The Silent Battle

For a long while Gallatin watched the flames as they rose and fell and the column of smoke that drifted upward on the still night air and lost itself among the leaves overhead. The voices he heard no more. The fire crackled, a vagrant breeze sighed, a bird called somewhere, but he realized that he was listening for another sound. The girl had not moved since he had last spoken, and now he heard the rhythmic breathing which told him that at last she was asleep. He waited some moments more, then softly arose, took up his coat, which he had thrown over a log, and laid it gently over her shoulders. Then he crept back to his fire.

IV

EDEN

Dawn stalked solemnly forth and the heavens were rosy with light. Gallatin stirred uneasily, then raised his head stiffly, peered around and with difficulty got himself into a sitting posture. Fire still glowed in the chinks of the largest log, but the air was chill. He took out his watch and looked at it, winding it carefully. He had slept five hours, without moving.

He was now accustomed to the convention of awaking early, with all his faculties keenly alive; and he rose to his feet, rubbing the stiffness out of his limbs and back, smiling joyously up at the gracious day. In the shelter, her back toward the fire, her head hidden in her arms, the girl still slept soundly. Cautiously Gallatin replenished the fire, piling on the last of his wood. Save for a little stiffness in his back, there were, it seemed, no penalties to be imposed for his night in the open.

A shaft of sunlight shot across the topmost branches of the trees, and instantly, as though at a signal, the woods were alive with sound. There was a mad scampering in the pine boughs above him, and a squirrel leapt into the air, scurried through the branches of a maple and disappeared; two tiny wrens engaged in a noisy discussion about the family breakfast, a blue-jay screamed and a woodpecker tattoed the call to the business of the day. This, Gallatin knew, was meant for him. There was much to be done, but he fell to with a will, his muscles eager for the task, his mind cleared of the fogs of doubt and speculation which had dimmed it the night before. There were no problems he could not solve alone, no difficulties his ingenuity could not surmount. The old blood of his race, which years before had conquered this same wilderness, or another one like it, surged new in his veins and he rejoiced in the chance to test his strength against the unhandselled matter which opposed him. The forest smiled upon him, already gracious in defeat.

He returned to camp after a turn through the woods, and in one hand was a clean sliver of birch-bark, filled with blueberries. He put them safely in a hollow place in the fallen tree, filled the saucepan with water and placed it in the fire to boil. Then he cleaned fish.

He worked noiselessly, bringing more firewood, plenty of which was still close at hand; and after a glance at the sleeping girl, he unsheathed his knife and went again into the brush. There, after a search, he found what he was looking for—a straight young oak tree, about two inches in diameter. He succeeded at last, with much pains and care for his knife, in cutting it through and trimming off the small branches. At the upper end of this club was a V-shaped crotch, made by two strong forking branches, which he cut and whittled until they were to his liking. Returning to the fire, he emptied his fly-hook, took his rod and unreeled a good length of line, which he cut off and placed on the log beside him. Then with the line, he bound the fly-hook, stuffed with caribou moss, into the fork of his stick, wrapping the strong cord carefully until he had made a serviceable crutch. He was hobbling around near the fire on it, testing its utility when he heard a gasp of amazement. He had been so engrossed in his task that he had not thought of the object of these attentions, and when he glanced toward the shelter, she was sitting upright, regarding him curiously.

“What on earth are you doing?”

He laughed gayly.

“Good morning! Hobbling, I believe. Don’t I do it nicely?”

“You—you’ve hurt yourself?”

He took the crutch from under his arm and looked at it admiringly.

“Oh, no—but you have.”

“I! Oh, yes. I forgot. I don’t think I’ll need it at all. I—” She started up and tried to put her foot down and then sank back in dismay. “It seems to still hurt me a little,” she said quietly.

“Of course it does. You don’t get over that sort of thing in a minute. It will be better when the blood gets into it. Meanwhile,” he handed her the stick, “you must use this. Breakfast will be ready in a minute, so if you feel like making a toilet–”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she glanced around her at the patines of gold the sun had laid over the floor of their breakfast-room and asked the time.

“Half past seven.”

