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CHAPTER V


Whatever might have been his other deficiencies as an escort,
Whiskey Dick was a good horseman, and, in spite of his fractious
brute, exhibited such skill and confidence as to at once satisfy
the young girls of his value to them in the management of their own
horses, to whom side-saddles were still an alarming novelty.
Jessie, who had probably already learned from her sister the
purport of Dick's confidences, had received him with equal
cordiality and perhaps a more unqualified amusement; and now, when
fairly lifted into the saddle by his tremulous but respectful
hands, made a very charming picture of youthful and rosy
satisfaction. And when Christie, more fascinating than ever in her
riding-habit, took her place on the other side of Dick, as they
sallied from the gate, that gentleman felt his cup of happiness
complete. His triumphal entree into the world of civilization and
fashion was secure. He did not regret the untasted liquor; here
was an experience in after years to lean his back against
comfortably in bar-rooms, to entrance or defy mankind. He had even
got so far as to formulate in fancy the sentence: "I remember,
gentlemen, that one afternoon, being on a pasear with two
fash'nable young ladies," etc., etc.

At present, however, he was obliged to confine himself to the
functions of an elegant guide and cicerone--when not engaged in
"having it out" with his horse. Their way lay along the slope,
crossing the high-road at right angles, to reach the deeper woods
beyond. Dick would have lingered on the highway--ostensibly to
point out to his companions the new flume that had taken the place
of the condemned ditch, but really in the hope of exposing himself
in his glory to the curious eyes of the wayfaring world.

Unhappily the road was deserted in the still powerful sunlight, and
he was obliged to seek the cover of the woods, with a passing
compliment to the parent of his charges. Waving his hands towards
the flume, he said, "Look at that work of your father's; there
ain't no other man in Californy but Philip Carr ez would hev the
grit to hold up such a bluff agin natur and agin luck ez that yer
flume stands for. I don't say it 'cause you're his daughters,
ladies! That ain't the style, ez YOU know, in sassiety, Miss
Carr," he added, turning to Christie as the more socially
experienced. "No! but there ain't another man to be found ez could
do it. It cost already two hundred thousand; it'll cost five
hundred thousand afore it's done; and every cent of it is got out
of the yearth beneath it, or HEZ got to be out of it. 'Tain't
ev'ry man, Miss Carr, ez hev got the pluck to pledge not only what
he's got, but what he reckons to git."

"But suppose he don't get it?" said Christie, slightly contracting
her brows.

"Then there's the flume to show for it," said Dick.

"But of what use is the flume, if there isn't any more gold?"
continued Christie, almost angrily.

"That's good from YOU, miss," said Dick, giving way to a fit of
hilarity. "That's good for a fash'nable young lady--own daughter
of Philip Carr. She sez, says she," continued Dick, appealing to
the sedate pines for appreciation of Christie's rare humor, "'Wot's
the use of a flume, when gold ain't there?' I must tell that to
the boys."

"And what's the use of the gold in the ground when the flume isn't
there to work it out?" said Jessie to her sister, with a cautioning
glance towards Dick.

But Dick did not notice the look that passed between the sisters.
The richer humor of Jessie's retort had thrown him into convulsions
of laughter.

"And now SHE says, wot's the use o' the gold without the flume?
'Xcuse me, ladies, but that's just puttin' the hull question that's
agitatin' this yer camp inter two speeches as clear as crystal.
There's the hull crowd outside--and some on 'em inside, like
Fairfax, hez their doubts--ez says with Miss Christie; and there's
all of us inside, ez holds Miss Jessie's views."

"I never heard Mr. Munroe say that the flume was wrong," said
Jessie quickly.

"Not to you, nat'rally," said Dick, with a confidential look at
Christie; "but I reckon he'd like some of the money it cost laid
out for suthin' else. But what's the odds? The gold is there, and
WE'RE bound to get it."

Dick was the foreman of a gang of paid workmen, who had replaced
the millionaires in mere manual labor, and the WE was a polite
figure of speech.

