The Man of the Forest - Zane Grey (white hot kiss txt) 📗

CHAPTER VIII

Once astride the horse again, Helen had to congratulate

herself upon not being so crippled as she had imagined.

Indeed, Bo made all the audible complaints.

 

Both girls had long water-proof coats, brand-new, and of

which they were considerably proud. New clothes had not been

a common event in their lives.

 

“Reckon I’ll have to slit these,” Dale had said, whipping

out a huge knife.

 

“What for?” had been Bo’s feeble protest.

 

“They wasn’t made for ridin’. An’ you’ll get wet enough even

if I do cut them. An’ if I don’t, you’ll get soaked.”

 

“Go ahead,” had been Helen’s reluctant permission.

 

So their long new coats were slit half-way up the back. The

exigency of the case was manifest to Helen, when she saw how

they came down over the cantles of the saddles and to their

boot-tops.

 

The morning was gray and cold. A fine, misty rain fell and

the trees dripped steadily. Helen was surprised to see the

open country again and that apparently they were to leave

the forest behind for a while. The country was wide and flat

on the right, and to the left it rolled and heaved along a

black, scalloped timber-line. Above this bordering of the

forest low, drifting clouds obscured the mountains. The wind

was at Helen’s back and seemed to be growing stronger. Dale

and Roy were ahead, traveling at a good trot, with the

pack-animals bunched before them. Helen and Bo had enough to

do to keep up.

 

The first hour’s ride brought little change in weather or

scenery, but it gave Helen an inkling of what she must

endure if they kept that up all day. She began to welcome

the places where the horses walked, but she disliked the

levels. As for the descents, she hated those. Ranger would

not go down slowly and the shake-up she received was

unpleasant. Moreover, the spirited black horse insisted on

jumping the ditches and washes. He sailed over them like a

bird. Helen could not acquire the knack of sitting the

saddle properly, and so, not only was her person bruised on

these occasions, but her feelings were hurt. Helen had never

before been conscious of vanity. Still, she had never

rejoiced in looking at a disadvantage, and her exhibitions

here must have been frightful. Bo always would forge to the

front, and she seldom looked back, for which Helen was

grateful.

 

Before long they struck into a broad, muddy belt, full of

innumerable small hoof tracks. This, then, was the sheep

trail Roy had advised following. They rode on it for three

or four miles, and at length, coming to a gray-green valley,

they saw a huge flock of sheep. Soon the air was full of

bleats and baas as well as the odor of sheep, and a low,

soft roar of pattering hoofs. The flock held a compact

formation, covering several acres, and grazed along rapidly.

There were three herders on horses and several pack-burros.

Dale engaged one of the Mexicans in conversation, and passed

something to him, then pointed northward and down along the

trail. The Mexican grinned from ear to ear, and Helen caught

the quick “SI, SENOR! GRACIAS, SENOR!” It was a pretty

sight, that flock of sheep, as it rolled along like a

rounded woolly stream of grays and browns and here and there

a black. They were keeping to a trail over the flats. Dale

headed into this trail and, if anything, trotted a little

faster.

 

Presently the clouds lifted and broke, showing blue sky and

one streak of sunshine. But the augury was without warrant.

The wind increased. A huge black pall bore down from the

mountains and it brought rain that could be seen falling in

sheets from above and approaching like a swiftly moving

wall. Soon it enveloped the fugitives.

 

With head bowed, Helen rode along for what seemed ages in a

cold, gray rain that blew almost on a level. Finally the

heavy downpour passed, leaving a fine mist. The clouds

scurried low and dark, hiding the mountains altogether and

making the gray, wet plain a dreary sight. Helen’s feet and

knees were as wet as if she had waded in water. And they

were cold. Her gloves, too, had not been intended for rain,

and they were wet through. The cold bit at her fingers so

that she had to beat her hands together. Ranger

misunderstood this to mean that he was to trot faster, which

event was worse for Helen than freezing.

 

She saw another black, scudding mass of clouds bearing down

with its trailing sheets of rain, and this one appeared

streaked with white. Snow! The wind was now piercingly cold.

Helen’s body kept warm, but her extremities and ears began

to suffer exceedingly. She gazed ahead grimly. There was no

help; she had to go on. Dale and Roy were hunched down in

their saddles, probably wet through, for they wore no

rain-proof coats. Bo kept close behind them, and plain it

was that she felt the cold.

 

This second storm was not so bad as the first, because there

was less rain. Still, the icy keenness of the wind bit into

the marrow. It lasted for an hour, during which the horses

trotted on, trotted on. Again the gray torrent roared away,

the fine mist blew, the clouds lifted and separated, and,

closing again, darkened for another onslaught. This one

brought sleet. The driving pellets stung Helen’s neck and

cheeks, and for a while they fell so thick and so hard upon

her back that she was afraid she could not hold up under

them. The bare places on the ground showed a sparkling

coverlet of marbles of ice.

 

Thus, storm after storm rolled over Helen’s head. Her feet

grew numb and ceased to hurt. But her fingers, because of

her ceaseless efforts to keep up the circulation, retained

the stinging pain. And now the wind pierced right through

her. She marveled at her endurance, and there were many

times that she believed she could not ride farther. Yet she

kept on. All the winters she had ever lived had not brought

such a day as this. Hard and cold, wet and windy, at an

increasing elevation — that was the explanation. The air

did not have sufficient oxygen for her blood.

 

Still, during all those interminable hours, Helen watched

where she was traveling, and if she ever returned over that

trail she would recognize it. The afternoon appeared far

advanced when Dale and Roy led down into an immense basin

where a reedy lake spread over the flats. They rode along

its margin, splashing up to the knees of the horses. Cranes

and herons flew on with lumbering motion; flocks of ducks

winged swift flight from one side to the other. Beyond this

depression the land sloped rather abruptly; outcroppings of

rock circled along the edge of the highest ground, and again

a dark fringe of trees appeared.

 

How many miles! wondered Helen. They seemed as many and as

long as the hours. But at last, just as another hard rain

came, the pines were reached. They proved to be widely

scattered and afforded little protection from the storm.

 

Helen sat her saddle, a dead weight. Whenever Ranger

quickened his gait or crossed a ditch she held on to the

pommel to keep from falling off. Her mind harbored only

sensations of misery, and a persistent thought — why