The Sky Line of Spruce by Edison Marshall

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"What have you and your poor victim been talking about, all this time?"
Ben asked.

"Oh, just a gab-fest--a tat-i-tat as you'd call it. But you know, Ben,
I've got a idea all a-sudden." Ben straightened, lighted his pipe, and
prepared to listen.

"This old boy tells me that we'd save just twelve miles by striking off
front here, instead of goin' into town. Snowy Gulch is six miles, and we
have to come back to this very place. What's the use of goin' into town
at all?"

"Good heavens, Ez? Have you forgotten we've got to get supplies? And
your brother's gun--and his dog?"

"How do you know he's got a dog?"

"He said a pup, didn't he? But it may be an elephant for all I know. Of
course, we've got to go on in."

"Yes, I know--one of us has. But, Ben, it seems to me that one of us
ought to strike off now and figure out the way and sort of get located.
One of us could take a little food and a couple of blankets and make it
through in less than a day. Half a day, almost. Then we could have the
cabin all ready, and everything laid out for to begin work. He could
blaze any dim spots in the trail and save time for the other feller,
comin' with the horses."

"Oh, it would be all right," Ben began rather doubtfully. "I don't see
that much is to be gained by it. But I'll strike off on foot, if you
want me to."

Ezram's mind was flashing with thoughts like lightning, and his answer
was ready. "Ben, if you don't mind, I'll do that," he said. "I can get
along without gazin' at the sky-scrapers of Snowy Gulch, and to tell the
truth, that twelve miles of extra walkin' don't appeal to me one bit.
I'd as soon have you tend to all the things in town."

"But you'd get a ride, if you waited--"

"I hate a horse, anyway--"

"You've surely changed a lot since the war."

"I was thrown off not long ago--and have been leery of the dum things
ever since. I'd walk, sooner than ride, even if I did have a horse. So
you roll me that big Hudson Bay blanket and give me a couple of day's
rations. I'll make a pack for my back that I can't feel. Then you strike
off into town."

Without especial enthusiasm Ben agreed. Ezram gave a great sigh of
satisfaction. He had put through the deal: Ben's secret thought was that
Ezram's curiosity--always a pronounced trait with the old--had mastered
him, and he could not wait longer to explore the mine. Not one glimpse
of the truth as to Ezram's real reason for desiring to push on alone as
much as occurred to him.

Ezram was wholly deliberate. He knew what waited him on arrival at his
brother's claim. Jeffery Neilson and his gang had assembled there, had
already jumped the claim just as his brother had warned him that they
would do; and coolly and quietly he had resolved to face them alone.
They were desperate men, not likely to be driven from the gold by
threats or persuasion only. But there was no law in his life, no precept
in his code, whereby he could subject his young partner to the risk.

It was true that the desire to arrive on the scene at the earliest
possible moment had been a factor in his decision. One of them could
hurry on, unimpeded by the pack animals, and the other must linger to
secure their supplies; and there could really be no question, in Ezram's
mind, which should go and which should stay. He had known perfectly that
if Ben had realized the true need for haste, he would never have
submitted so tamely to Ezram's will. The old man knew Wolf Darby. The
strong dark eyes in the lean, raw-boned face reassured him as to this
knowledge. Ben would go too, if he knew the truth. Likely he would
insist on going alone.

Ezram had decided the whole thing in a flash, realizing that a lone
pedestrian would be practically as effective in dealing with the
usurpers as two horsemen, impeded by the pack animals. If they didn't
shoot to kill at first sight of him Ezram would have time in plenty to
seek refuge in the forest and do a sharpshooter's business that would
fill his old heart with joy. And there really wasn't any question as to
which of the two should go. Their partnership was of long duration;
their comradeship was deep; Ben was young, and Ezram himself was old!

Ezram made his decision entirely casually, and he would have been
surprised out of his wits if any one had expressed wonder of it. He knew
no self-pity or sentimentality, only the knowledge that he did not
desire that his young buddy should be shot full of holes in the first
moment of play. The only fear that had visited him was that Ben might
catch on and not let him go. And now he could scarcely restrain his
triumphant chuckles in Ben's hearing.

Fie made his pack--a few simple provisions wrapped in his blanket--and a
knife and camp axe swung on his belt. He took his trusted pipe--because
he knew well that he could never acquit himself creditably in a fight
without a few lungfuls of tobacco smoke first--and he also took his
rifle. "You'll be gettin' my brother's gun when you get to Snowy Gulch,"
he explained, "and I may see game on the way out. And you keep this copy
of the letter." He handed Ben the copy he had made of Hiram's will. "I'm
the worst hand for losin' things you ever seen."