“Then I’ve slept–”

“Nearly nine hours.”

He started forward to help her to her feet and as he did so, she saw his coat, which had fallen from her shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have given me your coat. You must have frozen.”

“On the contrary, I was quite comfortable. The night was balmy—besides, I was nearer the fire.”

“I’m very much obliged,” she said. After one or two clumsy efforts she managed to master her crutch and, refusing his aid, made her way to the stream without difficulty.

Gallatin spitted the fish on the charred sticks of yesterday and held them up to the fire, his appetite pleasantly assertive at the first delicious odor. When the girl joined him a while later, all was ready, the last of the tea darkening the simmering pot, the cooked fish lying in a row on a flat stone in the fire.

As she hobbled up he rose and offered her a place on the log beside him.

“I hope you’re hungry. I am. Our menu is small but most select—blueberries Ojibway, trout sauté, and Bohea en casserole. The biscuits, I’m ashamed to say, are no more.”

She reflected his manner admirably. “Splendid! I fairly dote on blueberries. Where did you get them? You’re really a very wonderful person. For luncheon, of course, cress and dandelion salad, fish and a venison pasty. For dinner–”

“Don’t be too sure,” he laughed. “Let’s eat what we’ve got and be thankful.”

“I am thankful,” she said, picking at the blueberries. “I might have been still lying over there in the leaves.” She turned her face confidingly to his. “Do you know, I thought you were a bear.”

“Did you?”

“Until you pointed a pistol at me—and then I thought you were an Indian.”

“I’m very sorry. I didn’t know what you were—I don’t think I quite know yet.”

She took the cup of tea from his fingers before she replied.

“I? Oh, I’m just—just a girl. It doesn’t matter much who or what.”

“I didn’t mean to be inquisitive,” he said quickly.

“But you were—” she insisted.

“Yes,” he admitted, “I’m afraid I was.”

“Names don’t matter—here, do they? The woods are impersonal. Can’t you and I be impersonal, too?”

“I suppose so, but my curiosity is rather natural—under the circumstances.”

“I don’t intend to gratify it.”

“Why not? My name–”

“Because—I prefer not,” she said firmly. And then: “These fish are delicious. Some more tea, please!”

He looked at her while she drank and then took the cup from her hand without replying. Her chin he discovered could fall very quickly into lines of determination. Her attitude amused him. She was, it seemed, a person in the habit of having things her own way and it even flattered him that she had discerned that he must acquiesce.

“You shall have your own way,” he laughed amusedly, “but if I call you ‘Hey, there,’ don’t be surprised.”

“I won’t,” she smiled.

When they had finished the last of the tea he got up, washed the two dishes at the stream, and relit the ashes of last night’s pipe.

“The Committee of Ways and Means will now go into executive session,” he began. “I haven’t the least idea where we are. I may have traveled ten miles yesterday or twenty. I’ve lost my bearings, that’s sure, and so have you. There are two things to do—one of them is to find our way out by ourselves and the other is to let somebody find it for us. The first plan isn’t feasible until you are able to walk–”

“I could manage with my crutch.”

“No, I’m afraid that won’t do. There’s no use starting off until we know where we’re going.”

“But you said you thought you could–”

“I still think so,” he put in quickly, noting the sudden anxious query in her eyes. “I’ll find my back-trail, but it may take time. Meanwhile you’ve got to eat, and keep dry.”

“It isn’t going to rain.”

“Not now, but it may any time. I’ll get you comfortable here and then I’ll take to the woods–”

“And leave me alone?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to. We have four fish remaining—little ones. Judging by my appetite they’re not quite enough for lunch—and we must have more for supper.”

“I’ll catch them.”

“No, you must rest to-day. I have my automatic, too,” he went on. “I’m not a bad shot. Perhaps, I may bring some meat.”

“But I can’t stay here and—do nothing.”

“You can help fix the shack. I’ll get the birch now.”

He was moving off into the brush when she called him back.

