A Cloud on the Mountain

by Mary Hallock Foote

　　Ruth Mary stood on the high river bank, looking along the beach below tosee if her small brother Tommy was lurking anywhere under the willows withhis fishing-pole. He had been sent half an hour before to the earth cellarfor potatoes, and Ruth Mary's father, Mr. Tully, was waiting for hisdinner.She did not see Tommy; but while she lingered, looking at the riverhurrying down the shoot between the hills and curling up over the pebblesof the bar, she saw a team of bay horses and a red-wheeled wagon comerattling down the stony slope of the opposite shore. In the wagon shecounted four men. Three of them wore white, helmet-shaped hats that madebrilliant spots of light against the bank. The horses were driven halftheir length into the stream and allowed to drink, as well as they couldfor the swiftness of the current, while the men seemed to consult together,the two on the front seat turning back to speak with the two behind, andpointing across the river.Ruth Mary watched them with much interest, for travelers such as theseseemed to be seldom came as far up Bear River valley as the Tullys' cattlerange. The visitors who came to them were mostly cow-boys looking up straycattle, or miners on their way to the "Banner district," or packers withmule trains going over the mountains, to return in three weeks, or threemonths, as their journey prospered. Fishermen and hunters came up intothe hills in the season of trout and deer, but they came as a rule onhorseback, and at a distance were hardly to be distinguished from thecow-boys and the miners.The men in the wagon were evidently strangers to that locality. They hadseen Ruth Mary watching them from the hill, and now one of them rose up inthe wagon and shouted across to her, pointing to the river.She could not hear his words for the noise of the ripple and of the windwhich blew freshly down-stream, but she understood that he was inquiringabout the ford. She motioned up the river and called to him, though sheknew her words could not reach him, to keep on the edge of the ripple.Her gestures, however, aided by the driver's knowledge of fords, weresufficient; he turned his horses up-stream and they took water at the placeshe had tried to indicate. The wagon sank to the wheel-hubs; the horseskept their feet well, though the current was strong; the sun shone brightlyon the white hats and laughing faces of the men, on the guns in theirhands, on the red paint of the wagon and the warm backs of the horsesbreasting the stream. When they were halfway across, one of the men tosseda small, reluctant black dog over the wheel into the river, and all thecompany, with the exception of the driver, who was giving his attention tohis horses, broke into hilarious shouts of encouragement to the swimmerin his struggle with the current. It was carrying him down and would havelanded him, without effort of his own, on a strip of white sand beach underthe willows above the bend; but now the unhappy little object, merely ablack nose and two blinking anxious eyes above the water, had drifted intoan eddy, from which he cast forlorn glances toward his faithless friends inthe wagon. The dog was in no real peril, but Ruth Mary did not know this,and her heart swelled with indignant pity. Only shyness kept her fromwading to his rescue. Now one of the laughing young men, thinking the jokehad gone far enough perhaps, and reckless of a wetting, leaped out into thewater, and, plunging along in his high boots, soon had the terrier by thescruff of his neck, and waded ashore with his sleek, quivering little bodynestled in the bosom of his flannel hunting shirt.A deep cut in the bank, through which the wagon was dragged, was screenedby willows. When the fording party had arrived at the top, Ruth Mary wasnowhere to be seen. "Where's that girl got to all of a sudden?" one of themen demanded. They had intended to ask her several questions; but she wasgone, and the road before them plainly led to the low-roofed cabin, andloosely built barn with straw and daylight showing through its cracks, thenewly planted poplar-trees above the thatched earth cellar, and all thesigns of a tentative home in this solitude of the hills.They drove on slowly, the young man who had waded ashore, whom his comradesaddressed as Kirkwood or Kirk, walking behind the wagon with the dog inhis arms, responding to his whimpering claims for attention with teasingcaresses. The dog, it seemed, was the butt as well as the pet of the party.As they approached the house he scrambled out of Kirkwood's arms andlingered to take a roll in the sandy path, coming up a moment afterwardto be received with blighting sarcasms upon his appearance. After hisignominious wetting he was quite unable to bear up under them, and slunk tothe rear with deprecatory blinks and waggings of his tail whenever one ofthe men looked back.Ruth Mary had run home quickly to tell her father, who was sitting in thesun by the wood-pile, of the arrival of strangers from across the river.Mr. Tully rose up deliberately and went to meet his guests, keeping betweenhis teeth the sliver of pine he had been chewing while waiting for hisdinner. It helped to bear him out in that appearance of indifferencehe thought it well to assume, as if such arrivals were an every-dayoccurrence."Hasn't Tommy got back yet, mother?" Ruth Mary asked as she entered thehouse. Mrs. Tully was a stout, low-browed woman, with grayish yellow hairof that dry and lifeless texture which shows declining health or want ofcare. Her blue eyes looked faded in the setting of her tanned complexion.She sat in a low chair, her knees wide apart, defined by her limp calicodraperies, rocking a child of two years, a fat little girl with flushedcheeks and flaxen hair braided into tight knots on her forehead, who wasasleep in the large cushioned rocking-chair in the middle of the room. Theroom was somewhat bare, for the shed-room outside was evidently the moreused part of the house. The cook stove was there in the inclosed corner,and beside it a table and shelf with a tin hand-basin hanging beneath,while the crannies of the logs on each side of the doorway were utilizedas shelves for all the household articles in frequent requisition thatwere not hanging from nails driven into the logs, or from the projectingroof-poles against the light.Tommy had not returned, and Mrs. Tully suggested as a reason for his delaythat he had stopped somewhere to catch grasshoppers for bait."I should think he had enough of 'em in that bottle of his," Ruth Marysaid, "to last him till the 'hoppers come again. Some strange men fordedthe river just now. Father's gone to speak to them. I guess he'll ask 'emto stop to dinner."Mrs. Tully got up heavily and went to the door. "Here, Angy,"--sheaddressed a girl of eight or ten years who sat on the flat boulder thatwas the cabin doorstep;--"you go get them taters; that's a good girl," sheadded