"You're sure you've got the directions straight?"

"Sure.--And I guess that's all."

They said their simple good-bys, shaking hands over a pile of stores.
"I've only got one decent place to keep things safe," Ezra confided,
"and that ain't so all-fired decent, either. When I get any papers that
are extra precious, I always stick 'em down the leg of these high old
boots, between the sock and the leather. But it's too much work to take
the boot off now, so you keep the letter."

"I suppose you've got a million-dollar bank note hidden down there now,"
Ben remarked.

"No, not a cent. Just the same, if ever I get shuffled off all of a
sudden--rollin' down one of these mountains, say--I want you to look
there mighty careful. There may be a document or two of
importance--letter to my old home, and all that."

"I won't forget," Ben promised.

"See that you don't." They shook hands again, lightly and happily. "So
good-by, son, and--'_take keer of yerself_!'"

The old man turned away, and soon his withered figure vanished into the
thickets farther up the river. He was following a fairly well-worn moose
trail, and he went swiftly. Soon he was out of hearing of the sound of
the great river.

Then the little woods people--marten and ermine and rodent and such
other small forest creatures that--who can say?--might watch with
exceeding interest the travelers on the trails, could have thought that
old Ezram was already fatigued. He sat down beside a tree and drew a
soiled sheet of paper from his pocket. Searching further he found then
the stub of a pencil. Then he wrote.

Having written he unlaced his boot on the right foot, folded the paper,
and thrust it into the bootleg. Then, relacing the shoe, he arose and
journeyed blithely on.

IX

On arriving in Snowy Gulch, Ben's first efforts were to inquire in
regard to horses. Both pack and saddle animals, he learned, were to be
hired of Sandy McClurg, the owner of the general store and leading
citizen of the village; and at once he made his way to confer with him.

"Most of my mustangs are rented out," the merchant informed him when
they met in the rear of the general store, "but if you can get along
with three, I guess I can fix you up. You can pack two of 'em, and ride
the third."

"Good enough," Ben agreed. "And after I once get in, I'd like to turn
back two of them, and maybe all three--to save the hire and the bother
of taking care of them. I suppose, after the fashion of cayuses, they'll
leg it right home."

"Just a little faster than a dog. Horses don't much care to grub their
food out of them spruce forests. They're good plugs, so of course I
don't want to rent 'em to any one who'll abuse 'em, or take 'em on too
hard trips. Where are you heading, if the question's fair?"

"Through Spruce Pass and down into the Yuga River."

"Prospecting, eh? There's been quite a movement down that way lately,
considering it never was anything but a pocket country. By starting
early you can make it through in a day. And you said your name was--"

"Darby. Ben Darby."

The merchant opened his eyes. "Not the Ben Darby that took all the
prizes at the meet at Lodge Pole--"

Ben's rugged face lit with the brilliancy of his smile. "The same
Darby," he admitted.

"Well, well! I hope you'll excuse them remarks about abusing the horses.
If I had known who you was, 'Wolf' Darby, I'd have known you knew how to
take care of cayuses. Take 'em for as long as you want, or where you
want. And when did you say you was going?"

"First thing to-morrow."

"Well, you're pretty likely to have companionship on the road, too.
There is another party that is going up that way either to-morrow or the
day after. Pretty lucky for you."

"I'm glad of it, if he isn't a tenderfoot. That must be a pretty thickly
settled region--where I'm heading."

"On the contrary, there's only three human beings in the whole
district--and there's a thousand of square miles back of it without even
one. These three are some men that went up that way prospecting some
time ago, and this other party will make four." He paused, smiling.
"Yes, I think you will enjoy this trip to-morrow, after you see who it
is. I'd enjoy it, and I'm thirty years older than you are."

Ben's thought was elsewhere, and he only half heard. "All right--I'll be
here before dawn to-morrow and get the horses. And now will you tell
me--where Steve Morris lives? I've got some business with him."

"Right up the street--clear to the end of the row." McClurg's humor had
quite engulfed him by now, and he chuckled again. "And if I was you,
I'd stop in the door just this side--and get acquainted with your fellow
traveler."

"What's his name?" Ben asked.

"The party is named Neilson."

