Part 47 (2/2)

”Yes, we are greatly indebted to you.”

”If I can be of any further help at any time,” the young forester said, a little hesitatingly, ”I hope you will let me know.” His voice so sincere, his manner so una.s.suming, softened her strained mood.

”You are very kind,” she answered, with gentle dignity. ”But the worst of this trial is over for us. I cannot conceive that any one will trouble us further. But it is good to know that we have in you a friend.

The valley has always resented us.”

He was not yet satisfied. ”I wish you'd let me drop around to-morrow or next day and see how you all are. It would make me feel a whole lot better.”

The glance which she gave him puzzled and, at the moment, daunted him.

She seemed to search his soul, as if in fear of finding something unworthy there. At last she gave him her strong, brown hand.

”Come when you can. We shall always be glad to see you.”

III

Hanscom rode away up the trail in a singularly exalted mood. The girl with whom he had been so suddenly related in a coroner's inquest filled his mind to the exclusion of all else. He saw nothing, heard nothing of the forest. Helen's sadness, her composure, her aloofness, engaged his imagination.

”She's been sick and she's been in trouble,” he decided. ”She's out here to get away from somebody or something.”

Over and over again he recounted her words, lingering especially upon the sweetness of her voice and the searching quality of that last look she had given him. He unsaddled his horse mechanically, and went about his cabin duties with listless deftness.

Lonely, cut off from even the most formal intercourse with marriageable maidens, he was naturally extremely susceptible to the charm of this cultivated woman. The memory of her handsome foot, the clasp of her strong fingers, the lines of her lovely neck--all conspired to dull his appet.i.te for food and keep him smoking and musing far into the night, and these visions were with him as he arose the next morning to resume his daily duties in the forest. They did not interrupt his work; they lightened it.

As the hours went by, the desire to see her grew more and more intense, and at last, a couple of days later while riding the trail not far above the Kauffman ranch, he decided that it was a part of his day's work to ”scout round” that way and inquire how they were all getting on. He was strengthened in this determination by the reports which came to him from the ranchers he met. No other clue had developed, and the Kitsongs, highly incensed at the action of the jury, not only insisted that the girl was the murderess, but that the doctor was s.h.i.+elding her for reasons of his own--and several went so far as to declare their intention to see that the Kauffmans got their just punishment.

It is true, the jury admitted that they were divided in their opinion, but that the coroner's att.i.tude brought about a change of sentiment. The fact that the woman didn't wear and couldn't wear so small a shoe was at the moment convincing. It was only later, when the Kitsong sympathizers began to argue, that they hesitated.

Mrs. Abe Kitsong was especially bitter, and it was her influence which brought out an expression of settled purpose to punish which led to the ranger's decision to go over and see if the old German and his daughter were undisturbed.

As he turned in at the Kauffman gate he caught a glimpse of the girl hoeing in the garden, wearing the same blue sunbonnet in which she had appeared at the inquest. She was deeply engaged with her potatoes and did not observe him till, upon hearing the clatter of his horse's hoofs upon the bridge, she looked up with a start. Seeing in him a possible enemy, she dropped her hoe and ran toward the house like a hare seeking covert. As she reached the corner of the kitchen she turned, fixed a steady backward look upon him, and disappeared.

Hanscom smiled. He had seen other women hurrying to change their workaday dress for visitors, and he imagined Helen hastily putting on her shoes and smoothing her hair. He was distinctly less in awe of her by reason of this girlish action--it made her seem more of his own rough-and-ready world, and he dismounted at her door almost at his ease, although his heart had been pounding furiously as he rode down the ridge.

She surprised him by reappearing in her working-gown, but shod with strong, low-heeled shoes. ”Good evening, Mr. Forest Ranger,” she said, smiling, yet perturbed. ”I didn't recognize you at first. Won't you 'picket' and come in?” She said this in the tone of one consciously a.s.suming the vernacular.

”Thank you, I believe I will,” he replied, with candid heartiness. ”I was riding one of my lower trails to-day, so I just thought I'd drop down and see how you were all coming on.”

”We are quite well, thank you. Daddy's away just this minute. One of our cows hid her calf in the hills, and he's trying to find it. Won't you put your horse in the corral?”

”No; he's all right. He's a good deal like me--works better on a small ration. A standing siesta will just about do him.”

A gleam of humor shone in her eyes. ”Neither of you 'pear to be suffering from lack of food. But come in, please, and have a seat.”

He followed her into the cabin, keenly alive to the changes in her dress as well as in her manner. She wore her hair plainly parted, as at the hearing, but it lay much lower about her brow and rippled charmingly.

She stood perfectly erect, also, and moved with a fine stride, and the lines of her shoulders, even under a rough gray s.h.i.+rtwaist, were strong and graceful. Though not skilled in a.n.a.lyzing a woman's ”outfit,” the ranger divined that she wore no corset, for the flex of her powerful waist was like that of a young man.

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