coaxingly, as Angy did not stir. "If your foot hurts you, you canwalk on your heel."Angy, who was complaining of a stone-bruise, got up and limped away,upsetting from her lap as she rose two kittens of tender years, who tumbledover each other before getting their legs under them, and staggered off,steering themselves jerkily with their tails."Oh, Angy!" Ruth Mary remonstrated, but she could not stay to comfort thekittens. She ran up the short, crooked stairs leading to the garret bedroomwhich she shared with Angy, hastily to put on her shoes and stockings andbrace her pretty figure, under the blue calico waist she wore, with herfirst pair of stays, an important purchase made on her last visit to thetown in the valley, and to be worn now, if ever. It was hot at noon in thebedroom under the roof, and by the time Ruth Mary had fortified herselfto meet the eyes of strangers she was uncomfortably flushed, and short ofbreath besides from the pressure of the new stays. She went slowly down theuneven stairs, wishing that she could walk as softly in her shoes as shecould barefoot.Her father was talking to the strangers in the shed-room. They seemed talland formidable, under the low roof, against the flat glare of the sun onthe hard-swept ground in front of the shed. She waited inside until hermother reminded her of the dinner half cooked on the stove; then she wentout shyly, the light falling on her downcast face and full white eyelids,on her yellow hair, sun-faded and meekly parted over her forehead, whichwas low like her mother's, but smooth as one of the white stones of theriver beach. Her fair skin was burned to a clear, light red tint, and herblonde eyebrows and lashes showed silvery against it, but her chin was verywhite underneath, and there was a white space behind each of her littleears where her hair was knotted tightly away from her neck."This is my daughter," Mr. Tully said briefly; and then he gave somehospitable orders about dinner which the strangers interrupted, saying thatthey had brought a lunch with them and would not trouble the family untilsupper-time.They gathered up their hunting gear, and lifting their hats to Ruth Mary,followed Mr. Tully, who had offered to show them the best fishing on thatpart of the river.Mr. Tully explained to his wife and daughter, as the latter placed thedinner on the table, that three of the strangers were the engineers fromthe railroad camp at Moor's Bridge, and the fourth was a packer andteamster from the same camp; that they were all going up the river to lookat timber, and wanted a little sport by the way. They had expected to keepon the other side of the river, but seeing the ranch on the opposite shore,with wheel-tracks going down to the water, they had concluded to try theford and the fishing and ask for a night's accommodation."They don't want we should put ourselves out any. They're used to roughin'it, they say. If you can git together somethin' to feed 'em on, mother,they say they'd as soon sleep on the straw in the barn as anywheres else.""There's plenty to eat, such as it is, but Ruth Mary'll have it all to do.I can't be on my feet." Mrs. Tully spoke in a depressed tone, but to herno less than to her husband was this little break welcome in the monotonyof their life in the hills, even though it brought with it a more vividconsciousness of the family circumstances, and a review of them in thelight of former standards of comfort and gentility: for Mrs. Tully had beena woman of some social pretensions, in the small Eastern village where shewas born. To all that to her guests made the unique charm of her presenthome she had grown callous, if she had ever felt it at all, while dwellingwith an incurable regret upon the neatly painted houses and fenceddoor-yards, the gatherings of women in their best clothes in primlyfurnished parlors on summer afternoons, the church-going, the passing inthe street, and, more than all, the housekeeping conveniences she had beenused to, accumulated through many years' occupancy of the same house."Seems as though I hadn't any ambition left," she often complained to herdaughter. "There's nothin' here to do with, and nobody to do for. The mostof the folks we ever see wouldn't know sour-dough bread from salt-risin',and as for dressin' up, I might keep the same clothes on from Fourth Julytill Christmas--your father'd never know."But Ruth Mary was haunted by no fleshpots of the past. As she dressed thechickens and mixed the biscuit for supper, she paused often in her workand looked towards the high pastures with the pale brown lights and purpleshadows on them, rolling away and rising towards the great timbered ridges,and these lifting here and there along their profiles a treeless peak orbare divide into the regions above vegetation. She had no misgivings abouther home. Fences would not have improved her father's vast lawn, to hermind, or white paint the low-browed front of his dwelling; nor did she feelthe want of a stair-carpet and a parlor-organ. She was sure that they,the strangers, had never seen anything more lovely than her beloved riverdancing down between the hills, tripping over rapids, wrinkling oversand-bars of its own spreading, and letting out its speed down the longreaches where the channel was deep.About four o'clock she found leisure to stroll along the shore with Tommy,whose competitive energies as a fisherman had been stimulated by the adventof strange craftsmen with scientific-looking tackle. Tommy must forthwithshow what native skill could do with a willow pole and grasshoppers forbait. But Ruth Mary's sense of propriety would by no means tolerate Tommy'sintruding his company upon the strangers, and to frustrate any rash,gregarious impulses on his part she judged it best to keep him in sight.Tommy knew of a deep pool under the willows which he could whip, unseen,in the shady hours of the afternoon. Thither he led Ruth Mary, leaving herseated upon the bank above him lest she should be tempted to talk, and sointerfere with his sport. The moments went by in silence, broken only bythe river; Ruth Mary happy on the high bank in the sun, Tommy happy bythe shady pool below, and now and then slapping a lively trout upon thestones. Across the river two Chinamen were washing gravel in a rude miner'scradle, paddling about on the river's brink, and anon staggering down fromthe gravel bank above, with large square kerosene cans filled with paydirt balanced on either end of a pole across their meagre shoulders.Bare-headed, in their loose garments, with their pottering movements andwrinkled faces shining with heat, they looked like two weird, unrevered oldwomen working out some dismal penance. High up in the sky the great blackbuzzards sailed and sailed on slanting wing; the wood doves coo-oo-ed fromthe willow thickets that gathered the sunlight close to the water's edge.A few horses and cattle moved like specks upon the sides of the