Unfortunately the name had no mental associations for Ben. It wakened no
interest or stirred no memories. He had read the letter the copy of
which he carried but once, and evidently the name of the man Ezram had
been warned against had made no lasting impression on Ben's mind.

"All right. Maybe I'll look him up."

Ben turned, then made his way up the long, straggly row of unpainted
shacks that marked the village street. A few moments later he was
standing in the Morris home, facing the one friend that Hiram Melville
had possessed on earth.

Ben stated his case simply. He was the partner of Hiram's brother, he
said, and he had been designated to take care of Fenris and such other
belongings as Hiram had left. Morris studied his face with the quiet,
far-seeing eyes of a woodsman.

"You've got means of identification?" he asked.

Ben realized with something of a shock that he had none at all. The
letter he carried was merely a copy without Hiram's signature; besides,
he had no desire to reveal its contents. For an instant he was
considerably embarrassed. But Morris smiled quietly.

"I guess I won't ask you for any," he said. "Hiram didn't leave
anything, far as I know, except his old gun and his pet. Lord knows, I'd
let anybody take that pet of his that's fool enough to say he's got any
claim to him, and you can be sure I ain't going to dispute his claim."

"Fenris, then, is,--something of a problem?"

"The worst I ever had. His old gun is a good enough weapon, but I'm
willing to trust you with it to get rid of Fenris. If you don't turn out
to be the right man, I'll dig up for the gun--and feel lucky at that. I
won't be able to furnish another Fenris, though, and I guess nobody'll
be sorry. And if I was you--I'd take him out in a nice quiet place and
shoot him."

He turned, with the intention of securing the gun from an inner room. He
did not even reach the door. It was as if both of them were struck
motionless, frozen in odd, fixed attitudes, by a shrill scream for help
that penetrated like a bullet the thin walls of the house.

Instinctively both of them recognized it, unmistakably, as the piercing
cry of a woman in great distress and terror. It rose surprisingly high,
hovered a ghastly instant, and then was almost drowned out and
obliterated by another sound, such a sound as left Ben only wondering
and appalled.

The sound was in the range between a growl and a bay, instantly
identifying itself as the utterance of an animal, rather than a human
being. And it was savage and ferocious simply beyond power of words to
tell. Ben's first thought was of some enormous, vicious dog, and yet his
wood's sense told him that the utterance was not that of a dog. Rather
it contained that incredible fierceness and savagery that marks the
killing cries of the creatures of the wild.

He heard it even as he leaped through the door in answer to the scream
for aid. His muscles gathered with that mysterious power that had always
sustained him in his moments of crisis. He took the steps in one leap,
Morris immediately behind him.

"Fenris is loose," he heard the man say. "He'll kill some one----!"

Ben could still hear the savage cries of the animal, seemingly from
just behind the adjoining house. A girl's terrified voice still called
for help. And deeply appalled by the sounds, Ben wished that the rifle,
such a weapon as had been his trust since early boyhood, was ready and
loaded in his hands.

He raced about the house; and at once the scene, in every vivid detail,
was revealed to him. Pressed back against the wall of a little woodshed
that stood behind her house a girl stood at bay,--a dark-eyed girl whose
beautiful face was drawn and stark-white with horror. She was screaming
for aid, her fascinated gaze held by a gray-black, houndlike creature
that crouched, snarling, twenty yards distant.

Evidently the creature was stealing toward her in stealthy advance more
like a stalking cat than a frenzied hound. Nor was this creature a
hound, in spite of the similarity of outline. Such fearful, lurid
surface-lights as all of them saw in its fierce eyes are not
characteristic of the soft, brown orbs of the dog, ancient friend to
man, but are ever the mark of the wild beast of the forest. The fangs
were bared, gleaming in foam, the hair stood erect on the powerful
shoulders; and instantly Ben recognized its breed. It was a magnificent
specimen of that huge, gaunt runner of the forests, the Northern wolf.
Evidently from the black shades of his fur he was partly of the Siberian
breed of wolves that beforetime have migrated down on the North American
side of Bering Sea.

A chain was attached to the animal's collar, and this in turn to a stake
that had been freshly pulled from the ground. This beast was
Fenris,--the woods creature that old Hiram Melville had raised from
cubdom.