“I hope you didn’t think me discourteous awhile ago. I really didn’t mean to be. You—you’ve been very good. I don’t think I realized that we might have to be here long. You understand—under the circumstances, I thought I’d rather not—have you know anything about me. It doesn’t matter, really, I suppose.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” politely, and he went into the underbrush, leaving her sitting at the fire. When he came back with his first armful of canoe birches, she was still sitting there; but he went on gathering birch and firewood, whistling cheerfully the while. She watched him for a moment and then silently got up with the aid of her crutch and reached for her rod and creel. She had hobbled past him before he realized her intention.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” he protested.

“I must do my share–”

“You’d do it better by saving your foot.”

“I won’t hurt my foot. I can use it a little now.”

“If you slipped, things might go badly with you.”

“I won’t fall. I’m going down stream to get the fish for lunch.”

She adjusted her crutch and moved on. Her voice was even gay, but there was no denying the quality of her resolution. He shrugged his shoulders lightly and watched her until she had disappeared in the bushes, and when he had finished his tasks, he took up rod and creel and followed the stream in the opposite direction.

Of course, she had every right to keep her identity a secret, if she chose, but it annoyed him a little to think that he had laid himself open even to so slight a rebuff. Morning seemed to have made a difference in the relations, a difference he was as yet at some pains to define. Last night he had been merely a chance protector, upon whose hospitality she had been forced against her will and he had done only what common humanity demanded of him. The belief that her predicament was only temporary, had for the time given her the assurance the situation required; but with the morning, which had failed to bring aid she had expected from her people, her obligations to him were increasing with the hours. If, as he had indicated, it might be several days or even more before she could find her way to camp, she must indeed expect to find herself completely upon his mercies. Gallatin smiled as he cast his line. With its other compensations daylight had not brought him or his companion the pleasure of an introduction! Silly little fool! Of what value were introductions in the heart of the ancient wood—or elsewhere for that matter! No mere spoken words could purge his heart—or any man’s! Vain conventions! The hoary earth was mocking at them.

A swirl in the brown pool below him, a flash of light! Gallatin swore softly. Two pounds and a half at least! And he had lost him!

This wouldn’t do. He was fishing for his dinner now—their dinner. He couldn’t afford to make many more mistakes like that—not with another mouth to fill. Why should he care who or what she was! The Gallatins had never been of a curious disposition and he wondered that he should care anything about the identity of this chance female thrown upon his protection. She was not in any way unusual. He was quite sure that any morning in New York he would have passed a hundred like her on the street without a second glance. She had come with the falling evening, wrapped in mystery and had shaken his rather somber philosophy out of its bearings. Night had not diminished the illusion; and once, when the spell of the woods had held them for a moment in its thrall, he had been on the point of taking her in his arms. Did she know how near she had been to that jeopardy? He fancied so. That was why things were different to-day. It was the sanity of nine o’clock in the morning, when there was no firelight to throw shadows among the trees and the voyageurs no longer sang among the rapids. In an unguarded moment she had shown him a shadowed corner of her spirit and was now resenting it. A woman’s chief business in life, he realized, was the hiding of her own frailties, the sources of impulse and the repression of unusual emotions. She had violated these canons of her sex and justly feared that he might misinterpret her. What could she know of him, what expect—of a casual stranger into whose arms her helpless plight had literally thrown her? He was forced to admit, at the last, that to a modest woman the situation was trying.

He fished moodily, impatiently and unsuccessfully, losing another fish in the pool above. Things were getting serious. His mind now intent, he cast again farther up, dropping the fly skillfully just above a tiny rapid. There he was rewarded; for a fish struck viciously, not so large a one as the first, but large enough for one meal for his companion at least. His spirits rose. He was at peace again with the world, in the elysium of the true fisher who has landed the first fish of the day.

A moment ago he had thought her commonplace. He admitted now that he had been mistaken. A moment ago he had been trying to localize her by the token of some treacherous trick of speech or intonation and had almost been ready to assign her to that limbo of all superior indigenous New Yorkers—“the West”; now he was even willing to admit that she was to all intents and purposes a cosmopolitan. The sanity of nine o’clock in the morning had done away with all myth and moonshine, but daylight had, it seemed, taken nothing from her elfin comeliness. Her hair had at last decided to be brown, her eyes a dark blue, her figure slim, her limbs well proportioned, her motions graceful. Altogether she had detracted nothing from the purely ornamental character of the landscape.

