  Two girls were following a narrow trail. About them the woods were scarlet and flame, golden and bronze, and in contrast the blue-green depth of tall pine and cedar trees. Down a steep hill the trail led; on either side a thick underbrush of wild grapevines and blackberries that twisted and sprawled, showing shriveled clumps of seed pods where formerly the fruit had ripened. One of the girls, wearing a corduroy costume of hunter’s green and a tam-o-shanter of the same shade, was carrying a rifle, while over her shoulder hung a brace of rabbits and half a dozen quail. Following close behind her the second girl’s costume was of the same character, a short skirt and coat with leather leggings and high boots, but of dark blue. “Do you think we are lost, Gill?” she inquired cheerfully. Her companion shook her head. “Well, as David Murray says, we are where we shouldn’t be and don’t know where we are, but I should never call that being lost, would you, Bettina?” Grasping a small birch tree firmly so as not to be obliged to continue her descent, and forcing Bettina to imitate her example, Gill turned halfway around. “To get down this hill and find our camp before dusk I suggest that we follow the fashion set by ‘The Waters at Lodore’. I am not sufficiently literary to recall the exact lines of the poem, I leave that to you, Princess, but there was something about their dashing, splashing and tumbling, something quick and active, and in contrast to our methods for this past hour. Farewell, valor at present is the better part of discretion, to transpose the axiom.” As she ceased speaking, releasing the slender young tree and bracing her feet together, Mary Gilchrist began to slide down the steep incline. In the heart of the Adirondack forest it was now early in the month of November and about four o’clock in the afternoon. Overhead the sun was still shining and the sky a warm blue, yet from the ground arose a light mist, playing in and out amid the underbrush and the bases of the trees, ethereal and evanescent, the floating draperies of unseen fairies holding an autumn carnival. Bettina Graham continued her downward progress more slowly and cautiously. Over the trail beech leaves and birch leaves and the long fingers of the pine had blown in little drifts of amber and green which, mixing with the decaying wood and wet earth, formed a slippery aisle. Ten minutes elapsed before Bettina rejoined her companion. She then discovered Mary Gilchrist seated upon an overturned log, her gun and game on the ground beside her, her hat in her lap, while she shook bits of brushwood, twigs and leaves from her hair and removed them from her apparel. The autumn sun shone through an arch of branches overhead on the red-brown of her hair, on her eyes so nearly the same color, on her healthy, lightly freckled skin, and her full, irregular lips. “I am glad the turn in the trail concealed the latter part of my prowess as a mountaineer, Bettina. I certainly came down swiftly enough toward the end. In fact, I had hard work holding on to my rifle,” Gill announced, shaking her head a second time so that a bronze leaf slid on to the earth. “But if I lost my dignity I did not lose my gun or game.” “You are not hurt, are you, Gill?” Bettina asked, looking with admiration and amusement at her companion. Then as she shook her head: “Do you know, Gill, it has been a curious fact in our Camp Fire life together, living as we have for the past few years in different places and under such a variety of conditions, to find here and there one of us discover the environment for which she must have been intended. Vera Lagerloff and Alice Ashton, for instance, were at their best when doing reconstruction work in France. You, Gill, were very busy and useful over there, and yet no one has known the real you until these past few weeks in the mountains. Yet why should this be true when you lived all your past life in the western prairie country until your desire to drive a motor in France led you to join our Camp Fire and help with the relief work?” “I sometimes feel that I have not yet found my true environment. Do you remember the wonderful new play Tante read aloud the other evening, ‘Beyond the Horizon’, whose theme is that each human being must live in harmony with his own nature, else he will never find happiness or success?” Mary Gilchrist smiled. “I remember it after a fashion, but, Bettina dear, please don’t ask me to understand literary subtleties. You know there is no one in the world who cares less than I for books, although to my shame I confess it, but I don’t believe I ever read or studied voluntarily save when I thought it my duty. Every interest with me is an outdoor interest and I confess I have never loved any place so well as these Adirondack forests. Somewhere in my past I must have had an Indian ancestor, not a squaw, but a great chief who roamed these hills, hunting and fishing, sleeping and living outdoors when it was possible, because I feel at present as if I never wished to do anything else, except perhaps see my friends and family now and then. But enough of conversation, Bettina, woodsmen or woodswomen we have been told were a silent race and we must learn the law of the woods. What I really would like to know is in what direction we should travel to reach camp in the shortest length of time. We have been following a deer trail I believe that has led us nowhere. However, we cannot be many miles out of the way. We must move now toward the west, and, Bettina, let’s not separate again, you know you have no sense of direction once you are more than a mile away from camp.” Unable to dispute