Part 31 (2/2)
Amalia gave her mother the water that was left in the bottle she had brought with her, and lamented that she had saved so little for her.
”It was so bad, not to save more for my mamma,” she cried, giving the bottle with its lowered contents into her mother's hand. ”I go to watch, mamma mine. Soon will I return.”
Amalia went back to her point of vantage, where she could see all about the cabin and shed. Still the smoke poured from the chimney, and there was no sign of red men without. It was a mountain sheep they had carried, slung between them, and now they dressed and cooked a portion of it, and were gorging themselves comfortably before the fire, with many grunts of satisfaction at the finding of the formidable owner of the premises absent. They were on their way to Laramie to trade and sell game, and it was their intention to leave a portion of their mutton with Larry Kildene; for never did they dare venture near him without bringing a propitiatory offering.
The sun had set and the cold mists were blowing across from the fall and closing around the cabin like a veil of amethystine dye, when Amalia saw them moving about the cabin door as if preparing to depart.
Her heart rose, and she signaled her mother, but no. They went indoors again, and she saw them no more. In truth they had disputed long as to whether it was best to leave before the big man's return, or to remain in their comfortable quarters and start early, before day. It was the conference that drew them out, and they had made ready to start at a moment's notice if he should return in the night. But as the darkness crept on and Larry Kildene did not appear they stretched themselves before the fire and slept, and the two women on the mountain, hungry and cold, crept under the mother's cloak and lay long into the night, s.h.i.+vering and listening, couched on the pine twigs Amalia had spread under the ledge of rock. At last, clasped in each other's arms, they slept, in spite of fear and cold, for very weariness.
Amalia woke next morning to the low murmuring of a voice. It was her mother, kneeling in the pine needles, praying at her side. She waited until the prayer was ended, then she rose and went out from the sheltered hollow where they lay. ”I will look a little, mamma. Wait for me.”
She gazed down on the cabin, but all was still. The amethystine veil had not lifted, and no smoke came from the chimney. She crept back to her mother's side, and they sat close for warmth, and waited. When the sun rose and the clouds melted away, all the earth smiled up at them, and their fears seemed to melt away with the clouds. Still they did not venture out where they thought they might be spied from below, and time pa.s.sed while they watched earnestly for the sight of moving figures, and still no smoke appeared from the cabin.
Higher and higher the sun climbed in the sky, yet they could not bring themselves to return. Hunger pressed them, and Amalia begged her mother to let her go a little nearer to listen, but she would not. So they discussed together in their own tongue and neither would allow the other to venture below, and still no smoke issued from the chimney.
At last Amalia started and pressed her hand to her heart. What did she see far along on the trail toward the desert? Surely, a man with two animals, climbing toward the turn. Her eyes danced for gladness as she turned a flushed face toward her mother.
”Look, mamma! Far on,--no--there! It is--mamma mine--it is 'Arry King!” The mere sight of him made her break out in English. ”It is that I must go to him and tell him of the Indian in the cabin before he arrive. If he come on them there, and they kill him! Oh, let me go quickly.” At the thought of him, and the danger he might meet, all her fears of the men ”rouge” returned upon her, and she was gone, pa.s.sing with incredible swiftness over the rough way, to try to intercept him before he could reach the cabin.
But she need not have feared, for the Indians were long gone. Before daybreak they had pa.s.sed Harry where he rested in the deep dusk of the morning, without knowing he was near. With swift, silent steps they had pa.s.sed down the trail, taking as much of Larry Kildene's corn as they could carry, and leaving the b.l.o.o.d.y pelt of the sheep and a very meager share of the mutton in exchange. Hungry and footsore, yet eager and glad to have come home successfully, Harry King walked forward, leading his good yellow horse, his eyes fixed on the cabin, and wondering not a little; for he, too, saw that no smoke was issuing from the chimney.
He hastened, and all Amalia's swiftness could not bring her to him before he reached his goal. He saw first the b.l.o.o.d.y pelt hanging beside the door, and his heart stood still. Those two women never could have done that! Where were they? He dropped the leading strap, leaving the weary horses where they stood, and ran forward to enter the cabin and see the evidence of Indians all about. There were the clean-picked bones of their feast and the dirt from their feet on Amalia's carefully kept floor. The disorder smote him, and he ran out again in the sun. Looking this way and that, he called and listened and called again. Why did no answer reach him? Poor Amalia! In her haste she had turned her foot and now, fainting with pain, and with fear for him, she could not find her voice to reply.
He thought he heard a low cry. Was it she? He ran again, and now he saw her, high above him, a dark heap on the ground. Quickly he was by her side, and, kneeling, he gathered her in his arms. He forgot all but that she was living and that he held her, and he kissed her white face and her lips, and said all the tender things in his heart. He did not know what he was saying. He only knew that he could feel her heart beat, and that she was opening her eyes, and that with quivering arms she clasped his neck, and that her tears wet his cheek, and that, over and over, her lips were repeating his name.
”'Arry--'Arry King! You are come back. Ah, 'Arry King, my heart cry with the great gladness they have not killed you.”
All in the same instant he bethought himself that he must not caress her thus. Yet filled with a gladness he could not fathom he still clung to her and still murmured the words he meant never to speak to her. One thing he could do. One thing sweet and right to do. He could carry her to the cabin. How could she reach it else? His heart leaped that he had at least that right.
”No, 'Arry King. You have walk the long, hard way, and are very weary.” But still he carried her.
”Put me down, 'Arry King.” Then he obeyed her, and set her gently down. ”I am too great a burden. See, thus? If you help me a little--it is that I may hop--It is better, is not?”
She smiled in his face, but he only stooped and lifted her again in his arms. ”You are not a burden, Amalia. Put your arms around my neck, and lean on me.”
She obeyed him, and he could say no more for the beating of his heart.
Carefully and slowly he made his way, setting his feet cautiously among the stones that obstructed his path. Madam Manovska from her heights above saw how her daughter was being carried, and, guessing the trouble, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the velvet bag Amalia had dropped in her haste, flung her cloak about her, and began to thread her way down, slowly and carefully; for, as she said to herself, ”We must not both break the bones at one time.”
To Harry it seemed no sound was ever sweeter than Amalia's low voice as she coaxed him brokenly to set her down and allow her to walk.
”This is great foolishness, 'Arry King, that you carry me. Put me down that you rest a little.”
”I can't, Amalia.”
”You have walk all the long trail--I saw you walk--and lead those horse, for only to bring our box. How my heart can thank you is not possible. 'Arry King, you are so weary--put me down.”
”I can't, Amalia,” again was all he said. So he held her, comforting his heart that he had this right, until he drew near the cabin, and there Amalia saw the pelt of the sheep hung upon the wall of the cabin, pitifully dangling, b.l.o.o.d.y and ragged. Strangely, at the sight quite harmless, yet gruesome, all her fort.i.tude gave way. With a cry of terror she hid her face and clung to him.
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