The conversation seemed to have taken an unfortunate turn, and both
the girls experienced a feeling of relief when they entered the
long gulch or defile that led to Indian Spring. The track now
becoming narrow, they were obliged to pass in single file along the
precipitous hillside, led by this escort. This effectually
precluded any further speech, and Christie at once surrendered
herself to the calm, obliterating influences of the forest. The
settlement and its gossip were far behind and forgotten. In the
absorption of nature, her companions passed out of her mind, even
as they sometimes passed out of her sight in the windings of the
shadowy trail. As she rode alone, the fronds of breast-high ferns
seemed to caress her with outstretched and gently-detaining hands;
strange wildflowers sprang up through the parting underbrush; even
the granite rocks that at times pressed closely upon the trail
appeared as if cushioned to her contact with star-rayed mosses, or
lightly flung after her long lassoes of delicate vines. She
recalled the absolute freedom of their al-fresco life in the old
double cabin, when she spent the greater part of her waking hours
under the mute trees in the encompassing solitude, and, half
regretting the more civilized restraints of this newer and more
ambitious abode, forgot that she had ever rebelled against it. The
social complication that threatened her now seemed to her rather
the outcome of her half-civilized parlor than of the sylvan glade.
How easy it would have been to have kept the cabin, and then to
have gone away entirely, than for her father to have allowed them
to be compromised with the growing fortunes of the settlement! The
suspicions and distrust that she had always felt of their fortunes
seemed to grow with the involuntary admission of Whiskey Dick that
they were shared by others who were practical men. She was fain to
have recourse to the prospect again to banish these thoughts, and
this opened her eyes to the fact that her companions had been
missing from the trail ahead of her for some time. She quickened
her pace slightly to reach a projecting point of rock that gave her
a more extended prospect. But they had evidently disappeared.

She was neither alarmed nor annoyed. She could easily overtake
them soon, for they would miss her, and return or wait for her at
the spring. At the worst she would have no difficulty in retracing
her steps home. In her present mood, she could readily spare their
company; indeed she was not sorry that no other being should
interrupt that sympathy with the free woods which was beginning to
possess her.

She was destined, however, to be disappointed. She had not
proceeded a hundred yards before she noticed the moving figure of a
man beyond her in the hillside chaparral above the trail. He
seemed to be going in the same direction as herself, and, as she
fancied, endeavoring to avoid her. This excited her curiosity to
the point of urging her horse forward until the trail broadened
into the level forest again, which she now remembered was a part of
the environs of Indian Spring. The stranger hesitated, pausing
once or twice with his back towards her, as if engaged in carefully
examining the dwarf willows to select a switch. Christie slightly
checked her speed as she drew nearer; when, as if obedient to a
sudden resolution, he turned and advanced towards her. She was
relieved and yet surprised to recognize the boyish face and figure
of George Kearney. He was quite pale and agitated, although
attempting, by a jaunty swinging of the switch he had just cut, to
assume the appearance of ease and confidence.

Here was an opportunity. Christie resolved to profit by it. She
did not doubt that the young fellow had already passed her sister
on the trail, but, from bashfulness, had not dared to approach her.
By inviting his confidence, she would doubtless draw something from
him that would deny or corroborate her father's opinion of his
sentiments. If he was really in love with Jessie, she would learn
what reasons he had for expecting a serious culmination of his
suit, and perhaps she might be able delicately to open his eyes to
the truth. If, as she believed, it was only a boyish fancy, she
would laugh him out of it with that camaraderie which had always
existed between them. A half motherly sympathy, albeit born quite
as much from a contemplation of his beautiful yearning eyes as from
his interesting position, lightened the smile with which she
greeted him.

"So you contrived to throw over your stupid business and join us,
after all," she said; "or was it that you changed your mind at the
last moment?" she added mischievously. "I thought only we women
were permitted that!" Indeed, she could not help noticing that
there was really a strong feminine suggestion in the shifting color
and slightly conscious eyelids of the young fellow.

"Do young girls always change their minds?" asked George, with an
embarrassed smile.

"Not, always; but sometimes they don't know their own mind--
particularly if they are very young; and when they do at last, you
clever creatures of men, who have interpreted their ignorance to
please yourselves, abuse them for being fickle." She stopped to
observe the effect of what she believed a rather clear and
significant exposition of Jessie's and George's possible situation.
But she was not prepared for the look of blank resignation that
seemed to drive the color from his face and moisten the fire of his
dark eyes.

"I reckon you're right," he said, looking down.

"Oh! we're not accusing you of fickleness," said Christie gayly;
"although you didn't come, and we were obliged to ask Mr. Hall to
join us. I suppose you found him and Jessie just now?"

But George made no reply. The color was slowly coming back to his
face, which, as she glanced covertly at him, seemed to have grown
so much older that his returning blood might have brought two or
three years with it.

"Really, Mr. Kearney," she said dryly, "one would think that some
silly, conceited girl"--she was quite earnest in her epithets, for
a sudden, angry conviction of some coquetry and disingenuousness in
Jessie had come to her in contemplating its effects upon the young
fellow at her side--"some country jilt, had been trying her rustic
hand upon you."

