The Man of the Forest by Zane Grey (read me like a book txt) 📗

back from his neck. An' you'll see that this cruelty of nature—this work of the wolf an' cougar—is what makes the deer so beautiful an' healthy an' swift an' sensitive. Without his deadly foes the deer would deteriorate an' die out. An' you'll see how this principle works out among all creatures of the forest. Strife! It's the meanin' of all creation, an' the salvation. If you're quick to see, you'll learn that the nature here in the wilds is the same as that of men—only men are no longer cannibals. Trees fight to live—birds fight—animals fight—men fight. They all live off one another. An' it's this fightin' that brings them all closer an' closer to bein' perfect. But nothin' will ever be perfect.”

“But how about religion?” interrupted Helen, earnestly.

“Nature has a religion, an' it's to live—to grow—to reproduce, each of its kind.”

“But that is not God or the immortality of the soul,” declared Helen.

“Well, it's as close to God an' immortality as nature ever gets.”

“Oh, you would rob me of my religion!”

“No, I just talk as I see life,” replied Dale, reflectively, as he poked a stick into the red embers of the fire. “Maybe I have a religion. I don't know. But it's not the kind you have—not the Bible kind. That kind doesn't keep the men in Pine an' Snowdrop an' all over—sheepmen an' ranchers an' farmers an' travelers, such as I've known—the religion they profess doesn't keep them from lyin', cheatin', stealin', an' killin'. I reckon no man who lives as I do—which perhaps is my religion—will lie or cheat or steal or kill, unless it's to kill in self-defense or like I'd do if Snake Anson would ride up here now. My religion, maybe, is love of life—wild life as it was in the beginnin'—an' the wind that blows secrets from everywhere, an' the water that sings all day an' night, an' the stars that shine constant, an' the trees that speak somehow, an' the rocks that aren't dead. I'm never alone here or on the trails. There's somethin' unseen, but always with me. An' that's It! Call it God if you like. But what stalls me is—where was that Spirit when this earth was a ball of fiery gas? Where will that Spirit be when all life is frozen out or burned out on this globe an' it hangs dead in space like the moon? That time will come. There's no waste in nature. Not the littlest atom is destroyed. It changes, that's all, as you see this pine wood go up in smoke an' feel somethin' that's heat come out of it. Where does that go? It's not lost. Nothin' is lost. So, the beautiful an' savin' thought is, maybe all rock an' wood, water an' blood an' flesh, are resolved back into the elements, to come to life somewhere again sometime.”

“Oh, what you say is wonderful, but it's terrible!” exclaimed Helen. He had struck deep into her soul.

“Terrible? I reckon,” he replied, sadly.

Then ensued a little interval of silence.

“Milt Dale, I lose the bet,” declared Bo, with earnestness behind her frivolity.

“I'd forgotten that. Reckon I talked a lot,” he said, apologetically. “You see, I don't get much chance to talk, except to myself or Tom. Years ago, when I found the habit of silence settlin' down on me, I took to thinkin' out loud an' talkin' to anythin'.”

“I could listen to you all night,” returned Bo, dreamily.

“Do you read—do you have books?” inquired Helen, suddenly.

“Yes, I read tolerable well; a good deal better than I talk or write,” he replied. “I went to school till I was fifteen. Always hated study, but liked to read. Years ago an old friend of mine down here at Pine—Widow Cass—she gave me a lot of old books. An' I packed them up here. Winter's the time I read.”

Conversation lagged after that, except for desultory remarks, and presently Dale bade the girls good night and left them. Helen watched his tall form vanish in the gloom under the pines, and after he had disappeared she still stared.

“Nell!” called Bo, shrilly. “I've called you three times. I want to go to bed.”

“Oh! I—I was thinking,” rejoined Helen, half embarrassed, half wondering at herself. “I didn't hear you.”

“I should smile you didn't,” retorted Bo. “Wish you could just have seen your eyes. Nell, do you want me to tell you something?

“Why—yes,” said Helen, rather feebly. She did not at all, when Bo talked like that.

“You're going to fall in love with that wild hunter,” declared Bo in a voice that rang like a bell.

Helen was not only amazed, but enraged. She caught her breath preparatory to giving this incorrigible sister a piece of her mind. Bo went calmly on.

“I can feel it in my bones.”

“Bo, you're a little fool—a sentimental, romancing, gushy little fool!” retorted Helen. “All you seem to hold in your head is some rot about love. To hear you talk one would think there's nothing else in the world but love.”

Bo's eyes were bright, shrewd, affectionate, and laughing as she bent their steady gaze upon Helen.

“Nell, that's just it. There IS nothing else!”