this assertion, Bettina Graham, who was beginning to grow tired while her companion appeared as fresh as when they set out, followed obediently beside her. A half hour longer they walked, Gill rarely hesitating, although keeping her compass in her hand and glancing at it occasionally, when suddenly both girls stopped short. They were not alone in this portion of the woods. Not far off some one else was moving, finding the way slowly and uncertainly. Mary Gilchrist glanced at her rifle, which she carried with skill and assurance. “I cannot imagine who can be in the woods at so late an hour. I must try and find out.” Placing her fingers on her lips the girl uttered a shrill, clear call. Silence. A moment later she repeated the call. Then both girls heard a voice shouting in a tone of mingled terror and relief. “I have lost my path. Won’t some one come and find me? I can never manage to reach you.” The girls exchanged glances. “A lost knight in the dark forest, Bettina! Well, these are the days when women are the modern crusaders, so let us to the rescue!” Not many minutes after, the two girls came upon a young man of about twenty lying gracefully outstretched on the ground upon a fragrant bed of balsam, with an open book in his hands. As Bettina and Mary drew near he arose. “I was resting,” he explained, “knowing that you would have less difficulty in discovering me if I remained quiet in one spot.” His manner was so self-possessed and self-assured that Bettina smiled, observing, however, that Gill appeared annoyed. Small wonder! Their faces were flushed, their clothes covered with brambles from their search, while he showed no sign of discomfort. His hair, worn longer than was usual, was of a bright gold, his skin pallid and his cheeks slightly sunken, making his long, curiously shaped gray eyes more conspicuous. “Yes, one can see you have not disturbed yourself,” Gill returned. “Yet if you wish to be out of the woods before twilight, you had best make some effort. Fortunately I discovered the trail we were seeking while looking for you. Please follow me.” She turned sharply and moved off, her figure vanishing between the trees, every inch of her body alert, vigorous, almost boyish, with her rifle and game over her shoulder. Nevertheless the newcomer glanced at her with an expression of disapproval, while his eyes sought Bettina for sympathy. “I am a stranger in this locality,” he explained. “I intend spending the winter at a cabin in one of the clearings. ‘Long, long is the autumn dream in these corridors of heaven’,” he quoted. “Yes, I know,” Bettina answered; “still, I think it might be just as well not to discuss the beauty surrounding us for a short time and follow our guide. You cannot depend on me and I am sure you appear to be an equally unreliable woodsman. Gill,” Bettina called, realizing that Gill was walking more rapidly than usual and that they might be forced to run rather than lose sight of her. Out of breath they both were when finally they caught up. A few yards farther on, the path broadened, leading between an avenue of sugar maples raining golden leaves. “You have been hunting,” the young man remarked in an effort to induce Mary Gilchrist to behave as if she were aware of his existence. The fact was too obvious to require an answer, notwithstanding Gill nodded. “Do you actually mean you have shot and killed those pretty little things yourself, those gentle, furry rabbits with their soft eyes and cotton tails and the quail one can hear calling to one another with their sweet, throaty notes? The wild animals one might be willing to destroy, although I scarcely think that fair in their own haunts. Surely a portion of this world should be reserved to them as well! But even when one reconciles oneself to the idea of a man hunting, the thought of a woman or girl being willing to kill is beyond my conception.” Bettina saw the hot color flood Gill’s cheeks, saw her bite her lips. “Well, you may now broaden your conceptions! I have been hunting since I was a little girl, was taught by my father a good many years ago. Do you know I have an idea, that were we to invite you to have dinner with us to-night, no one would enjoy the game I have just killed more than you. There are so many people in this world who like to sentimentalize and leave the hard work to others, while they enjoy the results. You were quite willing to remain on your couch of balsam needles this afternoon while we scoured the woods in search of you. Your plan is an excellent one, so long as it is successful. Never do the difficult or disagreeable tasks; always find some one to do them for you.” Ordinarily gay and sweet tempered, Bettina glanced at the younger girl in surprise. If Gill were wounded by the stranger’s speech, her revenge had been swift and sure. Evidently her point had struck home, since, although he appeared angry, he made no reply. By this time they had reached a spot so near their camp that Bettina herself recognized the environment. A white birch tree stood alone in a small clearing, rising thirty feet in the air; on this autumn afternoon the foliage was still so dense that one could barely see the light between the thick branches. Their path led past this tree only a few yards away. The three of them paused. Issuing from between the leaves came the note of an animal, or bird, wild and plaintive, yet unfamiliar. In an instant Mary Gilchrist loaded her rifle, lifted it and fired. The same instant Bettina gave a quick cry of warning. The next a small figure fell from the tree, limp and headlong as a wounded bird. |
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