There could be no doubt as to the reality of the girl's peril. The
animal was insane with the hunting madness, and he was plainly stalking
her, just as his fierce mother might have stalked a fawn, across the
young grass. Already he was almost near enough to leap, and the girl's
young, strong body could be no defense against the hundred and fifty
pounds of wire sinew and lightning muscle that constituted the wolf. The
bared fangs need flash but once for such game as this. And yet, after
the first, startled glance, Ben Darby felt himself complete master of
the situation.

No man could tell him why. No fact of his life would have been harder to
explain, no impulse in all his days had had a more inscrutable origin.
The realization seemed to spring from some cool, sequestered knowledge
hidden deep in his spirit. He knew, in one breathless instant, that he
was the master--and that the girl was safe.

He seemed to know, again, that he had found his ordained sphere. He knew
this breed,--this savage, blood-mad, fierce-eyed creature that turned,
snarling, at his approach. He had something in common with the breed,
knowing their blood-lusts and their mighty moods; and dim, dreamlike
memory reminded him that he had mastered them in a long war that went
down to the roots of time. Fenris was only a fellow wilderness creature,
a pack brother of the dark forests, and he had no further cause for
fear.

"Fenris!" he ordered sharply. "Come here!" His voice was commanding and
clear above the animal's snarls.

There followed a curious, long instant of utter silence and infinite
suspense. The girl's scream died on her lips: the wolf stood tense,
wholly motionless. Morris, who had drawn his knife and had prepared to
leap with magnificent daring upon the wolf, turned with widening eyes,
instinctively aware of impending miracle. Ben's eyes met those of the
wolf, commanding and unafraid.

"Down, Fenris," Ben said again. "Down!"

Then slowly, steadily, Ben moved toward him. Watching unbelieving,
Morris saw the fierce eyes begin to lose their fire. The stiff hair on
the shoulders fell into place, tense muscle relaxed. He saw in wonder
that the animal was trembling all over.

Ben stood beside him now, his hand reaching. "Down, down," he cautioned
quietly. Suddenly the wolf crouched, cowering, at his feet.

X

Ben straightened to find himself under a wondering scrutiny by both
Morris and the girl. "Good Lord, Darby!" the former exclaimed. "How did
you do it--"

Now that the suspense was over, Ben himself stood smiling, quite at
ease. "Can't say just how. I just felt that I could--I've always been
able to handle animals. He's tame, anyway."

"Tame, is he? You ought to have had to care for him the last few weeks,
and you'd think tame. Not once have I dared go in reach of his rope. And
there he is, crouched at your feet! I was always dreading he'd get
away--" Morris paused, evidently remembering the girl. "Beatrice, are
you hurt?"

The girl moved toward them. "No. He didn't touch me. But you came just
in time--" The girl's voice wavered; and Ben stepped to her side. "I'm
all right now--"

"But you'd better sit down," Ben advised quietly. "It was enough to
scare any one to death--"

"Any one--but you--" the girl replied, her voice still unsteady. But she
paused when she saw the warm color spread over Ben's rugged, brown face.
And his embarrassment was real. Naturally shy and unassuming, such
effusive praise as this always disturbed him--just as it would have
embarrassed any really masculine man alive. Women, more extravagant in
speech and loving flattery with a higher ardor, would have found it hard
to believe how really distressed he was; but Morris, an outdoor man to
the core, understood completely. Besides, Ben knew that the praise was
not deserved. Excessive bravery had played no part in the scene of a
moment before. He had been brave just as far as Morris was brave,
leaping freely in response to a call for help: the same degree of
bravery that can be counted on in most men, over the face of the earth.
Bravery does not lie alone in facing danger: there must also be the
consciousness of danger, the conquest of fear. In this case Ben had felt
no fear. He knew with a sure, true knowledge that he was master of the
wolf. He knew the wolf's response to his words before ever he spoke. And
now all the words in the language could not convey to these others
whence that knowledge had come.

He vaguely realized that this had always been some way part of his
destiny,--the imposition of his will over the beasts of the forest. He
had never tried to puzzle out why, knowing that such trial would be
unavailing. He had instinctively understood such creatures as these.
To-day he felt that he knew the wild, fierce heart beating in the lean
breast as a man might know his brother's heart. The bond between them
was hidden from his sight, something back of him, beyond him, enfolded
within a secret self that was mysterious as a dream, and it reached into
the countless years; yet it was real, an ancient relationship that was
no less intimate because it could not be named. In turn, the wolf had
seemed to know that this tall form was a born habitant of the forests,
even as himself, one that would kill him as unmercifully as he himself
would kill a fall, and whose dark eyes, swept with fire, and whose cool,
strong words must never be disobeyed.

