls strained their ears. That was not necessary,

for presently, clear and cold out of the silence, pealed a

mournful howl, long drawn, strange and full and wild.

 

“Oh! What’s that?” whispered Bo.

 

“That’s a big gray wolf — a timber-wolf, or lofer, as he’s

sometimes called,” replied Dale. “He’s high on some rocky

ridge back there. He scents us, an’ he doesn’t like it… .

There he goes again. Listen! Ah, he’s hungry.”

 

While Helen listened to this exceedingly wild cry — so wild

that it made her flesh creep and the most indescribable

sensations of loneliness come over her — she kept her

glance upon Dale.

 

“You love him?” she murmured involuntarily, quite without

understanding the motive of her query.

 

Assuredly Dale had never had that question asked of him

before, and it seemed to Helen, as he pondered, that he had

never even asked it of himself.

 

“I reckon so,” he replied, presently.

 

“But wolves kill deer, and little fawns, and everything

helpless in the forest,” expostulated Bo.

 

The hunter nodded his head.

 

“Why, then, can you love him?” repeated Helen.

 

“Come to think of it, I reckon it’s because of lots of

reasons,” returned Dale. “He kills clean. He eats no

carrion. He’s no coward. He fights. He dies game… . An’

he likes to be alone.”

 

“Kills clean. What do you mean by that?”

 

“A cougar, now, he mangles a deer. An’ a silvertip, when

killin’ a cow or colt, he makes a mess of it. But a wolf

kills clean, with sharp snaps.”

 

“What are a cougar and a silvertip?”

 

“Cougar means mountain-lion or panther, an’ a silvertip is a

grizzly bear.”

 

“Oh, they’re all cruel!” exclaimed Helen, shrinking.

 

“I reckon. Often I’ve shot wolves for relayin’ a deer.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“Sometimes two or more wolves will run a deer, an’ while one

of them rests the other will drive the deer around to his

pardner, who’ll, take up the chase. That way they run the

deer down. Cruel it is, but nature, an’ no worse than snow

an’ ice that starve deer, or a fox that kills turkey-chicks

breakin’ out of the egg, or ravens that pick the eyes out of

new-born lambs an’ wait till they die. An’ for that matter,

men are crueler than beasts of prey, for men add to nature,

an’ have more than instincts.”

 

Helen was silenced, as well as shocked. She had not only

learned a new and striking viewpoint in natural history, but

a clear intimation to the reason why she had vaguely

imagined or divined a remarkable character in this man. A

hunter was one who killed animals for their fur, for their

meat or horns, or for some lust for blood — that was

Helen’s definition of a hunter, and she believed it was held

by the majority of people living in settled states. But the

majority might be wrong. A hunter might be vastly different,

and vastly more than a tracker and slayer of game. The

mountain world of forest was a mystery to almost all men.

Perhaps Dale knew its secrets, its life, its terror, its

beauty, its sadness, and its joy; and if so, how full, how

wonderful must be his mind! He spoke of men as no better

than wolves. Could a lonely life in the wilderness teach a

man that? Bitterness, envy, jealousy, spite, greed, and hate

— these had no place in this hunter’s heart. It was not

Helen’s shrewdness, but a woman’s intuition, which divined

that.

 

Dale rose to his feet and, turning his ear to the north,

listened once more.

 

“Are you expecting Roy still?” inquired Helen.

 

“No, it ain’t likely he’ll turn up to-night,” replied Dale,

and then he strode over to put a hand on the pine-tree that

soared above where the girls lay. His action, and the way he

looked up at the tree-top and then at adjacent trees, held

more of that significance which so interested Helen.

 

“I reckon he’s stood there some five hundred years an’ will

stand through to-night,” muttered Dale.

 

This pine was the monarch of that wide-spread group.

 

“Listen again,” said Dale.

 

Bo was asleep. And Helen, listening, at once caught low,

distant roar.

 

“Wind. It’s goin’ to storm,” explained Dale. “You’ll hear

somethin’ worth while. But don’t be scared. Reckon we’ll be

safe. Pines blow down often. But this fellow will stand any

fall wind that ever was… . Better slip under the

blankets so I can pull the tarp up.”

