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

The memory of a woman had ruined Milt Dale's peace, had confounded his philosophy of self-sufficient, lonely happiness in the solitude of the wilds, had forced him to come face to face with his soul and the fatal significance of life.

When he realized his defeat, that things were not as they seemed, that there was no joy for him in the coming of spring, that he had been blind in his free, sensorial, Indian relation to existence, he fell into an inexplicably strange state, a despondency, a gloom as deep as the silence of his home. Dale reflected that the stronger an animal, the keener its nerves, the higher its intelligence, the greater must be its suffering under restraint or injury. He thought of himself as a high order of animal whose great physical need was action, and now the incentive to action seemed dead. He grew lax. He did not want to move. He performed his diminishing duties under compulsion.

He watched for spring as a liberation, but not that he could leave the valley. He hated the cold, he grew weary of wind and snow; he imagined the warm sun, the park once more green with grass and bright with daisies, the return of birds and squirrels and deer to heir old haunts, would be the means whereby he could break this spell upon him. Then he might gradually return to past contentment, though it would never be the same.

But spring, coming early to Paradise Park, brought a fever to Dale's blood—a fire of unutterable longing. It was good, perhaps, that this was so, because he seemed driven to work, climb, tramp, and keep ceaselessly on the move from dawn till dark. Action strengthened his lax muscles and kept him from those motionless, senseless hours of brooding. He at least need not be ashamed of longing for that which could never be his—the sweetness of a woman—a home full of light, joy, hope, the meaning and beauty of children. But those dark moods were sinkings into a pit of hell.

Dale had not kept track of days and weeks. He did not know when the snow melted off three slopes of Paradise Park. All he knew was that an age had dragged over his head and that spring had come. During his restless waking hours, and even when he was asleep, there seemed always in the back of his mind a growing consciousness that soon he would emerge from this trial, a changed man, ready to sacrifice his chosen lot, to give up his lonely life of selfish indulgence in lazy affinity with nature, and to go wherever his strong hands might perform some real service to people. Nevertheless, he wanted to linger in this mountain fastness until his ordeal was over—until he could meet her, and the world, knowing himself more of a man than ever before.

One bright morning, while he was at his camp-fire, the tame cougar gave a low, growling warning. Dale was startled. Tom did not act like that because of a prowling grizzly or a straying stag. Presently Dale espied a horseman riding slowly out of the straggling spruces. And with that sight Dale's heart gave a leap, recalling to him a divination of his future relation to his kind. Never had he been so glad to see a man!

This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the way he sat his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to be John.

At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot, soon reaching the pines and the camp.

“Howdy, there, you ole b'ar-hunter!” called John, waving his hand.

For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like response from Dale. The horse was mud to his flanks and John was mud to his knees, wet, bedraggled, worn, and white. This hue of his face meant more than fatigue.

“Howdy, John?” replied Dale.

They shook hands. John wearily swung his leg over the pommel, but did not at once dismount. His clear gray eyes were wonderingly riveted upon the hunter.

“Milt—what 'n hell's wrong?” he queried.

“Why?”

“Bust me if you ain't changed so I hardly knowed you. You've been sick—all alone here!”

“Do I look sick?”

“Wal, I should smile. Thin an' pale an' down in the mouth! Milt, what ails you?”

“I've gone to seed.”

“You've gone off your head, jest as Roy said, livin' alone here. You overdid it, Milt. An' you look sick.”

“John, my sickness is here,” replied Dale, soberly, as he laid a hand on his heart.

“Lung trouble!” ejaculated John. “With thet chest, an' up in this air?... Get out!”

“No—not lung trouble,” said Dale.

“I savvy. Had a hunch from Roy, anyhow.”

“What kind of a hunch?”

“Easy now, Dale, ole man.... Don't you reckon I'm ridin' in on you pretty early? Look at thet hoss!” John slid off and waved a hand at the drooping beast, then began to unsaddle him. “Wal, he done great. We bogged some comin' over. An' I climbed the pass at night on the frozen snow.”

“You're welcome as the flowers in May. John, what month is it?”

“By spades! are you as bad as thet?... Let's see. It's the twenty-third of March.”

“March! Well, I'm beat. I've lost my reckonin'—an' a lot more, maybe.”

“Thar!” declared John, slapping the mustang. “You can jest hang up here till my next trip. Milt, how 're your hosses?”