Perhaps the motive that, in Fairlands, had restrained the artist from seeking to know his neighbor was without force in the mountains. Perhaps it was that, in the unconventional freedom of the hills, the man obeyed more readily his impulse. Aaron King did not stop to question. As though in answer to the call of that spirit which spoke in the tones of the violin, he moved in the direction from which the music came.
Climbing out of the bed of the stream to the bench that slopes hack--a quarter of a mile, perhaps--to the foot of the canyon wall, he found himself in an old road that, where it once crossed the creek, had been destroyed by the mountain floods. Wonderingly he followed the dimly marked track that led through the chaparral toward a thicket of cedars, from beyond which the music seemed to come. Where the road curved to find its way through the green barrier he paused--the musician, undoubtedly, now, was just beyond. Still acting upon the impulse of the moment, he cautiously parted the boughs and peered through into a little, open glade that was closed in on every side by the rank growth of the mountain vegetation, by the thicket of dark cedars and by tangled masses of wild rose-bushes. Opposite the spot where he stood, and half concealed by great sycamore trees, was a small, log house with a thread of blue smoke curling lazily from the chimney. The place was another of those old ranches that had been purchased by the Power Company and permitted to go back to the wilderness from which it had been won by some hardy settler. The little plot of open ground--well sodded with firm turf and short-cropped by roving cattle and deer--had evidently been, at one time, the front yard of the mountaineer's home. A little out from the porch, and in full view of the artist,--her graceful form outlined against the background of wild roses,--stood Sibyl Andres with her violin.
As the girl played,--her winsome face upturned to the mountain heights and her body, lightly poised, swaying with the movement of her arm as easily as a willow bough,--she appeared, to the man hidden in the cedars, as some beautiful spirit of the woods and hills--a spirit that would vanish instantly if he should step from his hiding place. He was so close that he could see her blue eyes, wide and unmindful of her surroundings; her lips, curved in an unconscious smile; and her cheeks, flushed with emotion under their warm brown tint--as she appeared to listen for the music that she, in turn,--seemingly with no effort of her will,--gave forth again in the tones of the instrument under her chin.
Aaron King was moved by the beauty of the picture as he had never been stirred before. The peculiar charm of the music; the loveliness of the girl herself; the setting of the scene in the little glade with its wild roses, giant sycamores, dark cedars, and encircling mountain walls, all in the soft mystery of the twilight's beginning; and, withal, the unexpectedness of the vision--combined to make an impression upon the artist's mind that would endure for many years.
Suddenly, as he watched, the music ceased. The girl lowered her violin, and, with a low laugh, said to some one on the porch--concealed from the painter by the trunk of a sycamore--"O Myra, I want to dance. I can't keep still. I'm so glad, glad to be home again--to see old 'San Berdo' and 'Gray Back' and all the rest of them up there!" She stretched out her arms as if in answer to a welcome from the hills. Then, whirling quickly, she gave the violin to her companion on the porch. "Play, Myra; please, dear, play."
At her word, the music of the violin began again--coming now, from behind the trunk of the sycamore. In the hands of the unseen musician, the instrument laughed and sang a song of joyous abandonment--of freedom and rejoicing--of happiness and love--while in perfect harmony with the spirit and the rhythm of the melody, the girl danced upon the firm, green carpet of grass. Here and there, to and fro, about the little glade shut in from the world by its walls of living green, she tripped and whirled in unstudied grace--lightly as if winged--unconscious as the wild creatures that play in the depths of the woods--wayward as the zephyr that trips along the mountainside.
It was a spontaneous expression of her spiritual and physical exaltation and was as natural as the laughter in her voice or the flush upon her cheeks. It was a dance that was like no dance that Aaron King had ever seen.
The artist--watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the old wagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision should vanish--forgot his position--forgot what he was doing. Fascinated by the scene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had so often heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude part he was playing. He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand upon his shoulder. As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and he found himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many years in the open.
The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist's attention stood a little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, but full-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred. He wore no coat. At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full, loosely buckled, cartridge belt. Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shield of the United States Forest Service. From under the brim of his slouch hat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly--in angry disapproval.
Instinctively, neither of the men spoke. A word would have been heard the other side of the cedars. With a gesture commanding the artist to follow, the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek.
When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girl in the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, "Now, sir, perhaps you will tell me who you are and what you mean by spying upon a couple of women, like that."
The other could not conceal his embarrassment. "I don't blame you for calling me to account," he said. "If it were me--if our positions were reversed I mean--I should kick you down into the creek there."
The cold, blue eyes--that had been measuring the painter so shrewdly--twinkled with a hint of humor. "You _do_ look like a gentleman, you know," the officer said,--as if excusing himself for not following the artist's suggestion. "But, all the same, you must explain. Who are you?"
"That part is easy, at least," returned the other. "Though the circumstance of our meeting _is_ a temptation to lie."
"Which would do you no good, and might lead to unpleasant complications," retorted the Ranger, sharply.
The man under question, still embarrassed, laughed shortly, as he returned, "I really was not thinking of it seriously. My name is Aaron King. I am an artist. You are Mr. Oakley, I suppose."
The officer nodded--beginning to smile. "Yes, I am Brian Oakley."
The artist continued, "A month ago, Conrad Lagrange and I came into the mountains for an outing. We stopped at the Station, but there was no one at home. Most of the time, we have been just roaming around. Now, we are camped down there, back of that old apple orchard."
The Ranger broke into a laugh. "Mrs. Oakley was visiting friends up the canyon, the day you came in; but Morton told me. I've crossed your trail a dozen times, and sighted you nearly as many; but I was always too busy to go to you. I knew Lagrange didn't need any attention, you see; so I just figured on meeting up with you somewhere by accident like--about meal time, mebbe." He laughed again. "The accident part worked out all right." He paused, still laughing--enjoying the artist's discomfiture; then ended with a curious--"What in thunder were you sneaking around in the brush like that for, anyway? Those women won't bite."
Aaron King explained how he had heard the music while fishing; and how, following the sound, he had acted upon an impulse to catch a glimpse of the unknown musician before revealing himself; and then, in his interest, had forgotten that he was playing the part of a spy--until so rudely aroused by the hand of the Ranger.
Brian Oakley chuckled; "If _I'd_ acted upon impulse when I first saw you peeking through those cedars, you would have been more surprised than you were. But while I was sneaking up on you I noticed your get-up--with your creel and rod--and figured how you might have come there. So I thought I would go a little slow."
"And you wear rather heavy boots too," said the artist suggestively. Then, more at ease, he joined in the laugh at himself.
"Catch any fish?" asked the Ranger--lifting the cover of the creel. "Whee!" as he saw the contents. "That's bully! And I'm hungry as a she wolf too! Been in the saddle since sunup without a bite. What do you say if I make that long deferred social call upon you and Lagrange this evening?"
"I say, good! Mr. Oakley," returned the artist, heartily. "I guess you know what Lagrange will say."
"You bet I do." He whistled--a low, birdlike note. In answer, a beautiful, chestnut saddle-horse came out of the chaparral, where it had not been seen by the painter. "We're going, Max," said the officer, in a matter-of-fact way. And, as the two men set out, the horse followed, with a business-like air that brought a word of admiring comment from the artist.
That Aaron King had won the approval of the Ranger was evidenced by the mountaineer's inviting himself to supper the camp in the sycamores. The fact that the officer considerately told Conrad Lagrange only that he had met the artist with his c............