It was several days after Bess’ thrilling adventure before her nerves were again calm and steady and before her muscles had recovered from their soreness. While she felt reluctant to lie in bed, and was sorry because of the extra worry and work which she caused, still it was delicious to experience a mother’s solicitude. No word of reproof had Mrs. West given her, only kindness, attention and anxiety. Bess secretly wished that some one would administer to her the censure which she felt she richly deserved. And yet, how it smarted when it came one morning, just before James and Henry West were about to start on the fall round-up.
They had come into Bess’ sunlit room to say good-bye. Her soft, white hand was enclosed for a moment firmly in West’s hard and sunburned palm. He did not dare speak lest the tremor in his voice should betray him to both sister and brother. As James bent over his sister, with a kiss, he said, “Remember Bess, no more foolish escapades—,” but a firm grasp on his arm checked the words and led him from the room before he could see the welling, nervous tears fill her brown eyes—and then splash on her tightly folded hands.
“What’s the use, Jim old boy—she has had all she can bear already!” she heard the quarter-breed say as they went away.
James turned and quickly re-entered his sister’s room. Taking her in his arms he kissed away her tears and left her consoled and happy once more.
“Hurry and be yourself again, Bess, for the camping trip next week. I only wish the round-up were over so that Henry and I might go, too. We’ll see you and the Kalispell friends in camp as we go over by the Big Arm. Guess we can find the place. So long—sister—” and throwing her a kiss from the door he hurried to join West, who was already in the saddle and anxious to be off.
Bess had been looking forward to the novelty of camp life ever since the invitation had come to her from Mrs. West’s friends at Kalispell. She was to meet them on the fifth of September on the south side of the Big Arm of the Lake, directly opposite Wild Horse Island. Here they were to camp and hunt small game and fish for ten days.
Bess arose with the sun on the morning of the fifth, and was soon ready to start for camp, accompanied by one of the ranch-men whom Mrs. West had ordered to ride with the girl and pack her baggage.
“I wish you were going too, little Mother,” said Bess earnestly as she hurried about, finishing her preparations.
“It would be enjoyable I’m sure, but I cannot think of it this time, dear. Come home strong and safe, won’t you?”
What a magnificent morning! Just a hint of autumn in the bracing air, while a soft, hazy atmosphere veiled the mountains and nestled on the ripples of the lake. The sun had not yet mounted high enough to dry the dew which lay on the grass and dampened the trail. Fifteen miles toward the north-west was the place where camp was to be made, the man had told Bess in response to her question, how far would they ride?
As they crossed the ferry, all the events of the recent tragedy surged over her, and as her hand clasped the beaded belt it sought the place where the iron hold had broken the threads and loosened the beads. An unknown and foreign sensation seemed to sweep over her; a sharp pain, incomprehensible, clutched her heart as she again felt the embrace of her rescuer. He stood out clear, full and bold before her mind’s eye in a strange new light! The thought of another man forced itself into her mind, and she was startled from her musings as the ferry touched the shore by a well known voice.
“Good morning; this is a most unexpected pleasure! You seemed deeply absorbed as I watched you coming across. I hope you were thinking of me!”
“I was, Mr. Davis—just then,” answered Bess as she accepted the outstretched hand.
“I had intended to call at the HW Ranch this morning in the hope of seeing you, and here I find you evidently going on a visit.”
The cowboy who was accompanying Bess led the horses off the ferry and down the rocky beach for water.
“Bess—dear—it seems ages since I have seen you. Why have I not had a line from you? Can’t you know that I am eating my heart out because of your coldness!”
“Really, Mr. Davis—I have not been very well—and could not gather enough energy to write. Wait until I return from my camping trip and I’ll write and tell you all about it,” answered Bess as she turned to leave, seeing that the horses had drank their fill and were waiting for her.
“Stay a moment! Where are you going? May I go with you?”
“Ah, you were not invited,” she answered, laughingly. “Why, you see I am to be in camp ten days with some friends from Kalispell who are coming down for the fall birds.”
“Oh, yes—I sent a permit to Mr. George and party to hunt on the reserve, and I also received an invitation to visit camp. Now that you are to be there too, may I not hope for a second invitation from you, dear?”
His voice took that fascinating tone which always sent an undefinable thrill through her, and his eyes held her own in a long, steady look.
“We—camp on the Big Arm—perhaps—you can find it,” came from her lips with an effort.
Davis felt hurt that his request was not answered more heartily, but he concealed his chagrin with a smile of assurance that he would come.
The happy, alert girl saw a subtle change stealing over nature and knew that autumn had come.
How delicious was the aroma of the firs and pines as the horses went along the shaded road through the long stretch of timber! Occasionally through the tangle of scrub-maples, whose bright green foliage was splashed here and there by a scarlet leaf, one caught a glimpse of the deep blue, glistening lake and the mountains on its east shore. Tiny squirrels and chipmunks were scampering over fallen logs or chattering high up in the tamarack branches. Every rock and stump was beautiful with its creeping wreath of kinnikinick, whose glossy foliage and large scarlet berries puts to shame the holly. On the buck-brush hung great, white snow-drops, while the wild rose bushes were heavy with scarlet fruit.
