Book: The Freebooters of the Wilderness

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"Why didn't you go round the upper end?"

"Ice," answered Wayland.

"Too deep for poling in the middle?" asked Matthews.

"That's why I'm going to creep along shore."

"It'ull keep y' in the shadows."

With a prod of his pole, Wayland shoved off, and the frontiersman
lengthened out the leading lines for the horses. The Ranger smiled
whimsically to find the reverse side of Holy Cross peak, up-side down in
the water, and he set to figuring out what sort of triangular lines
thought-waves must follow to connect his thought of that peak etched in
the bottom of the lake with her thought on the other side of a peak up in
the sky.

"Steady, man! Slow up! There's a fallen tree with its rump stuck
ashore! A' don't want to warp ye in by snaggin' round; an' that mule
brute is thinkin' o' sittin' down."

The bronchos had plunged to the cold dip with deep grunts, but the mule
braced his legs and brayed at the morning. The frontiersman said things
between set teeth that might have been objurgations to the soul of Satan
or the race of mules. Wayland shoved on the pole. The mule pulled. The
logs of the raft began to creak. "Look out, sir, we're splitting! Let
that doggon brute go--"

And the raft swerved out, the horses swimming, the freed mule plunging
along the wooded shore, Wayland thrusting his long pole deep, almost to
his hand-grip, to find bottom.

"There's a nasty under current from the upper river," he said.

"Let her go, there--! let her go t' th' current--tack her an' the current
wull swerve ye int' the other side! More men lose their lives by poling
too hard than lettin' go! Catch the current and let her go."

The old man had twisted the halter ropes under his feet. He seized a
pole and swerved the raft to the current, pointing in to the other side.
They could hear the roar of the wild mountain stream pouring a maelstrom
down from the glare ice and snow of the upper meadows. The next plunge
of the pole missed bottom. There was a yielding creak of logs. The raft
poised, and spun round.

"Let her go, man! We'll wriggle her in below!"

"Then loose your halter ropes, they're pulling us round."

They tossed the ropes free. Wayland waved his pole to head the bronchos
across. They heard the mule squealing at the head of the lake.

"She can't sink--wriggle her round, Wayland!"

The raft spun twice to the under-pull, took an inch or two of water, and
swirled into the quiet shadows of the far shore.

"Minds me of that story of Napoleon! Do you carry bridges in y'r
pockets, too, Wayland?" asked the old man, as the Ranger gave a long prod
that sent the raft grating ashore.

"What story?" asked Wayland.

"Oh, Boney came to a river too deep for swimming cavalry. General
ordered engineer fellow to get 'em across! Man began to draw maps. When
he came to Napoleon with his blue print plans, he found a common soldier
fellow had pontooned 'em all across!"

"Did the big fellow get a leg up on his job; or did the soldier fellow
get the bounce for going outside regulations?"

"That is possible, too." The old man was handing off the saddles and
camp kit.

"If you'll wait here, sir, I'll go along for the horses! I don't know
the trails along on this side! It's outside the N. F!"


There was no moonlight to guide him; but there was the wall of blue sky
where the mountains opened; and he followed up the lake shore with a
sense of feel more than sight for one of those little indurated game
tracks that would lead back over the stones to the trail that the outlaws
had seemed to follow. If you think it an easy thing to walk over a pile
of moraine by the obscure light preceding dawn--try it! The great
moraines flank the mountains in petrified billows stranded on the shores
of time from the ice ages, in stones from the size of a spool to a house.
Step on the small stones; and they roll, bringing down the whole bank in
a miniature slide under your feet! Pick your way over the sharp edges of
the big rocks; and the glazed moisture is slippery as ice; but he, whose
foot hold fumbles, has no business in the mountain world; and the Ranger
swung from crest to crest of the pointed rocks, safely shrouded in the
lake mist, guided solely by the blank glare of sky between the mountain
walls.

He could hear the tinkle of waters down the ledges on his right; and the
little flutter of wind riffling through the Pass sucking up the mists
forewarned dawn. He had climbed the roll of stone slowly, picking each
step, for, perhaps, two-hundred feet, when that trail sense of _feel_
made him stoop to examine the ground. The roll of moraine he had climbed
met another stone billow; and between the two ran a groove, a little
narrow hardened tracing where the tracks of game going to and from
watering place had packed and worked in between the rolling pebbles the
ice dust of a million years.

