Part 3 (1/2)

It's too late for that.”

”Of course--but sit down now, anyway. I'm sorry that s...o...b..rd isn't here.”

”s...o...b..rd is--”

”My daughter. My boy, she can make a biscuit! That's not her name, of course, but we've always called her that. She got tired of keeping house and is working this summer. Poor Bill has to keep house for her, and no wonder he's eager to take the stock down to the lower levels. I only wish he hadn't brought 'em up this spring at all; I've lost dozens from the coyotes.”

”But a coyote can't kill cattle--”

”It can if it has hydrophobia, a common thing in the varmints this time of year. But as I say, Bill will take the stock down next season, and then s...o...b..rd's work will be through, and she'll come back here.”

”Then she's down in the valley?”

”Far from it. She's a mountain girl if one ever lived. Perhaps you don't know the recent policy of the forest service to hire women when they can be obtained. It was a policy started in wartimes and kept up now because it is economical and efficient. She and a girl from college have a cabin not five miles from here on old Bald Mountain, and they're doing lookout duty.”

Dan wondered intensely what lookout duty might be. His thoughts went back to his early study of forestry. ”You see, Dan,” Lennox said in explanation, ”the government loses thousands of dollars every year by forest fire. A fire can be stopped easily if it is seen soon after it starts. But let it burn awhile, in this dry season, and it's a terror--a wall of flame that races through the forests and can hardly be stopped.

And maybe you don't realize how enormous this region is--literally hundreds of miles across. We're the last outpost--there are four cabins, if you can find them, in the first seventy miles back to town. So they have to put lookouts on the high points, and now they're coming to the use of aeroplanes so they can keep even a better watch. All summer and until the rains come in the fall, they have to guard every minute, and even then sometimes the fires get away from them. And one of the first things a forester learns, Dan, is to be careful with fire.”

”Is that the way they are started--from the carelessness of campers?”

”Partly. There's an old rule in the hills: put out every fire before you leave it. Be careful with the cigar b.u.t.ts, too--even the coals of a pipe. But of course the lightning starts many fires, and, I regret to say, hundreds of them are started with matches.”

”But why on earth--”

”It doesn't make very good sense, does it? Well, one reason is that certain stockmen think that a burned forest makes good range--that the undervegetation that springs up when the trees are burned makes good feed for stock. And you must know, too, that there are two kinds of men in the mountains. One kind--the real mountain man, such as your grandfather was--lives just as well, just as clean as the ranchers in the valley. Some of this kind are trappers or herders. But there's another cla.s.s too--the most unbelievably s.h.i.+ftless, ignorant people in America. They have a few acres to raise crops, and they kill deer for their hides, and most of all they make their living fighting forest fires. A fire means work for every hill-billy in the region--often five or six dollars a day and better food than they're used to. Moreover, they can loaf on the job, put in claims for extra hours, and make what to them is a fortune.

”You'll likely see a few of the breed before--before your visit here is ended. There's a family of 'em not three miles away--and that's real neighborly in the mountains--by the name of Cranston. Bert Cranston traps a little and makes moons.h.i.+ne; you'll probably see plenty of him before the trip is over. Sometime I'll tell you of a little difficulty that I had with him once. You needn't worry about him coming to this house; he's already received his instructions in that matter.

”But I see I'm getting all tangled up in my traces. s...o...b..rd and a girl friend from college got jobs this summer as lookouts--all through the forest service they are hiring women for the work. They are more vigilant than men, less inclined to take chances, and work cheaper.

These two girls have a cabin near a spring, and they cook their own food, and are making what is big wages in the mountains. I'm rather hoping she'll drop over for a few minutes to-night.”

”Good Lord--does she travel over these hills in the darkness?”

The mountaineer laughed--a delighted sound that came somewhat curiously from the bearded lips of the stern, dark man. ”Dan, I'll swear she's afraid of nothing that walks the face of the earth--and it isn't because she hasn't had experiences either. She's a dead shot with a pistol, for one thing. She's physically strong, and every muscle is hard as nails.

She used to have s.h.a.g, too--the best dog in all these mountains. She's a mountain girl, I tell you; whoever wins her has got to be able to tame her!” The mountaineer laughed again. ”I sent her to school, of course, but there was only one boy she'd look at--the athletic coach! And it wasn't his fault that he didn't follow her back to the mountains.”

The call to supper came then, and Dan got his first sight of mountain food. There were potatoes, newly dug, mountain vegetables that were crisp and cold, a steak of peculiar shape, and a great bowl of purple berries to be eaten with sugar and cream. Dan's appet.i.te was not as a rule particularly good. But evidently the long ride had affected him. He simply didn't have the moral courage to refuse when the elder Lennox heaped his plate.

”Good Heavens, I can't eat all that,” he said, as it was pa.s.sed to him.

But the others laughed and told him to take heart.

He took heart. It was a singular thing, but at that first bite his sudden confidence in his gustatory ability almost overwhelmed him. All his life he had avoided meat. His mother had always been convinced that such a delicate child as he had been could not properly digest it. But all at once he decided to forego his mother's philosophies for good and all. There was certainly nothing to be gained by following them any longer. So he cut himself a bite of the tender steak--fully half as generous as the bites that Bill was consuming across the table. And its first flavor simply filled him with delight.

”What is this meat?” he asked. ”I've certainly tasted it before.”

”I'll bet a few dollars that you haven't, if you've lived all your life in the Middle West,” Lennox answered. ”Maybe you've got what the scientists call an inherited memory of it. It's the kind of meat your grandfather used to live on--venison.”

Both of them had seemed pleased that he liked the venison. And both seemed boyishly eager to test his reaction to the great, wild huckleberries that were the dessert of the simple meal. He tried them with much ceremony.