The whirr of a pheasant through the underbrush caused Mauchacho to prick up his ears and quicken his pace. A blue grouse with her late brood scurried across the road seeking the shelter of the thicket. Bess wished she too were some dainty feathered creature, happy in the solitude of the woods, free from all restraint, secure within the sheltering arms of the earth. Oh! to creep away off under the tender green branches; to clasp her arms about the rough bark of the pine trees; to rest her cheek upon the redolent grasses! On the outstretched limb of a charred pine tree sat a large, blinking owl. Great tufts of grey feathers covered his legs and claws, while at his throat shone the purest white.
Bess raised an imaginary gun with a deliberate aim, and immediately Mr. Owl stretched his large white and grey wings and was out of sight.
“Oh, see!” cried the girl, as only a few yards ahead of them there sprang across the trail a white-tailed doe and fawn! Only for a brief instant did they pause, then went crashing through the timber and brush, flirting defiant good-byes with their white flags. The cowboy was watching surreptitiously from the corner of his eye the pleasure and animation which Bess was enjoying. Her brown eyes danced and filled; her cheeks flamed as if touched with an Indian’s paintbrush, suggesting an autumn leaf through her brown, fluffy hair. Her enjoyment was keen because of a sweet and sensitive temperament alive to the surroundings and susceptible to the wonders of nature.
“Did you hear that?” asked Bess of her companion.
“Yes—that was the boat whistle. Your party are probably near their landing place. Guess we have about three miles more to go before we reach there.”
In a short time they again came into full view of the great, blue lake. How immense it was! The Great Arm alone was a lake. To the right lay Wild Horse Island; the camping ground must be very near. Had it not been for the sound of voices or the driving of tent-stakes the camp would have been hard to locate, so snugly was it concealed among the trees and by a thicket of cottonwoods and small pines.
It was a busy scene which Bess saw as she rode into camp. Already the tents were being pitched; boxes and bundles and guns were being carried from the beach; beautiful setters were sniffing at every leaf and twig; while over near the branches of an overhanging cedar, Joe, the colored cook, with white cap, coat and apron deftly donned had already lighted a fire preparatory for the first meal. Cheery greetings of welcome were exchanged as Bess slid from her saddle and each one of the girls seemed bent upon talking loudest and longest.
“Oh! girls—girls—save a little breath or else you won’t have enough to last ten days!” called Mrs. Bland, with the authority of a chaperon, but her voice was not heard above the laughing and chattering of the other three. Such a time pumping up the air-beds, shaking blankets, unpacking satchels, arranging rugs and adjusting the other things in the ladies’ boudoir!
“Little Honey” (as Mrs. Bland’s little daughter had been nicknamed) was too engrossed trying to attire herself in new, blue overalls and a boy’s “really” shirt, to be interested in her surroundings. Tucking her braids under a big, straw hat, then thrusting her tiny fists deep into the spacious pockets, she cried gleefully,—“Well, Mother—Here’s Peter Pan.” Undaunted by the teasings and laughter of the other girls “Peter Pan” strode out of the tent to show herself to the “other boys.”
“Oh, you dogs! Charge! Lady! Jack Down! Charge, Gladstone! Didn’t you dogs ever see a boy before!” she cried amid frantic efforts to ward off the playful, eager animals. Just then she heard the rattle of wheels and ran to meet Mr. George who had driven down from Kalispell so that the horses and light wagon could be used in going to the good hunting fields each day.
“I’m ‘Peter Pan,’ and these pockets are so handy, and it is so much easier to climb that I guess I’ll just stay a boy,” she announced as she clambered into the seat beside Mr. George and reached for the reins.
Such a hungry, hearty “bunch” as sat down to dinner! How the aroma of the forest and the sweet, pine laden air whetted their appetites! “Peter Pan” could not get enough bread with its thick layer of apple-sauce. Joe, the cook, looked on with trepidation and wondered how long the larder would supply the demand.
“Never mind, Joe; don’t look so worried, we’ll have birds for supper,” said one of the men, as he arose from the table and began filling his hunting vest with shells. The snap of the barrel of a shotgun brought all three dogs up with a bound, so eager were they to feel the feathers of a retrieve. At sundown, when the tired men and still more weary dogs came dragging themselves back into camp, each bore evidence of his spoils. Through the carriers were hung the limp-stretched necks of a covey, while the several feathers still sticking to the dogs’ jaws, proved how faithfully and well they had done their work.
“Come with me Miss—Miss Flet—”
“Just call me Bess, it’s easier.”
“Miss Bess, if you will come with me we’ll give the dogs their supper,” said “Peter Pan,” as she led the way to where the dog biscuits had been placed. The dogs were all seated on their haunches waiting with hungry stomachs for their meal.
“These are dreadfully hard things to feed you, poor dogs,” said the tiny girl, as she tried in vain to break the biscuits. “I’m glad I’m not a dog, aren’t you, Miss Bess? But then, this kind of biscuit is good for a dog, ’cause they make him take aim better. Charge, Jack!” she cried to the hungry dog who could not wait for her discourse to be finished as he took his supper out of her hand and hurried away to find an undisturbed place to enjoy it.
It was dark before the birds were ready for the table, and supper was eaten by the aid of numerous candles and lanterns. All were weary, so after the plans for the morrow had been made and everything made secure in camp for the night, each sought his couch and slept; some to dream, perhaps of feasts and plenty, or of ringing shots and pointing dogs; one to dream of “comfy” trousers and handy pockets; another to see in her sleep’s vision, the flaming, dilated nostrils of a fleeing horse and the dark, determined face of his relentless rider.