Tales of Trail and Town by Bret Harte (knowledgeable books to read txt) 📕

Having resumed his coat, with a bottle of whiskey thrust into its pocket, he put on a pair of india-rubber boots reaching to his thighs, and, catching the blanket from his bunk, started with an axe and shovel on his shoulder on his downward journey. When the distance was half completed he shouted to the travelers below; the cry was joyously answered by the three men; he saw the fourth figure, now unmistakably that of a slender youthful woman, in a cloak, helped back into the wagon, as if deliverance was now sure and immediate. But Jack on arriving speedily dissipated that illusive hope; they could only get through the gorge by taking off the wheels of the wagon, placing the axle on rude sledge-runners of split saplings, which, with their assistance, he would fashion in a couple of hours at his cabin and bring down to the gorge. The only other alternative would be for them to come to his cabin and remain there while he went for assistance to the nearest station, but that would take several hours and necessitate a double journey for the sledge if he was lucky enough to find one. The party quickly acquiesced in Jack’s first suggestion.

“Very well,” said Jack, “then there’s no time to be lost; unhitch your horses and we’ll dig a hole in that bank for them to stand in out of the snow.” This was speedily done. “Now,” continued Jack, “you’ll just follow me up to my cabin; it’s a pretty tough climb, but I’ll want your help to bring down the runners.”

Here the man who seemed to be the head of the party—of middle age and a superior, professional type—for the first time hesitated. “I forgot to say that there is a lady with us,—my daughter,” he began, glancing towards the wagon.

“I reckoned as much,” interrupted Jack simply, “and I allowed to carry her up myself the roughest part of the way. She kin make herself warm and comf’ble in the cabin until we’ve got the runners ready.”

“You hear what our friend says, Amy?” suggested the gentleman, appealingly, to the closed leather curtains of the wagon.

There was a pause. The curtain was suddenly drawn aside, and a charming little head and shoulders, furred to the throat and topped with a bewitching velvet cap, were thrust out. In the obscurity little could be seen of the girl’s features, but there was a certain willfulness and impatience in her attitude. Being in the shadow, she had the advantage of the others, particularly of Jack, as his figure was fully revealed in the moonlight against the snowbank. Her eyes rested for a moment on his high boots, his heavy mustache, so long as to mingle with the unkempt locks which fell over his broad shoulders, on his huge red hands streaked with black grease from the wagon wheels, and some blood, stanched with snow, drawn from bruises in cutting out brambles in the brush; on— more awful than all—a monstrous, shiny “specimen” gold ring encircling one of his fingers,—on the whiskey bottle that shamelessly bulged from his side pocket, and then—slowly dropped her dissatisfied eyelids.

“Why can’t I stay HERE?” she said languidly. “It’s quite nice and comfortable.”

“Because we can’t leave you alone, and we must go with this gentleman to help him.”

Miss Amy let the tail of her eye again creep shudderingly over this impossible Jack. “I thought the—the gentleman was going to help US,” she said dryly.

“Nonsense, Amy, you don’t understand,” said her father impatiently. “This gentleman is kind enough to offer to make some sledge-runners for us at his cabin, and we must help him.”

“But I can stay here while you go. I’m not afraid.”

“Yes, but you’re ALONE here, and something might happen.”

“Nothing could happen,” interrupted Jack, quickly and cheerfully. He had flushed at first, but he was now considering that the carrying of a lady as expensively attired and apparently as delicate and particular as this one might be somewhat difficult. “There’s nothin’ that would hurt ye here,” he continued, addressing the velvet cap and furred throat in the darkness, “and if there was it couldn’t get at ye, bein’, so to speak, in the same sort o’ fix as you. So you’re all right,” he added positively.

Inconsistently enough, the young lady did not accept this as gratefully as might have been imagined, but Jack did not see the slight flash of her eye as, ignoring him, she replied markedly to her father, “I’d much rather stop here, papa.”

“And,” continued Jack, turning also to her father, “you can keep the wagon and the whole gorge in sight from the trail all the way up. So you can see that everything’s all right. Why, I saw YOU from the first.” He stopped awkwardly, and added, “Come along; the sooner we’re off the quicker the job’s over.”

“Pray don’t delay the gentleman and—the job,” said Miss Amy sweetly.

Reassured by Jack’s last suggestion, her father followed him with the driver and the second man of the party, a youngish and somewhat undistinctive individual, but to whose gallant anxieties Miss Amy responded effusively. Nevertheless, the young lady had especially noted Jack’s confession that he had seen them when they first entered the gorge. “And I suppose,” she added to herself mentally, “that he sat there with his boozing companions, laughing and jeering at our struggles.”