These few unimportant facts clearly established, Gallatin gave himself up more carefully to the business in hand, and by the time he reached the head of the gorge, had caught an even dozen. If fish were to serve them for diet, they would not go hungry on this day at least. As he went higher up into the hills he kept his eyes open for the landmarks of yesterday. He remembered the two big rocks in the gorge, and it surprised him that they were no nearer to his camp. The task of finding his back trail to Joe Keegón would be more difficult than he had supposed, and he knew now that the point where he had first fished this stream was many miles above. But he saw no reason to be unduly alarmed. He had served his apprenticeship; and with an axe and a frying pan, a kettle, some flour, tea, and a tin cup or two, his position would have had no terrors.

Beyond the gorge he had a shot at a deer and the echoes derided him, for he missed it. He shot again at smaller things and had the luck to bring down two squirrels; then realizing that his cartridges were precious, made his way back to camp.

The girl was already at the fire, her crutch beside her against the fallen log.

“I thought you were never coming.” She smiled. “I heard your shooting and it frightened me.”

Gallatin held the squirrels out for her inspection.

“There!” he said.

“Poor little things, what a pity! They were all so happy up there this morning.”

“I’m afraid it can’t be helped. We must eat, you know. Did you have any luck?”

She opened her creel and showed him.

Again she had caught more than he.

He laughed delightedly. “From this moment you are appointed Fish-wife Extraordinary. I fish no more. When my cartridges are used I’ll have nothing to do but sit by the fire.”

“Did you find your trail?” she asked anxiously.

“I followed it for a mile or so. I’m afraid I’ll have to start early to-morrow. I want to see you comfortable first.”

His manner was practical, but she did not fail to catch the note of uncertainty in his voice. She bent her gaze on the ground, and spoke slowly.

“You’re very kind to try to keep me in ignorance, but I think I understand now. We will be here a long time.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I don’t think that,” cheerfully. “If I were more experienced, I would promise to find my own guide to-morrow. I’m going to do the best I can. I won’t come back here until I have to acknowledge myself beaten. Meanwhile, many things may happen. Your people will surely–”

“We are lost, both of us—hopelessly,” she persisted. “The fish strike here as though these streams had never been fished before. My people will find me, if they can; if they can’t—I—I—must make the best of my position.”

She spoke bravely, but there was a catch in her voice that he had heard before.

“I’ll do the best I can. I want you to believe that. Three or four days at the most and I’m sure I can promise you–”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t promise,” she said. “We’ll get out someway, of course, and if it wasn’t for this provoking foot–”

“Isn’t it better?”

“Oh, yes—better. But, of course, I can’t bear my weight on it. It’s so tiresome.”

She seemed on the point of tears, and while he was trying to think of something to say to console her, she reached for her crutch and bravely rose.

“I’m not going to cry. I abominate whining women. Give me something to do, and I won’t trouble you with tears.”

“You’re plucky, that’s certain,” he said admiringly. “The lunch must be cooked. We’ll save the squirrels for supper. I’m going to work on your house. I’m afraid there’s no tea—no real tea, but we might try arbor-vitæ. They say its palatable.”

She insisted on cleaning the fish and preparing the meal while he sat beside her and began sewing two rolls of thick birch-bark together with white spruce-roots. Between whiles she watched him with interest.

“I never heard of sewing a roof before,” she said with a smile.

“It’s either sewing the roof or reaping the whirlwind,” he laughed. “It may not rain before we get out of here, but I think it’s best not to take any chances. The woods are not friendly when they’re wet. Besides, I’d rather not have any doctor’s bills.”

“That’s not likely here,” she laughed. “And the lunch is ready,” she announced.

All that afternoon he worked upon her shelter and by sunset it was weather-tight. On three sides and top it was covered with birches, and over the opening toward the fire was a projecting eave which could be lowered over one side as a protection from the wind. When he had finished it he stood at one side and examined his handiwork with an approving eye.

She had already thanked him many times.

“Of course, I don’t know how to show my gratitude,” she said again.

