Tales of Trail and Town, Bret Harte [to read list TXT] 📗

of the young girl had disclosed, he slowly reached forward his other paw and attempted to grasp it. This exceedingly simple movement, however, at once doubled up the front seat, sent the honey-pot a dozen feet into the air, and dropped Miss Amy upon her knees in the bed of the wagon. The combined mental and physical shock was too much for her; she instantly and sincerely fainted; the last thing in her ears amidst this wreck of matter being the “wheep” of a bullet and the sharp crack of a rifle.

 

… …

 

She recovered her consciousness in the flickering light of a fire of bark, that played upon the rafters of a roof thatched with bark and upon a floor of strewn and shredded bark. She even suspected she was lying upon a mattress of bark underneath the heavy bearskin she could feel and touch. She had a delicious sense of warmth, and, mingled with this strange spicing of woodland freedom, even a sense of home protection. And surely enough, looking around, she saw her father at her side.

He briefly explained the situation. They had been at first attracted by the cry of the frightened horses and their plunging, which they could see distinctly, although they saw nothing else. “But, Mr. Tenbrook”—

“Mr. Who?” said Amy, staring at the rafters.

“The owner of this cabin—the man who helped us—caught up his gun, and, calling us to follow, ran like lightning down the trail. At first we followed blindly, and unknowingly, for we could only see the struggling horses, who, however, seemed to be ALONE, and the wagon from which you did not seem to have stirred. Then, for the first time, my dear child, we suddenly saw your danger. Imagine how we felt as that hideous brute rose up in the road and began attacking the wagon. We called on Tenbrook to fire, but for some inconceivable reason he did not, although he still kept running at the top of his speed. Then we heard you shriek—”

“I didn’t shriek, papa; it was the horses.”

“My child, I knew your voice.”

“Well, it was only a VERY LITTLE scream—because I had tumbled.” The color was coming back rapidly to her pink cheeks.

“And, then, at your scream, Tenbrook fired!—it was a wonderful shot for the distance, so everybody says—and killed the bear, though Tenbrook says it oughtn’t to. I believe he wanted to capture the creature alive. They’ve queer notions, those hunters. And then, as you were unconscious, he brought you up here.”

“WHO brought me?”

“Tenbrook; he’s as strong as a horse. Slung you up on his shoulders like a feather pillow.”

“Oh!”

“And then, as the wagon required some repairing from the brute’s attack, we concluded to take it leisurely, and let you rest here for a while.”

“And where is—where are THEY?”

“At work on the wagon. I determined to stay with you, though you are perfectly safe here.”

“I suppose I ought—to thank—this man, papa?”

“Most certainly, though of course, I have already done so. But he was rather curt in reply. These half-savage men have such singular ideas. He said the beast would never have attacked you except for the honey-pot which it scented. That’s absurd.”

“Then it’s all my fault?”

“Nonsense! How could YOU know?”

“And I’ve made all this trouble. And frightened the horses. And spoilt the wagon. And made the man run down and bring me up here when he didn’t want to!”

“My dear child! Don’t be idiotic! Amy! Well, really!”

For the idiotic one was really wiping two large tears from her lovely blue eyes. She subsided into an ominous silence, broken by a single sniffle. “Try to go to sleep, dear; you’ve had quite a shock to your nerves, added her father soothingly. She continued silent, but not sleeping.

“I smell coffee.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You’ve been having coffee, papa?”

“We DID have some, I think,” said the wretched man apologetically, though why he could not determine.

“Before I came up? while the bear was trying to eat me?”

“No, after.”

“I’ve a horrid taste in my mouth. It’s the honey. I’ll never eat honey again. Never!”

“Perhaps it’s the whiskey.”

“What?”

“The whiskey. You were quite faint and chilled, you know. We gave you some.”

“Out of—that—black—bottle?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“I’d like some coffee. I don’t think he’d begrudge me that, if he did save my life.”

“I dare say there’s some left.” Her father at once bestirred himself and presently brought her some coffee in a tin cup. It was part of Miss Amy’s rapid convalescence, or equally of her debilitated condition, that she made no comment on the vessel. She lay for some moments looking curiously around the cabin; she had no doubt it had a worse look in the daylight, but somehow the firelight brought out a wondrous luxury of color in the bark floor and thatching. Besides, it was not “smelly,” as she feared it would be; on the contrary the spicy aroma of the woods was always dominant. She remembered that it was this that always made a greasy, oily picnic tolerable. She raised herself on her elbow, seeing which her father continued confidently, “Perhaps, dear, if you sat up for a few moments you might be strong enough presently to walk down with me to the wagon. It would save time.”

Amy instantly lay down again. “I don’t know what you can be thinking of, papa. After this shock really I don’t feel as if I could STAND alone, much less WALK. But, of course,” with pathetic resignation, “if you and Mr. Waterhouse supported me, perhaps I might crawl a few steps at a time.”

