CHAPTER XV
FAITH WINTON TURNS UP
Angus came out of the darkness slowly with the weight still upon him.There was a strange, salt taste in his mouth and a rank smell in hisnostrils. His head seemed pillowed, but his eyelids were gummed, andwhen he threw up his hand to clear them his fingers touched wetness.Then through a raw, red fog he saw a girl's face bending above him, andblue eyes that seemed misty as an April sky through showers, thoughperhaps it was only his uncertain vision that made them so.
"Please say something--if you can hear me!" said a low, clear voice ashis senses came back fully.
"All right," he said. "I'm all right, I guess. What's holding me? What'son me?"
As his eyes shifted downward, a huge mound of brown fur rose againstthem, hiding the landscape. It was the carcass of the bear which layacross his legs, burying them from the waist down.
"I can't move it," the girl told him. "Oh, are you badly hurt? Can youtake a drink of water? I'll lift your head!" She spoke all in a breath,tremulously, for she had considered him almost a dead man. She liftedhis head from where it lay in her lap, and held an old tin can full ofspring water to his lips.
Angus drank and felt better.
"I don't think I'm hurt much," he said. "Where is all the blood comingfrom?" He put his hand to his head, touching gingerly a four-inch rip inhis scalp. There was a pain in his side which was worse when he moved,but he said nothing about that and otherwise he could find nothingwrong.
"You must get out from under that brute," the girl told him. "I've triedto pull it off, and I've tried to pull you out, but I'm not strongenough."
She stooped behind him, her hands beneath his shoulders, and he drew hislegs clear of the weight. When he got to his feet he was giddy for amoment and leaned against her for support. With her assistance he got tothe spring, and washed off the coagulated blood, while she made abandage of their handkerchiefs and fitted it deftly. The icy watercleared away the last of the fog, and save for a growing stiffness andsoreness he felt well enough. He looked at the girl who sat beside himon the brown grass and wondered who she was and where on earth she hadcome from.
The girl was tall, and clean and graceful as a young pine. She carriedher head well lifted, which Angus considered a good sign in horses andhuman beings. A mass of fair hair was coiled low at the base of it anddrawn smoothly back from a broad forehead. Her eyes were a clear bluewhich reminded Angus of certain mountain lakes, and yet a little wearyand troubled as if some shadow overcast them. Her smooth cheeks, too,were pale, with but little of the color that comes from the kiss of windand sun. She was an utter stranger to him, and yet there was somethingvaguely familiar.
The fact was that he was staring at her. She met his gaze evenly.
"Do you know that you are lucky not to be badly hurt?" she said.
"It would have served me right if I had been."
"Why?"
"For leaving my rifle in the first place, and for rotten shooting in thesecond," he replied seriously. "I should have stopped him, and so Iwould if I had taken my time about it. I guess I got rattled."
"Is that your trouble?" she laughed. "The bear is simply riddled withbullets."
"Is that so?" he returned with obvious pleasure. "Tell me whathappened."
"I stopped running when you fired the first shot," she said. "You andthe bear seemed to go down together, and he rolled clean over you. Itwas only in his last flurry that he threw himself across your legs."
"Lucky he didn't claw me up in that flurry. He was a tough old boy."
"If you had been killed it would have been my fault," she saidseriously. "You were quite safe, and you attacked him to save me."
"I would have come down, anyway, the first chance he gave me to get holdof my rifle."
"It was stupid of me," she persisted. "At first, you see, I couldn'tbelieve there was a bear. I thought you were trying to frighten me. Andthen I just _couldn't_ catch that pony. I'm not used to horses, I'mafraid."
Now, as she spoke, something in her voice struck a chord in Angus'recollection. Where had he heard that faint lisp, that slurring of thesibilants? For a moment he puzzled, groping for an elusive memory. Andthen suddenly it leaped at him out of the one day, years before, whosehappenings, even the least of them, he never forgot. And he saw a littlegirl, frightened but trying to be brave, and a lanky boy confronting herwith a rifle.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "you are little Faith Winton!"
She frowned, drawing herself up a little.
"I am Faith Winton, but how do you know? Have I ever--" She broke off,staring at him. "Why, it's impossible. You can't be _that_ boy!"
"I used to be," he told her. "I've grown a little, since."
"Angus! Angus Mackay!" she cried, her face lighting swiftly. "Oh, I knowyou now. I've never forgotten. And your sister's doughnuts! How goodthey were, and how good you were to me!" She leaned forward, catchinghis great, brown, work-hardened paws in her slim hands. "Oh, I'm so gladto see you again, Ang--I mean Mr. Mackay."
