The Silent Battle. Gibbs George

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ not to-night. I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with what I can offer you.”

      “Of course—and I’m very grateful—but I’m sorry to be such a burden to you.”

      “Oh, that’s nonsense.” He turned away abruptly and made his way up the bank. “I’m right here in the trees and I can hear you. So if I can help you I want you to call.”

      “Thank you,” she said quietly, “I will.”

      II

      BABES IN THE WOODS

      Gallatin’s responsibilities to his Creator had been multiplied by two.

      Less than an hour ago he had dropped his rod and creel more than half convinced that it didn’t matter to him or to anybody else whether he got back to Joe Keegón or not. Now, he suddenly found himself hustling busily in the underbrush, newly alive to the exigencies of the occasion, surprised even at the fact that he could take so extraordinary an interest in the mere building of a fire. Back and forth from the glade to the deep woods he hurried, bringing dry leaves, twigs, and timber. These he piled against a fallen tree in the lee of the spot he had chosen for his shelter and in a moment a fire was going. Many things bothered him. He had no axe and the blade of his hasp-knife was hardly suited to the task he found before him. If his hands were not so tender as they had been a month ago, and if into his faculties a glimmering of woodcraft had found its way, the fact remained that this blade, his Colt, fishing-rod and his wits (such as they were), were all that he possessed in the uneven match against the forces of Nature. Something of the calm ruthlessness of the mighty wilderness came to him at this moment. The immutable trees rose before him as symbols of a merciless creed which all the forces around him uttered with the terrible eloquence of silence. He was an intruder from an alien land, of no importance in the changeless scheme of things—less important than the squirrel which peeped at him slyly from the branch above his head or the chickadee which piped flutelike in the thicket. The playfellow of his strange summer had become his enemy, only jocular and ironical as yet, but still an enemy, with which he must do battle with what weapons he could find.

      It was the first time in his life that he had been placed in a position of complete dependence upon his own efforts—the first time another had been dependent on him. He and Joe had traveled light; for this, he had learned, was the way to play the game fairly. Nevertheless, he had a guilty feeling that until the present moment he had modified his city methods only so far as was necessary to suit the conditions the man of the wilderness had imposed upon him and that Joe, after all, had done the work. He realized now that he was fronting primeval forces with a naked soul—as naked and almost as helpless as on the day when he had been born. It seemed that the capital of his manhood was now for the first time to be drawn upon in a hazardous venture, the outcome of which was to depend upon his own ingenuity and resourcefulness alone.

      And yet the fire was sparkling merrily.

      He eyed the blade in his hand as he finished making two roof supports and sighed for Joe Keegón’s little axe. His hands were red and blistered already and the lean-to only begun. There were still the boughs and birch-bark for a roof and the cedar twigs for a bed to be cut. He worked steadily, but it was an hour before he found time to go down to the stream to see how his fugitive fared. She was still sitting as he had left her, on the bank of the stream, gazing into the depths of the pool.

      “How are you getting on?” he asked.

      “I—I’m all right,” she murmured.

      “Is the ankle any better? I think I’d better be getting you up to the fire now. Perhaps, you’d be willing to cook the fish while I hustle for twigs.”

      “Of—of course.”

      He noticed the catch in her voice, and when he came near her discovered that she was trembling from head to foot.

      “Are you suffering still?” he questioned anxiously.

      “N-no, not so much. But I—I’m very cold.”

      “That’s too bad. We’ll have you all right in a minute. Put your arms around my neck. So.” And bending over, with care for her injured foot, he lifted her again in his arms and carried her up the hill. This time she yielded without a word, nor did she speak until he had put her down on his coat before the fire.

      “I don’t know how—to thank you—” she began.

      “Then don’t. Put your foot out toward the blaze and rub it again. You’re not so cold now, are you?”

      “No—no. I think it’s just n-nervousness that makes me shiver,” she sighed softly. “I never knew what a fire meant before. It’s awfully good—the w-warmth of it.”

      He watched her curiously. The fire was bringing a warm tint to her cheeks and scarlet was making more decisive the lines of her well-modeled lips. It did not take Gallatin long to decide that it was very agreeable to look at her. As he paused, she glanced up at him and caught the end of his gaze, which was more intense in its directness than he had meant it to be, and bent her head quickly toward the fire, her lips drawn more firmly together—a second acknowledgment of her sense of the situation, a manifestation of her convincing femininity which confirmed a previous impression.

      There was quick refuge in the practical.

      “I’m going to clean the fish,” he said carelessly, and turned away.

      “I’d like to help, if I could,” she murmured.

      “You’d better nurse your ankle for a while,” he said.

      “It’s much better now,” she put in. “I can move it without much pain.” She thrust her stockinged foot farther toward the blaze and worked the toes slowly up and down, but as she did so she flinched again. “I’m not of much use, am I?” she asked ruefully. “But while you’re doing other things, I might prepare the fish.”

      “Oh, no. I’ll do that. Let’s see. We need some sticks to spit them on.”

      “Let me make them;” she put her hand into the pocket of her dress and drew forth a knife. “You see I can help.”

      “Great!” he cried delightedly. “You haven’t got a teapot, a frying-pan, some cups and forks and spoons hidden anywhere have you?”

      She looked up at him and laughed for the first time, a fine generous laugh which established at once a new relationship between them.

      “No—I haven’t—but I’ve a saucepan.”

      “Where?” in amazement.

      “Tied to my creel—over there,” and she pointed, “and a small package of tea and some biscuits. I take my own lunch when I fish. I didn’t eat any to-day.”

      “Wonderful! A saucepan! I was wondering how—tied to your creel, you say?” and he started off rapidly in the direction of the spot where he had found her.

      “And please b-bring my rod—and—and my shoe,” she cried.

      He nodded and was off through the brush, finding the place without difficulty. It was a very tiny saucepan, which would hold at the most two cupfuls of liquid, but it would serve. He hurried back eagerly, anxious to complete his arrangements for the meal, and found her propped up against the back log, his creel beside her, industriously preparing the fish.

      “How СКАЧАТЬ