But when the sound of her companions’ voices died away, and their figures were swallowed up in the darkness behind the snow, she forgot all this, and much else that was mundane and frivolous, in the impressive and majestic solitude which seemed to descend upon her from the obscurity above.

At first it was accompanied with a slight thrill of vague fear, but this passed presently into that profound peace which the mountains alone can give their lonely or perturbed children. It seemed to her that Nature was never the same, on the great plains where men and cities always loomed into such ridiculous proportions, as when the Great Mother raised herself to comfort them with smiling hillsides, or encompassed them and drew them closer in the loving arms of her mountains. The long white canada stretched before her in a purity that did not seem of the earth; the vague bulk of the mountains rose on either side of her in a mystery that was not of this life. Yet it was not oppressive; neither was its restfulness and quiet suggestive of obliviousness and slumber; on the contrary, the highly rarefied air seemed to give additional keenness to her senses; her hearing had become singularly acute; her eyesight pierced the uttermost extremity of the gorge, lit by the full moon that occasionally shone through slowly drifting clouds. Her nerves thrilled with a delicious sense of freedom and a strange desire to run or climb. It seemed to her, in her exalted fancy, that these solitudes should be peopled only by a kingly race, and not by such gross and material churls as this mountaineer who helped them. And, I grieve to say,—writing of an idealist that WAS, and a heroine that IS to be,—she was getting outrageously hungry.

There were a few biscuits in her traveling-bag, and she remembered that she had been presented with a small jar of California honey at San Jose. This she took out and opened on the seat before her, and spreading the honey on the biscuits, ate them with a keen schoolgirl relish and a pleasant suggestion of a sylvan picnic in spite of the cold. It was all very strange; quite an experience for her to speak of afterwards. People would hardly believe that she had spent an hour or two, all alone, in a deserted wagon in a mountain snow pass. It was an adventure such as one reads of in the magazines. Only something was lacking which the magazines always supplied,—something heroic, something done by somebody. If that awful-looking mountaineer—that man with the long hair and mustache, and that horrible gold ring,—why such a ring?—was only different! But he was probably gorging beefsteak or venison with her father and Mr. Waterhouse,—men were always such selfish creatures!—and had quite forgotten all about her. It would have been only decent for them to have brought her down something hot; biscuits and honey were certainly cloying, and somehow didn’t agree with the temperature. She was really half starved! And much they cared! It would just serve them right if something DID happen to her,—or SEEM to happen to her,—if only to frighten them. And the pretty face that was turned up in the moonlight wore a charming but decided pout.

Good gracious, what was that? The horses were either struggling or fighting in their snow shelters. Then one with a frightened neigh broke from its halter and dashed into the road, only to be plunged snorting and helpless into the drifts. Then the other followed. How silly! Something had frightened them. Perhaps only a rabbit or a mole; horses were such absurdly nervous creatures! However, it is just as well; somebody would see them or hear them,—that neigh was quite human and awful,—and they would hurry down to see what was the matter. SHE couldn’t be expected to get out and look after the horses in the snow. Anyhow, she WOULDN’T! She was a good deal safer where she was; it might have been rats or mice about that frightened them! Goodness!

She was still watching with curious wonder the continued fright of the animals, when suddenly she felt the wagon half bumped, half lifted from behind. It was such a lazy, deliberate movement that for a moment she thought it came from the party, who had returned noiselessly with the runners. She scrambled over to the back seat, unbuttoned the leather curtain, lifted it, but nothing was to be seen. Consequently, with feminine quickness, she said, “I see you perfectly, Mr. Waterhouse—don’t be silly!” But at this moment there was another shock to the wagon, and from beneath it arose what at first seemed to her to be an uplifting of the drift itself, but, as the snow was shaken away from its heavy bulk, proved to be the enormous head and shoulders of a bear!

Yet even then she was not WHOLLY frightened, for the snout that confronted her had a feeble inoffensiveness; the small eyes were bright with an eager, almost childish curiosity rather than a savage ardor, and the whole attitude of the creature lifted upon its hind legs was circus-like and ludicrous rather than aggressive. She was enabled to say with some dignity, “Go away! Shoo!” and to wave her luncheon basket at it with exemplary firmness. But here the creature laid one paw on the back seat as if to steady itself, with the singular effect of collapsing the whole side of the wagon, and then opened its mouth as if in some sort of inarticulate reply. But the revelation of its red tongue, its glistening teeth, and, above all, the hot, suggestive fume of its breath, brought the first scream from the lips of Miss Amy. It was real and convincing; the horses joined in it; the three screamed together! The bear hesitated for an instant, then, catching sight of the honey-pot on the front seat, which the shrinking-back