"My name is still Angus."
"Oh, but that was years ago. How did you recognize me? I was such alittle girl. To think of meeting you again--like this!"
"I knew you by your lisp," he told her. "And I wish you would call me'Angus.'"
"Well--Anguth!" She said it with the old lisp. "I can't help itsometimes," she confessed. "I struggle and struggle, and then I forgetmyself and--lithp. Do you mind it very much?"
"I like it."
"Tho nithe of you to thay tho!" she exaggerated laughing. "No, I won'tlisp any more--until I forget myself. But how big you are--almost as bigas Gavin himself."
"I am big enough," Angus admitted. "I get in my own way sometimes." Forthe first time he noticed a black band on her sleeve. She caught theglance.
"My father died two months ago." Her voice broke, and Angus looked away.
"I am sorry," he said awkwardly.
"I can't talk about it very well yet," she said. "I didn't mean to. Oneshouldn't--to a stranger."
"But I'm not a stranger. You seem like--well--like an old friend."
"I'm glad of that," she said, smiling a trifle sadly. "You see, fatherand I were always together, and it's new and--and hard to be alone. ButI suppose I shall get used to it after a while."
"You have your kin here," he ventured.
"Yes, I have them," she agreed. "But they are not really my kin. Andthen I won't be with them very long."
"You are going away?" For some reason Angus experienced a sensation ofregret.
"No, I am going to stay here. I am thinking of ranching."
"Ranching!" he exclaimed.
"Yes. Why not?"
"Do you know anything about it?"
"No, but I could learn, I suppose."
"I suppose you might. But the work is hard--man's work. I wouldn't buy aranch, if I were you."
"But I have one--or the makings of one. A few years ago Uncle Godfreybought nearly a thousand acres for father. I'm afraid there isn't muchof it cleared, and there is no house fit to live in. I had been to lookat it, and was riding back by this old logging camp. That's how Ihappened to be here."
"Where is this land?" Angus asked.
Her reply gave him almost as much of a shock as he had received from thebear; for as she described it, the land, or at least part of it, wasnone other than the old Tetreau place which Mr. Braden had painstakinglytried to unload on Chetwood. But if it belonged to her or to her fatherhow could Braden sell it? And then, again, she had spoken of nearly athousand acres, while the old Tetreau place comprised some five hundredonly. Something of his thoughts reflected in his face.
"Do you know the land?" she asked.
"Yes, I know it," he admitted. "Have you ever thought of selling theland instead of ranching it? Has any one ever tried to sell it for you?"
"Oh, no," she replied. "I don't want to sell it--yet, a while, anyway.Father's idea was to hold it till land increased very much in value.Uncle Godfrey told him that was bound to
occur. It was an investment,you see. It cost only ten dollars an acre."
"You mean your father paid ten thousand dollars for the land!" Angusexclaimed.
"Yes, in round figures. He never saw it. Uncle Godfrey said it was wellworth that, and of course he knows."
There was little that Angus could say. He was no stranger towild-catting in lands, but he held to the old idea that agriculturalland is worth what it will grow and no more: a maxim which, ifremembered by prospective purchasers, would cut down both sales anddisappointments. But the puzzling thing was that Godfrey French, whowasn't an easy mark by any means, should have advised his relative topay ten dollars an acre for land half of which was too rough tocultivate and of which all was non-irrigable; and this at a time whengood, wild land was to be had in plenty for from three to five dollarsan acre. Added to that was the abortive Braden-Chetwood deal. The oneclear thing was that Faith Winton had a bunch of worthless land. Hehoped that it did not represent her entire patrimony.
"You will find it hard work starting a ranch," he said. "Clearing,breaking, fencing and so on are expensive, too."
"But whatever I spend will make the place worth that much more, and thenif I wish to sell I would have a better chance. People always prefer tobuy improved properties, I'm told."
Angus had neither the heart nor the nerve to tell her the truth.Everything went to show that her father had been deliberately stung byGodfrey French. Never in the world would he have paid ten dollars of hisown money for such a property. Had he paid ten dollars of Winton'smoney? Angus doubted it. In plain language, his thought was that Frenchhad paid about three dollars an acre, and either pocketed the differenceor split it with the seller.
"What does your uncle think about it?" he asked.
"He doesn't want me to try ranching. He says the place is increasing invalue anyway, and that I should not be in a hurry to sell."