hills,cropping the bunchgrass, but the greater herds had been driven up into thehigh pastures where the snow falls early; and all these lower hills werebare of life, unless one might fancy that the far-off processions of pinesagainst the sky, marching up the northern sides of the divides, had asolemn personality, going up like priests to a sacrifice, or that therestless river, flowing through the midst of all and bearing the light ofthe white noonday sky deep into the bosom of the darkest hills, had a soulas well as a voice. In its sparkle and ever-changing motion it was like achild among its elders at play. The hills seemed to watch it, and the greatcloud-heads as they looked down between the parting summits, and the threetall pines, standing about a young bird's flight from each other by theshore and mingling their fitful crooning with the river's babble.It is pleasant to think of Ruth Mary, sitting high above the river, in thepeaceful afternoon, surrounded by the inanimate life that to her broughtthe fullness of companionship and left no room for vain cravings; theshadow creeping upward over her hands folded in her lap, the light restingon her girlish face and meek, smooth hair. For this was during thatunquestioning time of content which may not always last, even in a life assafe and as easily predicted as hers. But even now this silent communionwas interrupted by the appearance of one of Tommy's rivals. It was theyoung man whose comrades called him Kirk, who came along the shore,stooping under the willow boughs and scattering all their shadows lightlytraced on the stones below. He held his fishing-rod, couched like a lance,in one hand, and a string of gleaming fish in the other.Tommy, with practiced eye, rapidly counted them and saw with chagrin thathe was outnumbered, but another look satisfied him that the stranger'scatch was nearly all "white-fish" instead of trout. He caressed his owndappled beauties complacently.Kirkwood stopped and looked at them; he was evidently impressed by Tommy'ssuperior luck."Those are big fellows," he said; "did you catch them?""You don't suppose she did?" said Tommy, with a jerk of his head towardsRuth Mary.Kirkwood looked up and smiled, seeing the young girl on her sunny perch.The smile lingered pleasantly in his eyes as he seated himself on thestones,--deliberately, as if he meant to stay.Tommy watched him while he made himself comfortable, taking from hispocket a short briar-wood pipe and a bag of tobacco, leisurely fillingthe pipe and lighting it with a wax match held in the hollow of hishands--apparently from habit, for there was no wind. He did not seem tomind in the least that his legs were wet and that his trout were nearlyall white-fish. He was evidently a person of happy resources, and ajoy-compelling temperament that could find virtue in white-fish if itcouldn't get trout. He began to talk to Tommy, not without an amusedconsciousness of Tommy's silent partner on the bank above, nor without anoccasional glance up at the maidenly head serenely exalted in the sunlight.Nor did Ruth Mary fail to respond, with her down-bent looks, as simply andunawares as the clouds turning their bright side to the sun.Tommy, on his part, was stoutly withholding, in words, the admirationhis eyes could not help showing, of the strange fisherman's tools. Hecautiously felt the weight of the ringed and polished rod, and snapped itlightly over the water; he was permitted to examine the book of flies andto handle the reel, things in themselves fascinating, but to Tommy's mindmerely a hindrance and a snare to the understanding in the real business ofcatching fish. Still, he admitted, where a man could take a whole day allto himself like that, without fear of being called off at any moment by thewomen on some frivolous household errand, he might afford to potter withsuch things. Tommy kept the conservative attitude of native experience andskill towards foreign innovation."If Joe Enselman was here," he said, "I bet he could ketch more fish inhalf 'n hour, with a pole like this o' mine and a han'ful o' 'hoppers, thanany of you can in a whole week o' fishing with them fancy things.""Oh, Tommy!" Ruth Mary expostulated, looking distressed."Who is this famous fisherman?" Kirkwood asked, smiling at Tommy's boast."Oh, he's a feller I know. He's a packer, and he owns ha'f o' father'sstock. He's goin' to marry our Sis soon's he gits back from Sheep Mountain,and then he'll be my brother." Tommy had been a little reckless in hisdesire for the distinction of a personal claim on the hero of his boyishheart. He was even conscious of this himself, as he glanced up at hissister.Kirkwood's eyes involuntarily followed Tommy's. He withdrew them at once,but not before he saw the troubled blush that reddened the girl's avertedface. It struck him, though he was not deeply versed in blushes, that itwas not quite the expression of happy, maidenly consciousness, when thename of a lover is unexpectedly spoken.It was the first time in her life that Ruth Mary had ever blushed at thename of Joe Enselman. She could not understand why it should pain her tohave this young stranger hear of him in his relation to herself.Before her blush had faded, Kirkwood had dismissed the subject of RuthMary's engagement, with the careless reflection that Enselman was probablynot the right man, but that the primitive laws which decide such haphazardunions doubtless provided the necessary hardihood of temperament wherewithto meet their exigencies. She was a nice little girl, but possibly she wasnot so sensitive as she looked.His pipe had gone out, and after relighting it, he showed Tommy the gaylypictured paper match-box from Havana, which opened with a spring, anddisclosed the matches lying in a little drawer within. Tommy's wistfuleyes, as he returned the box, prompted Kirkwood to make prudent search inhis pockets for a second box of matches before presenting Tommy with theone his eyes coveted. Finding himself secure against want in the immediatefuture, he gave himself up to the mild amusement of watching Tommy with hisnew acquisition.Tommy could not resist lighting one of the little tapers, which burned inthe sunlight with a still, clear flame like a fairy candle. Then a secondone was sacrificed. By this time the attraction had proved strong enoughto bring Ruth Mary down from her high seat in the sun. She looked scarcelyless a child than Tommy, as, with her face close to his, she watched thepale flame flower wasting its waxen stem. Then she must needs light oneherself and hold it, with a little fixed smile on her face, till the flamecrept down and warmed her finger-tips."There," she said, putting it out with a breath, "don't let us burn anymore. It's too bad to waste 'em in the daylight.""We will burn one more," said Kirkwood, "not for amusement, but forinformation." And while he whittled a piece of driftwood into the shape ofa boat, he told Ruth Mary