“Then don’t try.”

“But you can’t sleep out again.”

“Oh, yes, I can. I’m going to anyway.”

“You mustn’t.”

He glanced up at her quizzically.

“Why not?”

“I want to take my share.”

“I’m afraid you can’t. That house is yours. You’re going to sleep there. I’m afraid you’ll have to obey orders,” he finished. “You see, I’m bigger than you are.”

Her eyes measured his long limbs and her lips curved in a crooked little smile.

“I don’t like to obey orders.”

“I’m afraid you must.”

“You haven’t any right to make yourself uncomfortable.”

“Oh, yes, I have,” he said. “Might is right—in the woods.”

Something in the way he spoke caused her to examine his face minutely, but his eyes were laughing at her.

“Oh!” she said meekly.

V

WOMAN AND MAN

There were no voices in the woods that night, or if there were any the girl in the lean-to did not hear them. The sun had already found its way past the protecting flap of her shack before she awoke. The first thing she discovered was that at some time during the night he had put his coat over her again. She held it for a moment in her fingers thinking, before she rose; then got up quickly and peered out. The morning was chill, but the fire showed signs of recent attention and on the saucepan which had been placed near the fire a piece of birch-bark was lying. She picked it up curiously to read a hastily pencilled scrawl:

“I’m off up country. I must go far, so don’t be frightened if I’m not back for supper. Be careful with your foot—and keep the fire going. There are fish and firewood enough to last. Nothing can harm you. With luck I’ll bring my guide and duffel-bag.”

She glanced quickly over her shoulder into the depths of the pine-woods in the direction he must have taken as though she hoped to see him walking there; then, the birch-bark still in her hands, sat down on the log, read the message over again, smiling. She had begun to understand this tall young man, with the grim, unshaven face and somber, peering eyes. Those eyes had frightened her at first; and even now the memory of them haunted her until she recalled just what they did when he smiled, and then remembered that she was not to be frightened any more.

He had been gone for several hours. She knew this by the condition of the fire, but wondered why he had not spoken more definitely about his plans the night before. Possibly he had been afraid that she would not have slept. She had slept, soundly, dreamlessly, and she found herself wondering how she could have done so. The last thing she could recall was looking out through sleepy eyes at his profile as he sat motionless by the fire staring into the shadows. She knew then that fear of him had passed and that had she slept under a city roof she could not have been more contented to sleep securely.

He would be gone all day, of course, and she must depend upon her own exertions. First she filled the little saucepan with water and put it between the two flat stones that served for its hearth, and then took from the creel two fish that he had cleaned the night before. Half way to the fire she paused, her crutch in mid-air, balancing herself safely without its aid. She peered to right and left among the branches and then put the fish back into the creel in quick decision.

A bath! She had been longing for it for two days! Her resolution made, she took up her crutch and hobbled down the stream, turning her head back over her shoulder in the direction of the camp as if she still feared she might have misread the birch-bark message. Warm with expectancy and the delight of the venture, she found a sheltered pool beneath the dense foliage and bathed her lithe young body in the icy water. Gasping for breath she splashed across the sandy pool and back again with half uttered cries of delight; and the Naiads and Oreads flitted fearfully among the trees whispering and peering cautiously at the slim white creature which had intruded so fearlessly upon their secret preserves. The water was cold! Oh, so cold! With one last plunge which set her teeth chattering, the bather clambered up the bank into the sunlight chilled to the bone, but glowing suddenly with the swift rush of new blood along her rosy limbs. Upright upon the bank she moved vigorously back and forth, and releasing her hair, let it clothe and warm her, while she stood drying, her face toward the sun. Apollo looked with favor on this Clytië and sent his warmest rays that she might not have gazed at him in vain.

A miracle had happened to her ankle, too, for she moved quite without pain. Dressing and making her way back to the fire, using her crutch only as a staff, she gathered cedar by the way, for her morning tea. Her mentor had made some of it for her the night before and her lips twisted at the thought of drinking it again; but the essence of the woods, their balsam, their fragrance, their elixir had permeated her and even this bitter physic seemed palatable now. She remembered his couplet last night: