Part 19 (2/2)

Psychologists are ever astounded at the ability of mortals, men and animals, to become adjusted to any set of circ.u.mstances. The wax of habit sets almost in a day. The truth was, that in a certain measure with very definite and restricted limits, both Ben and Beatrice were becoming adjusted even to this amazing situation in which they found themselves. This did not mean that Beatrice was in the least degree reconciled to it. She had simply accepted it with the intention of making the best of it. She had been abducted by an enemy of her father and was being carried down an unknown and dangerous river; but the element of surprise, the life of which is never but a moment, was already pa.s.sing away. Sometimes she caught herself with a distinct start, remembering everything with a rage and a bitter load on her heart; but the mood would pa.s.s quickly.

It is impossible, through any ordinary change of fortune, for a normal person to lose his sense of self-ident.i.ty. As long as that remains exterior conditions can make no vital change, or make him feel greatly different than he felt before. The change from a peasant to a millionaire brings only a moment's surprise, and then readjustment.

Beatrice was still herself; the man in the stern remained Ben Darby and no one else. Very naturally she began to talk to him, and he to answer her.

The fact that they were bitter foes, one the victim of the other, did not decree they could not have friendly conversation, isolated as they were. From time to time Ben pointed out objects of interest on the sh.o.r.e; and she found herself remarking, in a casual voice, about them.

And before the afternoon he had made her laugh, in spite of herself,--a gay sound in which fear and distress had little echo.

”We're bound to see a great deal of each other in the next few weeks,”

he had said; and this fact could not be denied. The sooner both became adjusted to it the better. Actual fear of him she had none; she remembered only too well the steel in his eyes and the white flame on his cheeks as he had a.s.sured her of her safety.

In mid-afternoon Ben began to think of making his night's camp. From time to time the bank became an upright precipice where not even a tree could find foothold; and it had occurred to him, with sudden vividness, that he did not wish the darkness to overtake him in such a place. The river rocks would make short work of him, in that case. It was better to pick out a camp site in plenty of time lest they could not find one at the day's end.

In one of the more quiet stretches of water he saw the place--a small cove and a green, tree-clad bank, with the gorge rising behind. Handling his canoe with greatest care he slanted toward it. A moment later he had caught the brush at the water's edge, stepped off into shallow water, and was drawing the canoe up onto the bank.

”We're through for the day,” he said happily, as he helped Beatrice out of the boat. ”I'll confess I'm ready to rest.”

Beatrice made no answer because her eyes were busy. Coolly and quietly she took stock of the situation, trying to get an idea of the geographical features of the camp site. She saw in a glance, however, that there was no path to freedom up the gorge behind her. The rocks were precipitate: besides, she remembered that over a hundred miles of impa.s.sable wilderness lay between her and her father's cabin. Without food and supplies she could not hope to make the journey.

The racing river, however, wakened a curious, inviting train of thought.

The torrent continued largely unabated for at least one hundred miles more, she knew, and the hours that it would be pa.s.sable in a canoe were numbered. The river had fallen steadily all day; driftwood was left on the sh.o.r.e; rocks dried swiftly in the sun, cropping out like fangs above the foam of the stream. Was there still time to drift on down the Yuga a hundred or more miles to the distant Indian encampment? She shut the thought from her mind, at present, and turned her attention to the work of making camp.

With entire good humor she began to gather such pieces of dead wood as she could find for their fire.

”Your prisoner might as well make herself useful,” she said.

Ben's face lighted as she had not seen it since their outward journey from Snowy Gulch. ”Thank G.o.d you're taking it that way, Beatrice,” he told her fervently. ”It was a proposition I couldn't help--”

But the girl's eyes flashed, and her lips set in a hard line. ”I'm doing it to make my own time go faster,” she told him softly, rather slowly.

”I want you to remember that.”

But instantly both forgot their words to listen to a familiar clucking sound from a near-by shrub. Peering closely they made out the plump, genial form of Franklin's grouse,--a bird known far and wide in the north for her ample breast and her tender flesh.

”Good Lord, there's supper!” Ben whispered. ”Beatrice, get your pistol--”

Her eyes smiled as she looked him in the face. ”You remember--my pistol isn't loaded!”

”Excuse me. I forgot. Give it to me.”

She handed him the little gun, and he slipped in the sh.e.l.ls he had taken from it. Then--for the simple and sensible reason that he didn't want to take any chance on the loss of their dinner--he stole within twenty feet of the bird. Very carefully he drew down on the plump neck.

”Dinner all safe,” he remarked rather gayly, as the grouse came tumbling through the branches.

XXIV

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