how the Hindoo maidens set their lighted lampsafloat at night on the Ganges, and watch them perilously voyaging, tolearn, by the fate of the traveling flame, the safety of their absentlovers.He told it simply and gravely, as he might have described some fact innatural history, for he rightly guessed that this little seed of sentimentfell on virgin soil. According to Tommy, Ruth Mary was betrothed and soonto be a wife, but Kirkwood was curiously sure that as yet she knew notlove, nor even fancy. Nor had he any deliberate intention of tampering withher inexperience. He spoke of the lamps on the Ganges because they cameinto his mind while Ruth Mary was bending over the wasting match flame;any hesitation he might have had about introducing so delicate a topic wasconquered by an idle fancy that he would like to observe its effect uponher almost pathetic innocence.While he talked, interrupting himself as his whittling absorbed him, butalways conscious of her eyes upon his face, the boat took shape in hishands. Tommy had failed to catch the connection between Hindoo girls andboat-making, but was satisfied with watching Kirkwood's skillful fingers,without paying much heed to his words. The stranger had, too, a wonderfulknife, with tools concealed in its handle, with one of which he bored ahole for the mast. In the top of the mast he fixed a wax taper upright andsteady for the voyage.Ruth Mary's cheeks grew red, as she suddenly perceived the intention ofKirkwood's whittling."Now," he said, steadying the boat on the shallow ripple, "before we lightour beacon you must think of some one you care for, who is away. PerhapsTommy's friend, on Sheep Mountain?" he ventured softly, glancing at RuthMary.The color in her cheeks deepened, and again Kirkwood fancied it was not ahappy confusion that covered her downcast face."No?" he questioned, as Ruth Mary did not speak; "that is too serious,perhaps. Well, then, make a little wish, and if the light is still alivewhen the boat passes that rock--the flat one with two stones on top--thewish will come true. But you must have faith, you know."Ruth Mary looked at Kirkwood, the picture of faith in her sweetseriousness. His heart smote him a little, but he met her wide-eyed gazewith a gravity equal to her own."I would rather not wish for myself," she said, "but I will wish somethingfor you, if you want me to.""That is very kind of you. Am I to know what it is to be?""Oh yes. You must tell me what to wish.""That is easily done," said Kirkwood gayly. "Wish that I may come back someother day, and sit here with you and Tommy by the river."It was impossible not to see that Ruth Mary was blushing again. But sheanswered him with a gentle courtesy that rebuked the foolish blush: "Thatwill be wishing for us all.""Shall we light up then, and set her afloat?""I've made a wish," shouted Tommy; "I've wished Joe Enselman would bring mean Injun pony: a good one that won't buck!""You must keep your wish for the next trip. This ship is freighted deepenough already. Off she goes then, and good luck to the wish," saidKirkwood, as the current took the boat, with the light at its peak burningclearly, and swept it away. The pretty plaything dipped and danced amoment, while the light wavered but still lived. Then a breath of windshook the willows, and the light was gone."Now it's my turn," Tommy exclaimed, wasting no sentiment on another'sfailure. He rushed down the bank and into the shallow water to catch thewishing-boat before it drifted away."All the same I'm coming back again," said Kirkwood, looking at Ruth Mary.Tommy's wish fared no better than his sister's, but he bore up briskly,declaring it was "all foolishness anyway," and accused Kirkwood of having"just made it up for fun."Kirkwood only laughed, and, ignoring Tommy, said to Ruth Mary, "The gamewas hardly worth the candle, was it?""Was it a game?" she asked. "I thought you meant it for true.""Oh no," he said; "when we try it in earnest we must find a smoother riverand a stronger light. Besides, you know, I'm coming back."Ruth Mary kept her eyes upon his face, still questioning his seriousness,but its quick changes of expression baffled while fascinating her. Shecould not have told whether she thought him handsome or not, but she had adesire to look at him all the time.Suddenly her household duties recurred to her, and, refusing the help ofKirkwood's hand, she sprang up the bank and hurried back to the house.Kirkwood could see her head above the wild-rose thickets as she went alongthe high path by the shore. He was more sure than ever that Enselman wasnot the right man.At supper Ruth Mary waited on the strangers in silence, while Angy kept thecats and dogs "corraled," as her father called it, in the shed, that theirimpetuous appetites might not disturb the feast.Mr. Tully stood in the doorway and talked with his guests while they ate,and Mrs. Tully, with the little two-year-old in her lap, rocked in thelarge rocking-chair and sighed apologetically between her promptings ofRuth Mary's attendance on the table.Tommy hung about in a state of complete infatuation with the person andconversation of his former rival. He was even beginning to waver in hisallegiance to his absent hero, especially as the wish about the Indian ponyhad not come true.During the family meal the young men sat outside in the shed-room, andsmoked and lazily talked together. Their words reached the silent group atthe table. Kirkwood's companions were deriding him as a recreant sportsman.He puffed his short-stemmed pipe and looked at them tranquilly. He was notdissatisfied with his share of the day's pleasure.When Mr. Tully had finished his supper, he took the young men down to thebeach to look at his boat. Kirkwood had pointed it out to his comrades,where it lay moored under the bank, and ventured the opinion of a boatingman that it had not been built in the mountains. But there he hadgeneralized too rashly."I built her myself," said Mr. Tully; "rip-sawed the lumber up here. Myyoung ones are as handy with her!" he boasted cheerfully, warmed by theadmiration his work called forth. "You'd never believe, to see 'em knockingabout in her, they hadn't the first one of 'em ever smelt salt water. RuthMary now, the oldest of 'em, is as much to home in that boat as she is ona hoss--and that's sayin' enough. She looks quiet, but she's got as firm aseat and as light a hand as any cow-boy that ever put leg over a cayuse."Mr. Tully, on being questioned, admitted willingly that he was an Easternman,--a Down-East lumberman and boat-builder. He couldn't say just why he'dcome West. Got restless, and his wife's health was always poor back there.He had mined it some and had had considerable luck,--cleaned up severalthousands, the summer of '63, at Junction Bar. Put it in a sawmill andgot burned out. Then he took up this cattle range and went into stock, inpartnership with a young fellow from Montana, named Enselman. They