This, then, was the trail that the outlaws must have followed away from
the lake. He stooped to examine closer. There were horse tracks. Had
his own horses stumbled up from the lake along this trail? It would lead
back to the camp fire of the night before. Better reconnoitre while
there was still the hiding of the mist.

He looked back. The lake was obliterated by the mist curling up; but
above he could see the black rocks of the precipice trail as if the Pass
behind had closed its doors against retreat; and was it imagination, or
did he see, an eagle soaring, strong-winged, majestically out from the
rocks in curves of insolent power? Memory of the nauseating horror came
over him in a physical wave; and curiously enough, he kept hearing the
soft voice of the Senator's scoffing question: "Who of the public gives
one damn?" It was easier sitting smug inside the firing line. He knew
men in the Service who would call him a fool for going out on this
present quest; and he knew others whose jealousy would say it was all
done for self-advertising; and he knew also that he might be dismissed
for going out beyond the letter in order to fulfil the spirit of the law;
but preceding the horror of the precipice trail, was that other memory of
the dead boy lying at the foot of the Rim Rocks beside the writhing mass
of mutilated sheep.

The Ranger followed along the game trail. Who was it had said that the
only difference between charcoal and diamond was that one was soft and
the other hard? Was that what ailed the Nation? Had the fine edge of
citizenship dulled? Was the Nation losing the fine edge of distinction
between right and wrong?

Another little flutter of wind set the restless mists boiling.

"Strange it is hot so early," thought Wayland. Fir trees stood out from
the shifting gray haze. Among them, did he see shadows moving? They
might be deer coming down to water. Involuntarily, he stepped behind
some alder brush off the trail. Another flutter of wind thinning the
turbid mist. There was a whiff of camp smoke. Through the mist, he
could make out figures not a hundred yards away--five horses ready for
travel, four men clumsily lifting a fellow in cow-boy slicker into his
saddle. The man fell forward over the pummel. The group seemed
undecided what to do. Then, picked out--distinct--deliberate--coming
over the stones from the lake side--leisurely, lazily, careful, soft
footsteps with rests between--The Ranger would not have been surprised to
see the missing outlaw limp from the mist--Then, the head of his own
errant mule bobbed forward, and another roll of mist came up from the
lake. Wayland caught the trailing halter, headed the amazed little
animal back down the goat track with an urgent kick and sprang after it
to a clatter of rolling stones. When the clamor sank, he heard the pound
of hoofs as the outlaws galloped in the other direction. Five paces
farther, he found both the bronchos nosing consolingly round the mule.
Wayland emitted a deep breath of relief. If he had waited five minutes
longer at the raft, they would have had his horses. It was all in the
difference between being on the wrong and the right side of five minutes.

"Y' don't need t' tell me we're goin' South an' down--We might be goin'
to the bottomless pit. The wind's like a furnace."

"Off the Desert," explained the Ranger.

The sun had risen high above the peaks. The mists had receded to belts
and wisps of cloud against the forests. Waters tumbling wind-blown from
the ledges were swelling to a chorus. Little cross bills and jays that
had come round the breakfast camp still followed the pack train.

"As this is off y'r National Forests, A suppose y' couldn't have jumped
into the bunch an' arrested every man-jack of 'em?"

"Not without being a target for five shots while they would have been
targets for only one."

"We'd have strung 'em up in the good old days, an' sent for the sheriff
to clean up the remnants."

They had left the goat track and dipped down a shaggy green hollow
between mountains that seemed to slope to lakes of pure light above a
blue open plain.

"Any citizen can arrest a law breaker whereever found. Our badge is
supposed to increase that privilege; but the crime was committed just a
stone's throw _off_ the grazing ground in the National Forests. We'd
have to turn our prisoners over to Sheriff Flood. How long do you think
he'd keep 'em in custody? They'd escape while he was having an attack of
'look-the-other-way--'"

"Your idea to run 'em aground in their own State?"

"Not necessary to go so far. Run them across _this_ State line--then
catch them off guard in some of these canyons or arroyos. Turn them over
to a sheriff who doesn't owe his bread and butter to Moyese. He'll have
to hold them till Williams and MacDonald come down to testify. By that
time, I fancy we'll hear from people who have been losing stock all the
way up from Arizona. Moyese will be keeping mighty quiet."

"Meanwhile, Mr. White-vest, who planned all this deviltry--he goes free!
These are only the poor rowdy tools for--"

"For the Man Higher Up," finished Wayland.