“Nonsense, Amy. Of course, this man Tenbrook will carry you down as he brought you up. Only I thought,—but there are steps, they’re coming now. No!—only HE.”

The sound of crackling in the underbrush was followed by a momentary darkening of the open door of the cabin. It was the tall figure of the mountaineer. But he did not even make the pretense of entering; standing at the door he delivered his news to the interior generally. It was to the effect that everything was ready, and the two other men were even then harnessing the horses. Then he drew back into the darkness.

“Papa,” said Amy, in a sudden frightened voice, “I’ve lost my bracelet.”

“Haven’t you dropped it somewhere there in the bunk?” asked her father.

“No. It’s on the floor of the wagon. I remember now it fell off when I tumbled! And it will be trodden upon and crushed! Couldn’t you run down, ahead of me, and warn them, papa, dear? Mr. Tenbrook will have to go so slowly with me.” She tumbled out of the bunk with singular alacrity, shook herself and her skirts into instantaneous gracefulness, and fitted the velvet cap on her straying hair. Then she said hurriedly, “Run quick, papa dear, and as you go, call him in and say I am quite ready.”

Thus adjured, the obedient parent disappeared in the darkness. With him also disappeared Miss Amy’s singular alacrity. Sitting down carefully again on the edge of the bunk, she leaned against the post with a certain indefinable languor that was as touching as it was graceful. I need not tell any feminine readers that there was no dissimulation in all this,—no coquetry, no ostentation,— and that the young girl was perfectly sincere! But the masculine reader might like to know that the simple fact was that, since she had regained consciousness, she had been filled with remorse for her capricious and ungenerous rejection of Tenbrook’s proffered service. More than that, she felt she had periled her life in that moment of folly, and that this man—this hero—had saved her. For hero he was, even if he did not fulfill her ideal,—it was only SHE that was not a heroine. Perhaps if he had been more like what she wished she would have felt this less keenly; love leaves little room for the exercise of moral ethics. So Miss Amy Forester, being a good girl at bottom, and not exactly loving this man, felt towards him a frank and tender consideration which a more romantic passion would have shrunk from showing. Consequently, when Tenbrook entered a moment later, he found Amy paler and more thoughtful, but, as he fancied, much prettier than before, looking up at him with eyes of the sincerest solicitude.

Nevertheless, he remained standing near the door, as if indicating a possible intrusion, his face wearing a look of lowering abstraction. It struck her that this might be the effect of his long hair and general uncouthness, and this only spurred her to a fuller recognition of his other qualities.

“I am afraid,” she began, with a charming embarrassment, “that instead of resting satisfied with your kindness in carrying me up here, I will have to burden you again with my dreadful weakness, and ask you to carry me down also. But all this seems so little after what you have just done and for which I can never, NEVER hope to thank you!” She clasped her two little hands together, holding her gloves between, and brought them down upon her lap in a gesture as prettily helpless as it was unaffected.

“I have done scarcely anything,” he said, glancing away towards the fire, “and—your father has thanked me.”

“You have saved my life!”

“No! no!” he said quickly. “Not that! You were in no danger, except from my rifle, had I missed.”

“I see,” she said eagerly, with a little posthumous thrill at having been after all a kind of heroine, “and it was a wonderful shot, for you were so careful not to touch me.”

“Please don’t say any more,” he said, with a slight movement of half awkwardness, half impatience. “It was a rough job, but it’s over now.”

He stopped and chafed his red hands abstractedly together. She could see that he had evidently just washed them—and the glaring ring was more in evidence than ever. But the thought gave her an inspiration.

“You’ll at least let me shake hands with you!” she said, extending both her own with childish frankness.

“Hold on, Miss Forester,” he said, with sudden desperation. “It ain’t the square thing! Look here! I can’t play this thing on you!—I can’t let you play it on me any longer! You weren’t in any danger,—you NEVER were! That bear was only a half-wild thing I helped to ra’r myself! It’s taken sugar from my hand night after night at the door of this cabin as it might have taken it from yours here if it was alive now. It slept night after night in the brush, not fifty yards away. The morning’s never come yet—till now,” he said hastily, to cover an odd break in his voice, “when it didn’t brush along the whole side of this cabin to kinder wake me up and say ‘So long,’ afore it browsed away into the canyon. Thar ain’t a man along the whole Divide who didn’t know it; thar ain’t a man along the whole Divide that would have drawn a bead or pulled a trigger on it till now. It never had an enemy but the bees; it never even knew why horses and cattle were frightened of it. It wasn’t much of a pet, you’d say, Miss Forester; it wasn’t much to meet a lady’s eye; but we of the woods must take our friends where we find ‘em and of our own kind. It ain’t no fault of yours, Miss, that you didn’t know it; it ain’t no fault of yours what happened; but when it comes to your THANKING me for it, why—it’s—it’s rather rough, you see—and gets me.” He stopped short as desperately and as abruptly as he had begun, and stared blankly at the fire.

A wave of pity