expectedto make a good thing of it, but it was a long ways from anywheres; and formonths of the year they couldn't do any teaming. Had no way out except bythe horseback trail. The women found it lonesome. In winter no team couldget up that grade in the canon they call the "freeze-out," even if theycould cross the river, on account of the ice; and from April to August theriver was up so you couldn't ford.All this in the intervals of business, for Mr. Tully, in his circuitousway, was agreeing to build a boat for the engineers, after the model of hisown. He would have to go down to the camp at Moor's Bridge to build it, hesaid, for suitable lumber could not be procured so far up the river, exceptat great expense. It would take him better'n a month, anyhow, and he didn'tknow what his women-folks would say to having him so long away. He wouldsee about it.The four men sauntered up the path from the shore, Tommy bringing up therear with the little black-and-tan terrier. In default of a word from hismaster, Tommy tried to make friends with the dog, but the latter, wideawake and suspicious after dozing under the wagon all the afternoon, wouldnone of him. Possibly he divined that Tommy's attentions were not whollydisinterested.The family assembled for the evening in the shed-room. The women weresilent, for the talk was confined to masculine topics, such as the qualityof the placer claims up the river, the timber, the hunting, the progressand prospects of the new railroad. Tommy, keeping himself forcibly awake,was seeing two Kirkwoods where there was but one. The terrier had takenshelter between Kirkwood's knees, after trying conclusions with the motherof the kittens,--a cat of large experience and a reserved disposition, withonly one ear, but in full possession of her faculties.Betimes the young men arose and said good-night. Mr. Tully was loath tohave the evening, with its rare opportunity for conversation, brought to aclose, but he was too modest a host to press his company upon his guests.He went with them to their bed, on the clean straw in the barn, and if goodwishes could soften pillows the travelers would have slept sumptuously.They did not know, in fact, how they slept, but woke, strong and joyousover the beauty of the morning on the hills, and the prospect of continuingtheir journey.They parted from the family at the ranch with a light-hearted promise tostop again on their way down the river. When they would return they weregayly uncertain,--it might be ten days, it might be two weeks. It was apromise that nestled with delusive sweetness in Ruth Mary's thoughts, asshe went silently about her work. She was helpful in all ways, and verygentle with the children, but she lingered more hours dreaming by theriver, and often at twilight she climbed the hill back of the cabin and satthere alone, her cheek in the hollow of her hand, until the great planesof distance were lost, and all the hills drew together in one dark profileagainst the sky.* * * * *Mrs. Tully had been intending to spare Ruth Mary for a journey to town,on some errands of a feminine nature which could not be intrusted to Mr.Tully's larger but less discriminating judgment. Ruth Mary had never beforebeen known to trifle with an opportunity of this kind. Her rides to townhad been the one excitement of her life; looked forward to with eagernessand discussed with tireless interest for many days afterwards. But now shehung back with an unaccountable apathy, and made excuses for postponing theride from day to day, until the business became too pressing to be longerneglected. She set off one morning at daybreak, following the horsebacktrail, around the steep and sliding bluffs high above the river, or acrossbeds of broken lava rock,--arrested avalanches from the slowly crumblingcliffs which crowned the bluff,--or picking her way at a soft-footed pacethrough the thickets of the river bottoms. In such a low and shelteredspot, scarcely four feet above the river, she found the engineers' camp,a group of white tents shining among the willows. She keenly noted itslocation and surroundings. The broken timbers of the old bridge projectedfrom the bank a short distance above the camp; a piece of weather-stainedcanvas stretched over them formed a kind of awning shading the rocks below,where the Chinese cook of the camp sat impassively fishing. The camp had adeserted appearance, for the men were all at work, tunneling the hill halfa mile lower down. Her errands kept her so late that she was obliged tostay over night at the house of a friend of her father's, who owned a fruitranch near the town. They were prosperous, talkative people, who loudlypitied the isolation of the family in the upper valley.Ruth Mary reached home about noon the next day, tired and several shadesmore deeply sunburned, to find that she had passed the engineers, withoutknowing it, on their way down the river by the wagon road on the otherside. They had stopped over night at the ranch and made an early start thatmorning. Ruth Mary was obliged to listen to enthusiastic reminiscences,from each member of the family, of the visit she had missed.This was the last social event of the year. The willow copses turnedyellow and leaf-bare; the scarlet hips of the rosebushes looked as if tinyfinger-tips had left their prints upon them. The wreaths of wild clematisfaded ashen gray, and were scattered by the winds. The wood dove's cooingno longer sounded at twilight in the leafless thickets. They had gone downthe river and the wild duck with them.But the voice of the river, rising with the autumn rains, was loud on thebar; the sky was hung with clouds that hid the hilltops or trailed theirragged pennants below the summits. The mist lay cold on the river; it rosewith the sun, dissolving in soft haze that dulled the sunshine, and atnight, descending, shrouded the dark, hoarse water without stilling itslament. Then the first snow fell, and ghostly companies of deer came outupon the hills, or filed silently down the draws of the canons at morningand evening. The cattle had come down from the mountain pastures, and atnight congregated about the buildings with deep breathings and sighings;the river murmured in its fretted channel; now and then the yelp of ahungry coyote sounded from the hills.The young men had said, among their light and pleasant sayings, that theywould like to come up again to the hills when the snow fell, and get a shotat the deer; but they did not come, though often Ruth Mary stood on thebank and looked across the swollen ford, and listened for the echo ofwheels among the hills.About the 1st of November Mr. Tully went down to the camp at Moor's Bridgeto build the engineers' boat. The women were now alone at the ranch, butJoe Enselman's return was daily expected. Mr. Tully, always cheerful, hadbeen confident that he would be home by the 5th.The 5th of November and the 10th passed, but Enselman had not