"You never seen this wolf before?" Morris asked him, calling him from
his revery.

"Never."

"Then you must be old Hiram's brother himself, to control him like you
did. Lord, look at him. Crouching at your feet."

Suddenly Ben reached and took the wolf's head between his hands. Slowly
he lifted the savage face till their eyes met. The wolf growled, then,
whimpering, tried to avert its gaze. Then a rough tongue lapped at the
man's hand.

"There's nothing to be afraid of, now," he told the girl.

"He's right, Beatrice," Morris agreed. "He's tamed him. Even I can see
that much. And I never saw anything like it, since the day I was born."

It was true: as far as Ben was concerned, the terrible Fenris--named by
a Swedish trapper, acquaintance of Hiram Melville's, for the dreadful
wolf of Scandinavian legend--was tamed. He had found a new master; Ben
had won a servant and friend whose loyalty would never waver as long as
blood flowed in his veins and breath surged in his lungs. "Lay still,
now, Fenris," he ordered. "Don't get up till I tell you."

It seems to be true that as a rule the lower animals catch the meaning
of but few words; usually the tone of the voice and the gesture that
accompanies it interpret a spoken order in a dog's brain. On this
occasion, it was as if Fenris had read his master's thought. He lay
supine, his eyes intent on Ben's rugged face.

And now, for the first time, Ben found himself regarding Beatrice. He
could scarcely take his eyes from her face. He knew perfectly that he
was staring rudely, but he was without the power to turn his eyes. Her
dark eyes fell under his gaze.

The truth was that Ben's life had been singularly untouched by the
influence of women. Mostly his life had been spent in the unpeopled
forest, away from women of all kinds; and such creatures as had admired
him in Seattle's underworld had never got close to him. He had had many
dreams; but some way it had never been credible to him that he should
ever know womanhood as a source of comradeship and happiness. Love and
marriage had always seemed infinitely apart from his wild, adventurous
life.

In his days in prison he had given up all dream of this happiness; but
now he could begin to dream again. Everything was changed now that he
had come home. The girl's regard for him was friendly, even somewhat
admiring, and the speculations of ripening womanhood were in her eyes.
He returned her gaze with frankest interest and admiration. His senses
had been made sharp in his wilderness life; and his respect for her grew
apace. She was not only innocent and girlish; she had those traits,
innate, that a strong man loves in women: such worth and depth of
character as he wishes bequeathed to his children.

Ben drew a long breath. It was good to be home. He had not only found
his forests, just as he had left them, but now again he was among the
forest people. This girl was of his own breed, not a stranger; her
standards were his; she was a woods girl no less than he was a woodsman.
It is good to be among one's own people, those who can follow through
and understand. She too knew the urge of unbridled vitality and spirit,
common to all the woods children; and life's vivid meaning was her
inheritance, no less than his. Her arms and lips were warm from
fast-flowing blood, her nerves were vibrant and singing like his own. A
virgin still, her eyes were tender with the warmheartedness that is such
a dominant trait of frontier peoples; but what fire, what passion might
burn in them to-morrow! They were dark, lovely eyes, rather somber now
in their earnestness, seeming shadowed by the dark shadows of the spruce
themselves.

No human face had ever given him such an image of beauty as that of this
dark-eyed forest child before him. Yet she was not piquant, demure, like
the girls he had met in France; not stylish and sophisticated like those
of the great cities he had visited since his return. Her garb became
her: simple, not holding the eye in itself but calling attention to the
brunette beauty of her throat and face, the warm redness of her childish
mouth, and the brown, warm color of her arms. She had dark, waving hair,
lovely to touch, wistful red lips. Because he was the woodsman, now and
always, he marked with pleasure that there was no indication of
ill-health or physical weakness about her. Her body was lithe and
strong, with the grace of the wild creatures.

It would be good to know her, and walk beside her in the tree aisles.
All manner of delectable possibilities occurred to him. But all at once
he checked his dreams with an iron will.

There must be no thought of women in his life--for now. He still had his
way to make. A few hours more would find him plunging deeper into the
forest, perhaps never to see her again. He felt an all-pervading sense
of regret.

"There's nothing I can say--to thank you," the girl was murmuring. "I
never saw anything like it; it was just as if the wolf understood every
word you said."

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