"Wayland, who is this white-vested anarchist, this vested-righter who
subverts your laws?"

"His name is Legion, sir! That's what's the matter! These hide-bound
vested righters are only vested righters when the rights don't happen to
belong to some other man." The Ranger related the incidents of the visit
to the Ridge.

The old man rode along in silence.

"And from what you say," finished Wayland, "he evidently didn't mean any
harm to come to the boy; but that is always the way with this cursed
system. You're law breaking law-makers, your divine-right-king-crooks
out here--don't _plan_ crime. They only plan to have their own way.
It's like a man breaking down a dam to get a little water. When the
floods burst through the break, he thinks it isn't his fault."

"That's what some of our Scotch kings thought; we took their heads off
just the same."

"Well, if we can get our people wakened up, we'll take a few heads off,
too, at election time." He touched his pony to a brisk trot across the
meadow, following the mule as it dodged in and out among the larches, up
over a saddle back and down again thwarting a long bare hollow.


Wayland saw the light come sifting in gold dust. Somehow, the warmth of
it swept round him in a consciousness of that night on the Ridge. It was
like the snow flakes she talked about, sculpturing the rocks, shaping
destiny. Would the day ever come when they two could ride forth
adventuring happiness together? The hammer of a woodpecker, the resinous
tang of the gold-dust air, the shaking of the evergreen needles like
gypsy tambourines--filled him with an absurd sense of the joy of life;
and he could never drink the joy of these things without thinking of her;
for the consciousness of her presence, of the warm glow of her love,
enveloped all now, permeated his being, a life inside his life, blended
of his own.

"A don't like the way that mule o' yours keeps lookin' ahead with both
ears, Wayland! It's all-fired quiet here, for noon-hour when the streams
should be shouting. There is something mighty queer and still in this
air. Yon saucy woodpecker has quit drillin'! Hold back a bit! A'm
goin' ahead! A've known these mountains longer than you have," and
curving through the brushwood, the old frontiersman came out ahead of the
pack leader.

The little mule had undoubtedly followed a kind of trail. Though the
grasses were saddle-high, punky logs showed the fresh rip of shod horses.
Little mossy streams betrayed roiled water and stones over-turned. Then,
the path emerged from the trees so abruptly you could have drawn a line
along the edge of the timber, out to a great hollowed slope, wind-blown,
bare of rocks, clear of trees as if levelled by a giant trowel; hushed,
preternaturally hushed, the Ranger thought as he came up abreast and
glanced to the top of the long slope where the snows glistened over the
edge of the rocks heavy and white.

"This is what we heard last night! See, Wayland, the snow up there has
been breakin'! It sags! Got its fore feet forward for a race down one
of these days!"

Both men became aware of something portentous and heavy in the silence:
it was mid-day; but there was no noon-time shout of disimprisoned waters.
Not a crossbill, not a jay, neither eagle nor hawk, showed against the
azure fields of sky and snow. A little riffle as of waiting fluttered
through the grasses and leaves. Wayland was looking with dumb amazement
at the great field of laurel in bloom across the slope; three or four
miles of it, leaves of green wax in the sun, flowers passion pale,
motionless, waiting; what was it he missed? The insect life; there were
neither butterflies nor bees rifling the fields of honey bloom; the
flowers, acres and acres of them, stood passion pale, motionless
waiting--waiting what? Then, there was a singing in his ears, a weird
strange undertone to the hush of the forest behind them. His breath came
heavy. The old man was speaking in a muffled voice.

"See, boy, there are three men on the other side! They are signalling."

Wayland came alive out of his strange trance.

"It isn't to us they are signalling. Move back quick, out of sight, sir;
see! there's a man half way across, the fellow in the yellow slicker!
There's some one on foot holding him in his saddle! What ever are they
waving so frantically for?"

Involuntarily, both men had wheeled the ponies back in the screen of
trees, when the old man cried out: "What in blazes ails your mule?"

The little animal had jumped sideways.

"Get back, quick! for God's sake, Wayland! A know the signs from the
Canadian Rockies. It isn't _us_ they are signalling. It's the snow;
it's coming, Wayland!"