returned.On the 12th, in the midst of a heavy fall of snow, his pack animals weredriven in by another man, a stranger to the women at the ranch, who saidthat Enselman had changed his mind suddenly about coming home that fall,and decided to go to Montana and "prove up" on his ranch there.Mr. Tully's work was finished before the second week of December. On hisreturn to the ranch he brought with him a great brown paper bundle, whichthe children opened by the cabin fire on the joyous evening of his arrival.There were back numbers of the illustrated magazines and papers, straycopies of which now and then had drifted into the hands of the voraciousyoung readers in the cabin. There were a few novels, selected by Kirkwoodfrom the camp library with especial reference to Ruth Mary. For Tommy therewas a duplicate of the wonderful pocket-knife that he had envied Kirkwood.Angy was remembered with a little music-box, which played "Willie, we havemissed you" with a plaintive iteration that brought the sensitive tearsto Ruth Mary's eyes; and for Ruth Mary herself there was a lace pin ofhammered gold."He said it must be your wedding present from him, as you'd be marriedlikely before he saw you again," Mr. Tully said, with innocent pride in thegift with which his daughter had been honored."Who said that?" Ruth Mary asked."Why, Mr. Kirkwood said it. He's the boss one of the whole lot to mythinkin'. He's got that way with him some folks has! We had some real goodtalks, evenings, down on the rocks under the old bridge,--I told him aboutyou and Enselman"--"Father, I wish you hadn't done that." The protest in Ruth Mary's voice wasstronger than her words.She had become slightly pale when Kirkwood's name was mentioned, but now,as she held out the box with the trinket in it, a deep blush covered herface."I cannot take it, father. Not with that message. He can wait till I ammarried before he sends me his wedding present."To her father's amazement, she burst into tears and went out into theshed-room, leaving Kirkwood's ill-timed gift in his hands."What in all conscience' sake's got into her?" he demanded of his wife, "totake offense at a little thing like that! She didn't use to be so techy."Mrs. Tully nodded her head at him sagely and glanced at the children, ahint that she understood Ruth Mary's state of mind, but could not explainbefore them.At bedtime, the father and mother being alone together, Mrs. Tully revealedthe cause of her daughter's sensitiveness, according to her theory ofit. "She's put out because Joe Enselman chose to wait till spring beforemarryin', and went off to Montany instead of comin' home as he said hewould.""Sho, sho!" said Mr. Tully. "That don't seem like Ruth Mary. She ain't inany such a hurry as all that comes to. I've had it on my mind lately thatshe took it a little too easy.""You'll see," said the mother. "She ain't in any hurry, but she likeshim to be. She feels's if he thought more of money-makin' than he does ofher. She's like all girls. She won't use her reason and see it's all forher in the end he's doin' it.""Why didn't you tell her 'twas my plan, his goin' to Montany this fall?He wouldn't listen to it nohow then. He'd rather lose his ranch than waitany longer for Sis, so he said; but I guess he's seen the sense of what Itold him. 'Ruth Mary ain't a-goin' to run away,' I says, 'even if ye don'tprove up on her this fall.' You ought to 'a' told her, mother, 'twas myproposition.""I told her that and more too. I told her it showed he'd make a goodprovider. She looked at me solemn as a graven image all the time I wastalkin' and not a word out of her. But that's Ruth Mary. I never said thechild was sullen, but she is just like your sister Ruth--the more shefeels, the less she talks.""Well," said Mr. Tully, "that's all right, if that's it. That'll allstraighten out with time. It was natural perhaps she should fire up atthe talk about marryin' if she felt the bridegroom was hangin' back. Why,Joe,--he'd eat the dirt she treads on, if he couldn't make her like him noother way! He's most too foolish about her, to my thinkin'. That's whattook me so by surprise when word come back he'd gone to Montany after all;I didn't expect anything so sensible of him.""'Twas a reg'lar man's piece o' work anyhow," said Mrs. Tullydisconsolately."And you'll be sorry for it, I'm afraid. I never knew any good come ofputtin' off a marriage, where everything was suitable, just for a fewhundred acres of wild land, more or less.""No use your worryin'," said Mr. Tully. "Young folks always has theirlittle troubles before they settle down--besides, what sort of a marriagewould it be if you or I could make it or break it?" But he bore himselfwith a deprecating tenderness towards his daughter, in whose affairs he hadmeddled, perhaps disastrously, as his better half feared.* * * * *The winters of Idaho are not long, even in the higher valleys. Close uponthe cold footsteps of the retreating snows trooped the first wild flowers.The sun seemed to laugh in the cloudless sky. The children were let looseon the hills; their voices echoed the river's chime. Its waters, risingwith the melting snows, no longer babbled childishly on their way; theyshouted, and brawled, and tumbled over the bar, rolling huge pine trunksalong as if they were sticks of kindling wood.One cool May evening, Ruth Mary, climbing the path from the beach, sawthere was a strange horse and two pack animals in the corral. She did notstop to look at them, but, quickly guessing who their owner must be, shewent on to the house, her knees weak and trembling, her heart beatingheavily. Her father met her at the door and detained her outside. She wasprepared for his announcement. She knew that Joe Enselman had returned,and that the time was come for her to prove her new resolve, born of thewinter's silent struggle."I thought I'd better have a few words with you, Ruthie, before you seehim--to prepare your mind. Set down here." Mr. Tully took his daughter'shands in his own and held them while he talked."You thought it was queer Joe stayed away so long, didn't you?" RuthMary opened her lips to speak, but no words came. "Well, I did," saidthe father. "Though it was my plan first off. I might 'a' know'd it wassomething more 'n business that kep' him. Joe's had an accident. Ithappened to him just about the time he meant to 'a' started for home lastfall. It broke him all up,--made him feel like he didn't want to see any ofus just then. He was goin' along a trail through the woods one dark night;he never knew what stunned him; must have been a twig or something struckhim in the eye; he was giddy and crazy-like for a spell; his horse took himhome. Well, he ain't got but one eye left, Joe ain't. There, Sis, I knewyou'd feel bad. But he's well. It's hurt his looks some, but what's looks!We ain't any of us got any to brag on. Joe had some hopes at first he'dgit to seein' again out of the eye that was hurt, and so