Naturally, thought Angus, that would be French's advice. Perhaps he hadhad the handling of the property, and Braden had been acting for himwhen trying to sell to Chetwood. If that sale had gone through, half theproperty would have been sold for what had been paid for the whole, andthe remainder, worthless or not, would have been velvet. But as it wasFrench was in a tight box, and the only thing he could do was to advisethe girl to let the place alone, and hope that nothing would occur toarouse her suspicions. Angus half wished for her sake that he had notblocked the sale to Chetwood.
"You see," she said, "I have to do something for a living. I haven'tenough to keep me in idleness, and anyway I don't want to be idle. But Ididn't mean to bother you with my worries. I don't know why it is, butI find myself talking to you just as frankly as when I was the little,lost girl and you were the big boy. Perhaps I am a little lost, still.You--you seem comforting, somehow." She considered for a moment."Perhaps it's the bigness of you. But I don't talk to Gavin as I do toyou, and I know him much better. Why is it?"
"I don't know, but I'm glad of it," Angus told her. "I want to help youif I can."
"Now, I believe that's why," she said. "You want to help folks who needit. That's the secret of it."
"Nothing of the sort," Angus told her. Suddenly he realized that the sunwas low above the western ranges and that the early fall evening wascoming. "We'll have to be moving if we're to get home by dark," he said."To-morrow I'll skin out the bear."
"Oh--my pony!" she exclaimed. "I never thought of him."
"No use looking for him. Likely he headed for home. You'll ride myhorse."
"And let you walk? Indeed, no!"
"Of course you will."
"But I won't. You're hurt--"
"Not a bit," Angus lied cheerfully.
"Yes, you are. There, you see, you're almost too stiff to walk. I won'thave it, Angus, really I won't."
Angus did not argue the point further. He was accustomed to having hisown way with girls, or at least with Jean. He was sore and stiff, andwhen he first moved a sharp pain in his side made him catch his breath,but he knew that the best cure for stiffness is movement. They crossedthe creek and he saddled Chief, and without a word began to take up thestirrups.
"Angus," said Faith Winton, "I meant what I told you. I rode your ponyyears ago, when I was a little, lost girl--"
"What are you now?"
"A pedestrian," she said with determination.
"Now, see," Angus urged. "It's over five miles. Your shoes would be cutto pieces on the rocks, and you'd be tired out. So you're going toride."
"I'm _not_, Angus! What are you--Oh!"
For Angus, finding that argument was a waste of time had picked her upand put her in the saddle. Thence she stared down at him, and now therewas no lack of color in her cheeks.
"Angus Mackay! What--what do you mean?"
"You are going to ride," Angus told her with finality, "and that is allthere is to it."
"I'm not used to being thrown about like a sack of oats!" she flashed,and would have dismounted, but he stopped her. "How dare you!" shecried. "Let me down! Take your hands off me, Angus Mackay!"
"Then behave sensibly!" said Angus.
"Sensibly! My heavens! do you think I'm a child?"
"A child would be glad to ride."
"Do you think you can make me do things merely because you're stronger?"
"Yes," Angus told her flatly, "some things. This, for one."
"Admitting that--you're brutal!"
"And admitting that," Angus returned, "will you act like a sensiblegirl?"
For a moment she frowned at him, her eyes stormy, dark with anger. Andthen, slowly, she bent low over the saddle horn, and turned her faceaway, while a sob shook her slight figure. At which awful spectacleAngus' resolution suddenly melted to contrition.
"Don't do that!" he pleaded. "Don't cry. I didn't mean it. Come on andwalk. Walk all you like. Walk a lot. I'll help you down."
She turned her face to him and he gasped; for in place of tears therewas laughter, mocking laughter.
"You--you fraud!" he exclaimed.
"You--you bluff!" she retorted. "This was one of the things you couldmake me do because you were stronger, was it? Oh, Angus Mackay, what asoft heart you have in that big body!"
"It would serve you right if I made you walk!" he told her indignantly.
"Yes, wouldn't it? But you won't. I'll ride--if you'll promise to tellme if you get tired."
And so they went down the old tote road in the wan light of the fallsunset.
"It's exactly like that day so many years ago," she said.
But Angus, though he agreed with her, was privately conscious of a vastdifference. On that far-away day he had considered the little, lost girla nuisance and an imposition. Now he felt a strange, warm glow andthrill as he walked beside her, and a sense of contentment strange tohim. He was conscious of this feeling. But, quite honestly, heattributed it to the fact that he had just got his first grizzly, andwhat was more, centered him, charging, with every shot; which, as helooked at it, ought to be a source of satisfaction to any properlyconstituted man, and adequately explained the sense of contentmentaforesaid.