 

Helen slid down, just as she was, fully dressed except for

boots, which she and Bo had removed; and she laid her head

close to Bo’s. Dale pulled the tarpaulin up and folded it

back just below their heads.

 

“When it rains you’ll wake, an’ then just pull the tarp up

over you,” he said.

 

“Will it rain?” Helen asked. But she was thinking that this

moment was the strangest that had ever happened to her. By

the light of the campfire she saw Dale’s face, just as

usual, still, darkly serene, expressing no thought. He was

kind, but he was not thinking of these sisters as girls,

alone with him in a pitch-black forest, helpless and

defenseless. He did not seem to be thinking at all. But

Helen had never before in her life been so keenly

susceptible to experience.

 

“I’ll be close by an’ keep the fire goin’ all night,” he

said.

 

She heard him stride off into the darkness. Presently there

came a dragging, bumping sound, then a crash of a log

dropped upon the fire. A cloud of sparks shot up, and many

pattered down to hiss upon the damp ground. Smoke again

curled upward along the great, seamed tree-trunk, and flames

sputtered and crackled.

 

Helen listened again for the roar of wind. It seemed to come

on a breath of air that fanned her cheek and softly blew

Bo’s curls, and it was stronger. But it died out presently,

only to come again, and still stronger. Helen realized then

that the sound was that of an approaching storm. Her heavy

eyelids almost refused to stay open, and she knew if she let

them close she would instantly drop to sleep. And she wanted

to hear the storm-wind in the pines.

 

A few drops of cold rain fell upon her face, thrilling her

with the proof that no roof stood between her and the

elements. Then a breeze bore the smell of burnt wood into

her face, and somehow her quick mind flew to girlhood days

when she burned brush and leaves with her little brothers.

The memory faded. The roar that had seemed distant was now

back in the forest, coming swiftly, increasing in volume.

Like a stream in flood it bore down. Helen grew amazed,

startled. How rushing, oncoming, and heavy this storm-wind!

She likened its approach to the tread of an army. Then the

roar filled the forest, yet it was back there behind her.

Not a pine-needle quivered in the light of the campfire.

But the air seemed to be oppressed with a terrible charge.

The roar augmented till it was no longer a roar, but an

on-sweeping crash, like an ocean torrent engulfing the

earth. Bo awoke to cling to Helen with fright. The deafening

storm-blast was upon them. Helen felt the saddle-pillow move

under her head. The giant pine had trembled to its very

roots. That mighty fury of wind was all aloft, in the

tree-tops. And for a long moment it bowed the forest under

its tremendous power. Then the deafening crash passed to

roar, and that swept on and on, lessening in volume,

deepening in low detonation, at last to die in the distance.

 

No sooner had it died than back to the north another low

roar rose and ceased and rose again. Helen lay there,

whispering to Bo, and heard again the great wave of wind

come and crash and cease. That was the way of this

storm-wind of the mountain forest.

 

A soft patter of rain on the tarpaulin warned Helen to

remember Dale’s directions, and, pulling up the heavy

covering, she arranged it hoodlike over the saddle. Then,

with Bo close and warm beside her, she closed her eyes, and

the sense of the black forest and the wind and rain faded.

Last of all sensations was the smell of smoke that blew

under the tarpaulin.

 

When she opened her eyes she remembered everything, as if

only a moment had elapsed. But it was daylight, though gray

and cloudy. The pines were dripping mist. A fire crackled

cheerily and blue smoke curled upward and a savory odor of

hot coffee hung in the air. Horses were standing near by,

biting and kicking at one another. Bo was sound asleep. Dale

appeared busy around the campfire. As Helen watched the

hunter she saw him pause in his task, turn his ear to

listen, and then look expectantly. And at that juncture a

shout pealed from the forest. Helen recognized Roy’s voice.

Then she heard a splashing of water, and hoof-beats coming

closer. With that the buckskin mustang trotted into camp,

carrying Roy.

 

“Bad