he sent home hisanimals and put out for Salt Lake to show it to a doctor there; but itwan't any use. The eye's gone; and it doos seem as if for the time bein'some of Joe's grit had gone with it. He went up to Montany and tended tohis business, but it was all like a dumb show and no heart in it. It's cuthim pretty deep, through his bein' alone so long, perhaps, and thinkin'about how you'd feel. And then he's pestered in his mind about marryin'. Hefeels he's got no claim to you now. Says it ain't fair to ask a young girlthat's likely to have plenty good chances to tie up to what's left of him.I wanted you should know about this before you go inside. It might hurthim some to see a change in your face when you look at him first. As tohis givin' you your word back, that you'll settle between yourselves; but,however you fix it, I guess you'll make it as easy as you can for Joe. Idon' know as ever I see a big strappin' fellow so put down."Mr. Tully had waited, between his short and troubled sentences, for someresponse from Ruth Mary, but she was still silent. Her hands felt coldin his. As he released them she leaned suddenly forward and hid her faceagainst his shoulder. She shivered and her breast heaved, but she was notweeping."There, there!" said Mr. Tully, stroking her head clumsily with his largehand. "I've made a botch of it. I'd ought to 'a' let your mother told ye."She pressed closer to him, and wrapped her arms around him withoutspeaking."I expect I better go in now," he said gently, putting her away from him."Will you come along o' me, or do you want to git a little quieter first?""You go in," Ruth Mary whispered. "I'll come soon."It was not long before she followed her father into the house. No one wassurprised to see her white and tremulous. She seemed to know where Enselmansat without raising her eyes; neither did he venture to look at her, as shecame to him, and stooping forward, laid her little cold hands on his."I'm glad you've come back," she said. Then sinking down suddenly on thefloor at his feet, she threw her apron over her head and sobbed aloud.The father and mother wept too. Joe sat still, with a great and bitterlonging in his smitten countenance, but did not dare to comfort her."Pick her up, Joe," said Mr. Tully."Take hold of her, man, and show her you've got a whole heart if you ain'tgot but one eye."It was understood, as Ruth Mary meant that it should be, without morewords, that Enselman's misfortune would make no difference in their oldrelation. The difference it had made in that new resolve born of thewinter's struggle she told to no one; for to no one had she confided herresolve.* * * * *Joe stayed two weeks at the ranch, and was comforted into a semblance ofhis former hardy cheerfulness. But Ruth Mary knew that he was not happy.One evening he asked her to go with him down the high shore path. He toldher that he was going to town the next day on business that might keep himabsent about a fortnight, and entreated her to think well of her promiseto him, for that on his return he should expect its fulfillment. For God'ssake he begged her to let no pity for his misfortune blind her to thetrue nature of her feeling for him. He held her close to his heart andkissed her many times. Did she love him so--and so?--he asked. Ruth Mary,trembling, said she did not know. How could she help knowing? he demandedpassionately. Had her thoughts been with him all winter, as his had beenwith her? Had she looked up the river towards the hills where he wasstaying so long and wished for him, as he had gazed southward into thevalleys many and many a day, longing for the sweet blue eyes of his littlegirl so far away?Alas, Ruth Mary! She gazed almost wildly into his stricken face, distortedby the anguish of his great love and his great dread. She wished that shewere dead. There seemed no other way out of her trouble.The next morning, before she was dressed, Enselman rode away, and herfather went with him.She was alone, now, in the midst of the hills she loved--alone as shewould never be again. She foresaw that she would not have the strength tolay that last blow upon her faithful old friend,--the crushing blow thatperfect truth demanded. Her tenderness was greater than her truth.* * * * *The river was now swollen to its greatest volume. Its voice, that had beenthe babble of a child and the tumult of a boy, was now deep and heavy likethe chest notes of a strong man. Instead of the sparkling ripple on thebar, there was a continuous roar of yellow, turbid water that could beheard a mile away. There had been no fording for six weeks, nor would therebe again until late summer. The useless boat lay in the shallow wash thatfilled the deep cut among the willows. The white sand beach was gone; heavywaves swirled past the banks and sent their eddies up into the channels ofthe hills to meet the streams of melted snow. Thunder clouds chased eachother about the mountains, or met in sudden downfalls of rain.One sultry noon, when the sun had come out hot on the hills after a wetmorning, Ruth Mary, at work in the shed-room, heard a sound that drove thecolor from her cheek. She ran out and looked up the river, listening to adistant but ever increasing roar which could be heard above the incessantlaboring of the waters over the bar. Above the summit of Sheep Mountain, asit seemed, a huge turban-shaped cloud had rolled itself up, and from itscentral folds was discharging gray sheets of water that veered and slantedwith the wind, but were always distinct in their density against therain-charged atmosphere. How far away the floods were descending she didnot know; but that they were coming in a huge wall of water, overtaking andswallowing up the river's current, she was as sure as that she had beenbred in the mountains.Bare-headed, bare-armed as she was, without a backward look, she ran downthe hill to the place where the boat was moored. Tommy was there, sittingin the boat and making the shallow water splash as he rocked from side toside."Get out, Tommy, and let me have her, quick!" Ruth Mary called to him.Tommy looked at her stolidly and kept on rocking. "What you want with her?"he asked."Come out, for mercy's sake! Don't you hear it? There's a cloud-burst onthe mountain."Tommy listened. He did hear it, but he did not stir. "It'll be a bullything to see when it comes. What you doin'? You act like you was crazy," heexclaimed, as Ruth Mary waded through the water and got into the boat."Tommy, you will kill me if you stop to talk! Don't you know the camp atMoor's Bridge? Go home and tell mother I've gone to give 'em warning."Tommy was instantly sobered. "I'm going with you," he said. "You can'thandle her alone in that current."Ruth Mary, wild with the delay, every second of which might be the price ofprecious lives, seized Tommy in her arms, hugged him close and kissed him,and by main strength rolled him out into the water. He grasped the gunwalewith