The words were smothered by a tremor grinding through the hollow hush.
There was a split, a splintering, a dull boom of titanic weight falling,
miles away. They saw the puff of snow dust fly up in a toss of mist over
the face of the distant upper crags. Then, a grinding tore the earth;
something white glistening viscous crumpled--coiled with untellable
furious speed, shaggy and formless, out from the upper peaks--coiled and
writhed out like a giant python in titanic torture. For an instant, for
less than the fraction of an instant, it poised and coiled and looped as
a great white snake in and out among the far upper meadows: then ruptured
free with ear splitting wrench. The air was ripped to tatters. The
forest, the rock wall, the foundations of the universe gave way; the huge
hemlocks were tossing and bending like feathers; the upper forests
toppled and spilled like an inverted matchbox. Then the whole world,
earth, air, rocks, forest, shot down in a blinding rush, in a viscous
torrent of titanic fury. The surface of the mountain crumpled up and
peeled in a sliding mass.


Wayland came to himself hurled back a hundred feet knocked flat by an
invisible blow. The old frontiersman lay clinging to a prone trunk
spitting blood and gasping for air. The animals were scrambling to their
feet saddles twisted, bridles broken.

"'Twas the concussion of the air! A'm not hurt, not a feather o' my head
hurt! A've seen it before in the Rockies! Look back," he panted.

When the Ranger turned, the clouds of dust were settling, though the
earth still rocked. A hundred feet of snow lay across the trail in a
wall. Huge trees had been torn from the roots, sucked in, twisted and
torted like straws.

"Look," reiterated the old frontiersman.

Against the rock trail on the other side of the snow slide, three men
stood waving frantically. From the time the falling cornice of snow had
tossed up in a puff of smoke ten miles away to the fell stroke of the
titanic leveller of the ages--not ten seconds had passed. It would have
been an even bet that the men on the other side had been caught in the
middle of their sentences, in the middle of their signalling. As for the
injured man and his companion--Wayland looked down the mountain slope.
The snow slide had shot to the bottom and gone quarter way up the other
side.

"'Twill be safer now to cross to the other side! We can go up above the
snow slide and cross by the bare rocks!"

But Wayland was unheeding. What was it about snow flakes massing to a
momentum that bevelled the granite and rolled away the rocks for the
resurrection to a new life? Would it be so some day with the Nation?
Would the quiet workers, the pure thinkers, the faithful citizens mass
some day to sweep away the lawlessness, the outrage, the crime, the
treachery, the trickery, the shame, the sham of self-government's
failures; to roll away the stone for the resurrection to a new Democracy?
'High brows,' 'dreamers,' 'ghost walkers,' 'barkers,' 'biters,'
'muck-rakers!' Oh, he knew the choice names that lawless greed cast at
such as he; but a greater than he had said something about the meek and
the inheritance of the earth; and there lay the work of the snow flake
across the trail.

"I suppose," he remarked absently, "it's our duty to go down and dig
those dead duffers out."

"Nothing o' the kind. They'll keep cold storage till the crack o' doom,
and after that 'tis an ice pack they'll need. The snow's too clean a
grave for the likes o' them! The Lord has hewn out a path through the
sea! Sound the loud timbrel and on!"




CHAPTER XV

THE DESERT

Four days had passed since they stood on the edge of the snow slide and
gazed across at three outlaws on the far side under the crag waving
frantically where their belated comrades had been buried under the
avalanche. When the outlaw drovers had turned and galloped into the
blue slashed gully of the opposite mountain, the Ranger had observed
that their only remaining pack horse was white, an old dappled white
running with a limp.

It had taken the better part of three days to cross above the wreckage
of snows and forest. They had camped for two nights within a stone's
throw of the upper glaciers. Wayland could see the reflection of the
stars in the ice at night, and count the layers of the century's
snow-fall that harked back, each layer a year's fall, to the eras
before Christ.

"The little snow flake has been on the job a long time," he said to the
old preacher.

Matthews didn't understand. "Can't make out why it's so hot when we're
high up!"

"The wind is off the Desert," said Wayland.

"Mountains in a desert?"

"That's the same as asking if you ever have summer in Saskatchewan."

The frontiersman looked more puzzled than ever.


Wild longings to seize the day's joy came to the Ranger. If the snow
flake typified law sculpturing the centuries, law was a process not of
a life time, not of a century, but aeons of centuries; and flesh,
spirit, humanity's brevity cried out for the trancing joys of the
present. If law took billions of years to sculpture its purpose,
grinding down the transient lives in its way?--When Wayland came to
that _impasse_, he used to get off and walk. He did not know, and it
was well he did not know, she was pacing her room two hundred miles
back on the other side of the Divide, praying that he might succeed in
one breath, that he might come back in another, and praying always that
they might both be strong.

