Through all the night following Dabney Mills’ veiled accusation of John Herrick, Beatrice slept very little. A tireless procession of thoughts went trooping through her weary mind: Aunt Anna’s story of her brother, that strange vision of John Herrick walking back and forth in the moonlight, the sight of his departure. What did all these things mean in the end? Perhaps John Herrick had gone away forever, perhaps Dabney Mills had real proofs of—no, no that could not be! Come what might, she would never believe anything against John Herrick. It was a help, at least, to think that next day she was to go over the pass to bring Nancy back, and that she could ask the advice of Dr. Minturn. He alone could be trusted with knowledge of both sides of the affair; he would give her counsel from a wise and friendly heart. The comfort of this thought brought her sleep at last.
As early as she could make ready, she set off next morning. She stopped for a minute at the door of the Herrick’s house, hoping to hear that she had been mistaken in her understanding of what she had seen. But no, Hester met her at the door with heavy eyes and told her that John Herrick had gone away very suddenly, “soon after that horrid boy, Dabney Mills, had been here. He took his tent and quite a supply of food. He may have been planning to camp several days, but he didn’t tell me where or why. He just said, ‘so-long Hester; better luck by and by,’ and galloped away.”
Much disheartened, Beatrice turned her horse’s head to the trail and began to mount steadily the zigzag path that led to Gray Cloud Pass. The way had grown familiar now, so that instead of looking out at the wide panorama of mountains or gazing ahead to search out the trail, she was free to observe smaller things: a hollow tree with an owl’s nest in it from which a red-brown head with inquisitive round eyes was thrust to watch her pass; the busy little gophers that popped in and out of their holes at her approach, consumed by both curiosity and alarm; the awkward, unhurried porcupine that crossed the trail ahead of her and disappeared into the brush. She knew well that the forest about her must be alive with tiny, bright eyes and sharp, peering little faces, but she had neither time nor patience to watch for them. So full was she of surging hopes and desires, her one idea was to push forward. To seek advice, find out what was the best thing to do, and then do it—those were the only things that would bring her peace of mind.
The day was not so clear as yesterday had been. The sun shone with less warmth, even as noon approached, the hills were dun-color and the far mountains purple instead of blue. Beatrice was not weather-wise enough to know just what such conditions meant, nor could she have hurried forward more impatiently if she had. Even the willing Buck finally protested against the haste she demanded of him and refused to increase his speed even when she touched him with the whip.
There was a certain level stretch of ground that she remembered, a nook between two rocks, with the stream splashing below. She was determined to reach this spot before she stopped to eat her lunch, although noon had passed and she was beginning to be hungry. She finally came up the last rise of the steep path, breathless with haste, and did not observe the curl of blue smoke that was going up from behind the rocks. Dismounting, and with Buck’s bridle over her arm, she turned the corner of the wall of rock to find her picnic ground occupied. A little fire was burning between two stones, a string of trout hung before it, and a slim black mare grazed lazily beside the mountain wall. The man who turned to greet her was John Herrick.
Her mind had been so full of thoughts of him that for a moment it seemed impossible to speak to him naturally. He also stood, surprised and nonplussed, apparently unable to utter a word. He took Buck’s bridle from her at last and, still in silence, loosened the girths, lifted off the saddle, and let the horse roll luxuriously on the grass.
“You have ridden him too hard,” he said at length, looking at Buck’s wet sides and wide nostrils. “Not even a mountain-bred pony can stand such a pace. Why, did you hurry so? Was there anything the matter?”
“N-no,” replied Beatrice doubtfully. She could not have told him why she had been in such impatient haste; perhaps she could not even explain it to herself. Certainly she was in no hurry to go forward now, but knelt down by the fire and fell to turning the trout, while he picketed her horse and spread a blanket for her to sit on. As she looked up to thank him she saw that the heavy cloud that had been visible on his face when she first saw him was lifted now, making him look his smiling, cheerful self again. It was as though her chance coming had done him good.
The picnic yesterday had been merry, but this one, somehow seemed gayer still. They joked and laughed as they shared in the preparations; he tried to teach her how to make flapjacks and laughed at her awkwardness when she attempted to toss them; she criticized his method of boiling coffee and made him admit that hers was better. As they sat eating he told her tales of past camping adventures; how he had once crawled into a cavern under a cliff to take shelter from the rain and had discovered that it was the home of a most unamiable mountain lion; how, in his tent, far up on Gray Cloud Mountain, a grizzly bear cub had slipped under the canvas and invited itself to share his bed.
“And I had to be polite to the pushing, grunting little beast,” he said, “for its mother and my rifle were both outside.&rdqu............