both hands. "You're going to be drowned," he shrieked, as if alreadyshe were far away. She pushed off his hands and shot out into the current."Don't cry, Tommy, I'll get there somehow," she called back to him. Shecould see nothing for the first few minutes of her journey but his littlewet, dismal figure toiling, sobbing, up the hill. It hurt her to have hadto be rough with him. But all the while she sat upright with her eyes onthe current, plying her paddle right and left, as rocks and driftwoodand eddies were passed. She heard it coming, that distant roar from thehills, and prayed with beating heart that the wild current might carry herfaster--faster--past the draggled willow copses--past the beds of blacklava rock, and the bluffs with their patches of green moss livid in thesunshine--hurling along, past glimpses of the well-known trail she hadfollowed dreamily on those peaceful rides she might never take again. Thethought did not trouble her, only the fear that she might be overtakenbefore she reached the camp. For the waters were coming--or was it the windthat brought that dread sound so near! She dared not look round lest sheshould see, through the gates of the canon, the black lifted head of thegreat wave, devouring the river behind her. How it would come swoopingdown, between those high narrow walls of rock, her heart stood still tothink of. If the hills would but open and let it loose, over the emptypastures--if the river would only hurry, hurry, hurry! She whispered theword to herself with frantic repetition, and the oncoming roar behind heranswered her whisper of fear with its awful intoning.She trembled with joy as the canon walls lowered and fell apart, and shesaw the blessed plains, the low green flats and the willows, and the whitetents of the camp, safe in the sunshine. Now if she be given but onemoment's grace to swing into the bank! The roar behind her made her faintas she listened. For the first time she turned and looked back, and the cryof her despair went up and was lost, as boat and message and messenger werelost,--gone utterly, gorged at one leap by the senseless flood.* * * * *At half past five o'clock that afternoon the men of the camp filed out ofthe tunnel, along the new road-bed, with the low sunlight in their faces.It was "Saturday night," and the whole force was in good humor. As theytramped gayly along, tools and instruments glinting in the sun, word wentdown the line that something unusual had been going on by the river. Thereseemed to have been a wild uprising of its waters since they saw it last.Then a shout from those ahead proclaimed the disaster at the bridge. TheChinese cook, crouched among the rocks high up under the bluff, where hehad fled for safety when he heard the waters coming, rushed down to themwith wild wavings and gabblings, to tell them of a catastrophe that wasbest described by its results. A few provisions were left them, stored ina magazine under a rock on the hillside. They cooked their supper with thesplinters of the ruined blacksmith's hut. After supper, in the clear, pinkevening light, they wandered about on the slippery rocks, seeking whateverfragments of their camp equipage the flood might have left them. Everythinghad been swept away, and tons of mud and gravel covered the little greenmeadow where their tents had stood. Kirkwood, straying on ahead of hiscomrades, came to the rocks below the bridge timbers, from which the awninghad been torn away. The wet rocks glistened in the light, but there was awhiter gleam which caught his eye. He stooped and crawled under the timbersanchored in the bank, until he came to the spot of whiteness. Was this thatfair young girl from the hills, dragged here by the waters in their cruelorgy, and then hidden by them as if in shame of their work? Kirkwoodrecognized the simple features, the meek eyes, wide open in the searchinglight. The mud that filled her garments had spared the pure young face.Kirkwood gazed into it reverently, but the passionate sacrifice, theuseless warning, were sealed from him. She could not tell him why she wasthere.The three young men watched in turn, that night, by the little motionlessheap covered with Kirkwood's coat. Kirkwood was very sad about Ruth Mary,yet he slept when his watch was over.In the morning they nailed together some boards into the shape of a longbox. There was not a boat left on the river; fording was impossible. Theycould only take her home by the trail. So once more Ruth Mary traveled thatwinding path, high in the sunlight or low in the shade of the shore. A logof driftwood, left by the great wave, slung on one side of a mule's packsaddle, balanced the rude coffin on the other. No one meeting the threeengineers and their pack-mule filing down the trail would have known thatthey were a funeral procession; but they were heavy-hearted as they rodealong, and Kirkwood would fain it had not been his part to ride ahead andprepare the family at the ranch for their child's coming.The mother, with Tommy and Angy hiding their faces against her, stood onthe hill and watched for it, and broke into cries as the mule with itsburden came in sight.Kirkwood walked with them down the hill to meet it. His comradesdismounted, and the three young men, with heads uncovered, carried thecoffin over the hill and set it down in the shed-room. Then Tommy, in aburst of childish grief, made them know that this piteous sacrifice hadbeen for them.The tunnel made its way through the hill, the sinuous road-bed wound up thevalley, new camps were built along its course; but when the young men sattogether of an evening and looked at the hills in the strange pink light, aspell of quietness rested upon them which no one tried to explain.* * * * *The railroad has been built these two years. Every summer brings touristsup into the Bear River valley. They look with delight upon the mountainstream, bounding down between the hills with the brightness of the morningon its breast."There should be an idyl or a legend belonging to it," a pretty, dark-eyedgirl with a Boston accent said to Kirkwood, one moonlight evening late insummer when the river was low, as they drifted softly down between its dimshores. "Poor little Bear River! did nothing human ever happen near you togive you a right to a prettier name?"The river did not answer as it rippled over the bar, nor did Kirkwood speakfor it; but the wood dove's melancholy tremolo came from the misty willowsby the shore, and in some suddenly illumined place in his memory he sawRuth Mary, sitting on the high bank in the peaceful afternoon, the sunshineresting on her smooth, fair hair, the shadow lending its softness to hershy, down-bent face.The pity of it, when he thinks of it sometimes, seems to him more than hecan bear. Yet if Ruth Mary had still been there at the ranch on the hills,she would have been, to him, only "that nice little girl of Tully's whomarried the one-eyed packer."