Every mile was a mile deeper into the eternity of her love . . . he
knew that; but he also knew that the fulfilment of duty meant
renunciation. Was it the cry of the flesh? Wayland scoffed the
thought. Flesh in the frontier West doesn't take the trouble to wear
fig-leaf signs. It is blazoning, bold, unashamed, known for what it
is; but there is no confusion of values. He who wills takes what he
wills and wears the mark. Wayland had been long enough away from the
confused values of more civilized lands to know belladonna eyes from
starlight; and he knew what his being craved was not carrion. It was
what harmonizes both flesh and spirit, and lifts the temporal to
eternity. Eternity . . . he laughed again. Eternity was too short;
and that was what renunciation meant, giving up a citadel against all
the harking cares and hells of hate in life.


Where they had picked up the fugitives' trail again on the fourth day
from the snow slide, the Ranger had taken stock of provisions. We none
of us know just how long the Trail is to be when we set out. Flour and
tea enough for a month's travel: of bacon and canned beans, only a
day's supply remained.

"Yes, on your life, forward, long as there's a mouthful left . . . push
on," Matthews had urged.

Wayland expostulated: "Do you know what Desert travel means?"

"No, an' care less! If y' want to get anywhere, ye don't set out to
turn back! Dante's inner circle was ice! A've had that! Now, A'll
take a nip of his outer circle and try your blue blazing Desert."

"It'll be blue all right, sir! You'll know it when you come to it by
the shadows being blue instead of black."


And always, the trail had grown rockier, the forests more scattered,
the trees scantier and dwarfed, till the way led from clump to clump of
scrub pinon amid red buttes and sand hummocks. And always, the valleys
widened and lifted to higher table lands, blasted and shrivelled and
tremulous of heat, till the mountains lay on the far sky-line silver
strips flecked with purple, like shores to an ocean of pure light. And
always, it was the trail of fleeing horsemen they followed, with one
track running aside from the others picking the softest places.

"Only one pack horse and that lame," Wayland pointed to the foot
prints. "That means they must have provisions cached some where on the
way. If we can tire them out before they can reach their cache, we've
got 'em."


Once, where the way led between flanking foot hills, the tracks dipped
into a mountain stream and didn't come up on the other side. "Hoh!"
commented the old man, "that's easy; you'll take the right and A'll
take the left; and where the hills lift up ahead, A'm thinking you'll
find the tracks plain."

All the same, Wayland noticed Matthews frequently moistening his
parched lips; and the lakes of light ahead lay a wavering looming veil.
A mile farther on, the ripped punk of a dead pinon betrayed the passing
of the fugitives. When Wayland dismounted to examine the marks, he
stepped on a small cactus. They picked up a trail that led over rocky
mesas and dipped suddenly into the deep dug-way of a dry gravel bed.
The sand walls of the dead stream afforded shelter from the sun, and
the two riders spurred their bronchos to a canter led by the pack mule.
The sand banks spread, widened, opened; and the mule stopped, both ears
pointing forward like a hunting dog. They rode forward to find
themselves looking down on an ocean of light, shimmering orange colored
light, with the mountains trembling on the far sky line silver strips
necked by purple and opal. The old frontiersman mowed the sweat from
his brows and gazed from under shade of his level hand.

"Sun's like a shower o' red hot arrows," he said.

The sand lay fine as sifted ashes dotted with clumps of bluish-green
sage brush and greasewood. A bleached ox-skull focussed the light with
a glaze that stabbed vision. The ashy earth, the dusty sage brush, the
orange sand hills, the silver strip on the far sky line flecked by the
purple and opal loomed and wavered and writhed in a white flame.

"Do you see the bluish shade to the shadows?" asked Wayland.

The old man was still shading his eyes from the white heat. "Do A see
mountains, Wayland?"

"Certainly, you do! Did you think the Desert flat as the sea?"

"That's just it! If A see mountains, then A see water too! It keeps
wavering."

"By which you may know _it isn't water_," warned Wayland.

"Wayland, A' don't believe you!"

He had dismounted as he spoke and proceeded down the yellow sands to a
pit at the foot of the rolling slope. Wayland saw him halt, again
shade his eyes from the sun glare, and stoop. On his knees, he looked
again and rose. He came up the slope shaking his head. "Y'd swear it
was water at y'r very feet till you bent down."

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