The Silent Battle. Gibbs George
sitting motionless, watching him, both creels beside her, her hand holding up to the fire a stick which stuck through the fish she had cooked. The saucepan was simmering in the ashes.
“How do they taste?” he asked cheerfully.
“I haven’t eaten any.”
“Why not?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Oh, you mustn’t do that,” sharply. “I didn’t want you to wait.”
“You know,” she interrupted, “I’m your guest.”
“I didn’t know it,” he laughed. “I thought I was yours. It’s your saucepan–”
“But your fish—” she added, and then indicating a little mischievously, “except that biggest one—which was mine. But I’m afraid they’ll be cold—I’ve waited so long. You must eat at once, you’re awfully tired.”
“Oh, no, I’ve still got a lot to do. I’ll just take a bite and–”
“Please sit down—you must, really.”
Her fingers touched the sleeve of his shirt and he yielded, sinking beside her with an unconscious sigh of relaxation which was more like a groan. He was dead-tired—how tired he had not known until he had yielded. She saw the haggard look in his eyes and the lines which the firelight was drawing around his cheek-bones, and at the corners of his mouth; and it came to her suddenly that he might not be so strong as she had thought him. If he was an invalid from the South, the burden of carrying her through the woods might easily have taxed his strength. She examined his face critically for a moment, and then fumbling quickly in the pocket of her dress drew forth a small, new-looking flask, which gleamed brightly in the firelight.
“Here,” she said kindly, “take some of this, it will do you good.”
Gallatin followed her motion wearily. Her hand had even reached the cap of the bottle and had given it a preparatory twist before he understood what it all meant. Then he started suddenly upright and put his fingers over hers.
“No!” he muttered huskily. “Not that—I—I don’t—I won’t have anything—thank you.”
And as she watched his lowering brows and tightly drawn lips—puzzled and not a little curious, he stumbled to his feet and hurriedly replaced a log which had fallen from the fire. But when a moment later he returned to his place, his features bore no signs of discomposure.
“I think I’m only hungry,” he mumbled.
She unhooked the largest fish from the stick and handed it to him daintily.
“There, that’s yours. I’ve been saving it for you—just to convince you that I’m the better fisherman.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said soberly. “I’m a good deal of a duffer at this game.”
“But then,” she put in generously, “you caught more than I did, and that evens matters.”
They had begun eating now, and in a moment it seemed that food was the only thing they had lacked. As became two healthy young animals, they ate ravenously of the biscuits she had carried and all of the fish she had prepared, and then Gallatin cooked more. The girl removed the metal cup from the bottom of her flask and taking turn and turn about with the tiny vessel they drank the steaming tea. In this familiar act they seemed to have reached at once a definite and satisfactory understanding. Gallatin was thankful for that, and he was careful to put her still further at her ease by a somewhat obtrusive air of indifference. She repaid him for this consideration by the frankness of her smile. He examined her furtively when he could and was conscious that when his face was turned in profile, she, too, was studying him anxiously, as only a woman in such a situation might. Whatever it was that she learned was not unpleasing to her, for, as he raised his hand to carry the tea to his lips, her voice was raised in a different tone.
“Your hands!” she said. “They’re all cut and bleeding.”
He glanced at his broken knuckles impersonally.
“Are they? I hadn’t noticed before. You see, I hadn’t any hatchet.”
“Won’t you let me—hadn’t you better bathe them in the water?”
“A bath wouldn’t hurt them, would it?”
“I didn’t mean that. Don’t they hurt?”
“No, not at all. But I wish I had Joe’s axe.”
“Who’s Joe?”
“My guide.”
“Oh.”
She questioned no further; for here, she realized instinctively, were the ends of the essential, the beginnings of the personal. And so the conversation quickly turned to practical considerations. Of one thing she was now assured—her companion was a gentleman. What kind of a gentleman she had not guessed, for there were many kinds, she had discovered; but there was nothing unduly alarming in his manner or appearance and she concluded for the present to accept him, with reservations, upon his face value.
His body fed, Gallatin felt singularly comfortable. The problems that had hung so thickly around his head a while ago, were going up with the smoke of the fire. Here were meat, drink and society. Were not these, after all, the end and aim of human existence? Had the hoary earth with all its vast treasures ever been able to produce more? He took his pouch from his pocket, and asking if he might smoke, lit his pipe with a coal from the fire (for matches were precious) and sank back at the girl’s feet. The time for confidences, were there to be any, had arrived. She felt it in the sudden stoppage of the desultory flow of comment and in the polite, if appraising steadiness of his gaze.
“I suppose you have a right to know what I’m doing here,” she said flushing a little, “but there isn’t anything to tell. I left our camp—as you did, to fish. I’ve done it before, often. Sometimes alone—sometimes with a party. I—I wasn’t alone this morning and I—I—” she hesitated, frowning. “It doesn’t matter in the least about that, of course,” she went on quickly. “I—I got separated from my—my companion and went farther into the brush than I had intended to do. When I found that I had lost my way, I called again and again. Nobody answered. Then something happened to me, I don’t know what. I think it must have been the sound of the echoes of my own voice that frightened me, for suddenly I seemed to go mad with terror. After that I don’t remember anything, except that I felt I must reach the end of the woods, so that I could see beyond the barrier of trees which seemed to be closing in about me like living things. It was frightful. I only knew that I went on and on—until I saw you. And after that—” her words were slower, her voice dropped a note and then stopped altogether—“and that is all,” she finished.
“It’s enough, God knows,” he said, sitting upright. “You must have suffered.”
“I did—I wonder what got into me. I’ve never been frightened in the woods before.” She turned her head over her shoulder and peered into the shadows. “I don’t seem to be frightened now.”
“I’m glad. I’m going to try to make you forget that. You’re in no danger here. To-morrow I’ll try to find my back trail—or Joe Keegón may follow mine. In the meanwhile”—and he started to his feet, “I’ve got a lot to do. Just sit quietly there and nurse your ankle while I make your bed. And if I don’t make it properly, the way you’re used to having it, just tell me. Won’t you?”
“Hair, please, with linen sheets, and a down pillow,” she enjoined.
“I’ll try,” he said with a laugh, for he knew now that the tone she used was only a cloak to hide the shrinking of her spirit. She sat as he had commanded, leaning as comfortably as she could against the tree trunk, watching his dim figure as it moved back and forth among the shadows. First he trod upon and scraped the ground, picking up small stones and twigs and throwing them into the darkness until he had cleared a level spot. Then piece by piece he laid the caribou moss as evenly as he could. He had seen Joe do this some days ago when they had made their three-day