"She is not silly, conceited, nor countrified," said George, slowly
raising his beautiful eyes to the young girl half reproachfully.
"It is I who am all that. No, she is right, and you know it."

Much as Christie admired and valued her sister's charms, she
thought this was really going too far. What had Jessie ever done--
what was Jessie--to provoke and remain insensible to such a blind
devotion as this? And really, looking at him now, he was not so
VERY YOUNG for Jessie; whether his unfortunate passion had brought
out all his latent manliness, or whether he had hitherto kept his
serious nature in the background, certainly he was not a boy. And
certainly his was not a passion that he could be laughed out of.
It was getting very tiresome. She wished she had not met him--at
least until she had had some clearer understanding with her sister.
He was still walking beside her, with his hand on her bridle rein,
partly to lead her horse over some boulders in the trail, and
partly to conceal his first embarrassment. When they had fairly
reached the woods, he stopped.

"I am going to say good-by, Miss Carr."

"Are you not coming further? We must be near Indian Spring, now;
Mr. Hall and--and Jessie--cannot be far away. You will keep me
company until we meet them?"

"No," he replied quietly. "I only stopped you to say good-by. I
am going away."

"Not from Devil's Ford?" she asked, in half-incredulous astonishment.
"At least, not for long?"

"I am not coming back," he replied.

"But this is very abrupt," she said hurriedly, feeling that in some
ridiculous way she had precipitated an equally ridiculous
catastrophe. "Surely you are not going away in this fashion,
without saying good-by to Jessie and--and father?"

"I shall see your father, of course--and you will give my regards
to Miss Jessie."

He evidently was in earnest. Was there ever anything so perfectly
preposterous? She became indignant.

"Of course," she said coldly, "I won't detain you; your business
must be urgent, and I forgot--at least I had forgotten until to-
day--that you have other duties more important than that of squire
of dames. I am afraid this forgetfulness made me think you would
not part from us in quite such a business fashion. I presume, if
you had not met me just now, we should none of us have seen you
again?"

He did not reply.

"Will you say good-by, Miss Carr?"

He held out his hand.

"One moment, Mr. Kearney. If I have said anything which you think
justifies this very abrupt leave-taking, I beg you will forgive and
forget it--or, at least, let it have no more weight with you than
the idle words of any woman. I only spoke generally. You know--I--
I might be mistaken."

His eyes, which had dilated when she began to speak, darkened; his
color, which had quickly come, as quickly sank when she had ended.

"Don't say that, Miss Carr. It is not like you, and--it is
useless. You know what I meant a moment ago. I read it in your
reply. You meant that I, like others, had deceived myself. Did
you not?"

She could not meet those honest eyes with less than equal honesty.
She knew that Jessie did not love him--would not marry him--
whatever coquetry she might have shown.

"I did not mean to offend you," she said hesitatingly; "I only half
suspected it when I spoke."

"And you wish to spare me the avowal?" he said bitterly.

"To me, perhaps, yes, by anticipating it. I could not tell what
ideas you might have gathered from some indiscreet frankness of
Jessie--or my father," she added, with almost equal bitterness.

"I have never spoken to either," he replied quickly. He stopped,
and added, after a moment's mortifying reflection, "I've been
brought up in the woods, Miss Carr, and I suppose I have followed
my feelings, instead of the etiquette of society."

Christie was too relieved at the rehabilitation of Jessie's
truthfulness to notice the full significance of his speech.

"Good-by," he said again, holding out his hand.

"Good-by!"

She extended her own, ungloved, with a frank smile. He held it for
a moment, with his eyes fixed upon hers. Then suddenly, as if
obeying an uncontrollable impulse, he crushed it like a flower
again and again against his burning lips, and darted away.

Christie sank back in her saddle with a little cry, half of pain
and half of frightened surprise. Had the poor boy suddenly gone
mad, or was this vicarious farewell a part of the courtship of
Devil's Ford? She looked at her little hand, which had reddened
under the pressure, and suddenly felt the flush extending to her
cheeks and the roots of her hair. This was intolerable.

"Christie!"

It was her sister emerging from the wood to seek her. In another
moment she was at her side.

"We thought you were following," said Jessie. "Good heavens! how
you look! What has happened?"

"Nothing. I met Mr. Kearney a moment ago on the trail. He is
going away, and--and--" She stopped, furious and flushing.

"And," said Jessie, with a burst of merriment, "he told you at last
he loved you. Oh, Christie!"




Devil's Ford by Bret Harte
Category:
General Fiction
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