The Silent Battle. Gibbs George
pleasant one. Until a moment ago, he had been merely a man in the woods—a kindly person of intelligence with a talent for the building of balsam beds; in the last few minutes he had developed an outline, a quite too visible personality, and instinctively she withdrew from the contact.
“I think I can sleep now,” she said.
He understood. His place was at the fireside and he took it without reluctance, aware of a sense of self-reproach. It had been her privilege to be a fool—but not his. He threw a careless glance at her over his shoulder.
“If you’re still timid, I’ll sit up and watch.”
“No, you mustn’t do that.” But by this time he had taken another coal for his pipe and sitting, Indian-fashion, was calmly puffing.
“I’m going to, anyway,” he said. “Don’t bother about me, please.”
Without reply she stretched herself on the couch and disposed herself again to sleep. This time she buried her head in her arms and lay immovable. He knew that she was not asleep and that she was still listening for the menace of the silences; but he knew, too, that if suffer she must, he could not help her. A moment ago he had been on the point of taking her in his arms and soothing her as he would have done a child. They had been very close in spirit at that moment, drawn together like two vessels alone in a calm waste of water. It was the appeal of her helplessness to his strength, his strength to her helplessness, of course, and yet–
For a long while Gallatin watched the flames as they rose and fell and the column of smoke that drifted upward on the still night air and lost itself among the leaves overhead. The voices he heard no more. The fire crackled, a vagrant breeze sighed, a bird called somewhere, but he realized that he was listening for another sound. The girl had not moved since he had last spoken, and now he heard the rhythmic breathing which told him that at last she was asleep. He waited some moments more, then softly arose, took up his coat, which he had thrown over a log, and laid it gently over her shoulders. Then he crept back to his fire.
IV
EDEN
Dawn stalked solemnly forth and the heavens were rosy with light. Gallatin stirred uneasily, then raised his head stiffly, peered around and with difficulty got himself into a sitting posture. Fire still glowed in the chinks of the largest log, but the air was chill. He took out his watch and looked at it, winding it carefully. He had slept five hours, without moving.
He was now accustomed to the convention of awaking early, with all his faculties keenly alive; and he rose to his feet, rubbing the stiffness out of his limbs and back, smiling joyously up at the gracious day. In the shelter, her back toward the fire, her head hidden in her arms, the girl still slept soundly. Cautiously Gallatin replenished the fire, piling on the last of his wood. Save for a little stiffness in his back, there were, it seemed, no penalties to be imposed for his night in the open.
A shaft of sunlight shot across the topmost branches of the trees, and instantly, as though at a signal, the woods were alive with sound. There was a mad scampering in the pine boughs above him, and a squirrel leapt into the air, scurried through the branches of a maple and disappeared; two tiny wrens engaged in a noisy discussion about the family breakfast, a blue-jay screamed and a woodpecker tattoed the call to the business of the day. This, Gallatin knew, was meant for him. There was much to be done, but he fell to with a will, his muscles eager for the task, his mind cleared of the fogs of doubt and speculation which had dimmed it the night before. There were no problems he could not solve alone, no difficulties his ingenuity could not surmount. The old blood of his race, which years before had conquered this same wilderness, or another one like it, surged new in his veins and he rejoiced in the chance to test his strength against the unhandselled matter which opposed him. The forest smiled upon him, already gracious in defeat.
He returned to camp after a turn through the woods, and in one hand was a clean sliver of birch-bark, filled with blueberries. He put them safely in a hollow place in the fallen tree, filled the saucepan with water and placed it in the fire to boil. Then he cleaned fish.
He worked noiselessly, bringing more firewood, plenty of which was still close at hand; and after a glance at the sleeping girl, he unsheathed his knife and went again into the brush. There, after a search, he found what he was looking for—a straight young oak tree, about two inches in diameter. He succeeded at last, with much pains and care for his knife, in cutting it through and trimming off the small branches. At the upper end of this club was a V-shaped crotch, made by two strong forking branches, which he cut and whittled until they were to his liking. Returning to the fire, he emptied his fly-hook, took his rod and unreeled a good length of line, which he cut off and placed on the log beside him. Then with the line, he bound the fly-hook, stuffed with caribou moss, into the fork of his stick, wrapping the strong cord carefully until he had made a serviceable crutch. He was hobbling around near the fire on it, testing its utility when he heard a gasp of amazement. He had been so engrossed in his task that he had not thought of the object of these attentions, and when he glanced toward the shelter, she was sitting upright, regarding him curiously.
“What on earth are you doing?”
He laughed gayly.
“Good morning! Hobbling, I believe. Don’t I do it nicely?”
“You—you’ve hurt yourself?”
He took the crutch from under his arm and looked at it admiringly.
“Oh, no—but you have.”
“I! Oh, yes. I forgot. I don’t think I’ll need it at all. I—” She started up and tried to put her foot down and then sank back in dismay. “It seems to still hurt me a little,” she said quietly.
“Of course it does. You don’t get over that sort of thing in a minute. It will be better when the blood gets into it. Meanwhile,” he handed her the stick, “you must use this. Breakfast will be ready in a minute, so if you feel like making a toilet–”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she glanced around her at the patines of gold the sun had laid over the floor of their breakfast-room and asked the time.
“Half past seven.”
“Then I’ve slept–”
“Nearly nine hours.”
He started forward to help her to her feet and as he did so, she saw his coat, which had fallen from her shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have given me your coat. You must have frozen.”
“On the contrary, I was quite comfortable. The night was balmy—besides, I was nearer the fire.”
“I’m very much obliged,” she said. After one or two clumsy efforts she managed to master her crutch and, refusing his aid, made her way to the stream without difficulty.
Gallatin spitted the fish on the charred sticks of yesterday and held them up to the fire, his appetite pleasantly assertive at the first delicious odor. When the girl joined him a while later, all was ready, the last of the tea darkening the simmering pot, the cooked fish lying in a row on a flat stone in the fire.
As she hobbled up he rose and offered her a place on the log beside him.
“I hope you’re hungry. I am. Our menu is small but most select—blueberries Ojibway, trout sauté, and Bohea en casserole. The biscuits, I’m ashamed to say, are no more.”
She reflected his manner admirably. “Splendid! I fairly dote on blueberries. Where did you get them? You’re really a very wonderful person. For luncheon, of course, cress and dandelion salad, fish and a venison pasty. For dinner–”
“Don’t be too sure,” he laughed. “Let’s eat what we’ve got and be thankful.”
“I am thankful,” she said, picking at the blueberries. “I might have been still lying over there in the leaves.” She turned her face confidingly to his. “Do you know, I thought you were a bear.”
“Did you?”
“Until you pointed a pistol at me—and then I thought you were an Indian.”
“I’m