"I hardly think a serious case can be made out against Hanscom," he said, "but you will soon know, for a preliminary hearing will be granted within a day or two. Meanwhile," he added, "I am very glad to issue an order for his liberation on bond."
Helen thanked him most warmly, and, with the writ of release in hand, Rawlins asked if she would not like to present it to the sheriff himself. At first she declined, thinking of her own embarrassment, but as she recalled the unhesitating action with which Hanscom had always acted in her affairs, she changed her mind and consented, and with her consent came a strong desire to let him know that her gratitude had in it something personal. Secretly she acknowledged a wish to see his rugged, serious face light up with the relief which the release would bring. His mouth, she remembered, was singularly refined and his smile winning.
On the way Rawlins spoke of Hanscom's resignation in terms of sincere regret. "If he will only stay in the service, I am sure he will be promoted; but I cannot blame him for feeling lonely."
At the jail door Helen's self-consciousness increased mightily. Her resolution almost failed her.
"What will he think of me coming to him in this way?" was the question which disturbed her, and she was deeply flushed and her pulse quickened as Rawlins, quite unconscious of her sudden panic, led the way into the sheriff's office and with eager haste presented her to Throop, who greeted her with the smile and gesture of an old acquaintance.
The supervisor lost no time. "We've come onbusiness," he said. "We want Hanscom, Mr. Sheriff. This young lady has gone on his bond in my stead, and here is an order for his release, signed by Judge Brinkley."
Throop was genuinely pleased. "Hah! I'm glad of that," he said, as he took the paper. After a moment's glance at it he said: "All right, you can have the body. Go into the parlor and I'll send him in to you."
Helen obeyed silently, knowing that Rawlins would remain in the office—which he did—leaving her to receive the ranger alone.
He came in with eyes alight with worship. "I'm heartily obliged to you," he said, boyishly. "I thought I was in for a week or two of cell life and reflection."
She met his gratitude with instant protest. "Please don't thank me; I am only repaying a little of our debt. Won't you be seated?" she added, acting the part of hostess in her embarrassment. "Of course I don't mean that. You must be anxious to leave this place."
"I was, but I'm not so anxious now. How is Mr. Kauffman?"
"Much easier. He was sleeping when I left."
"I'm glad of that. He's had a hard week, and so have you, and yet"—he hesitated—"you are looking well in spite of it all."
"That is the strange part of it," she admitted. "I am stronger and happier than I have been for two years. I have just heard from my family in the East."
His eyes became grave. "Then you will go back to them?"
"I think so, but not at once—not till after your trial—it would be grossly ungrateful for me to go now. I shall wait till you are free."
His fine, clear, serious eyes were steadily fixed upon her face as she said this, and she knew that he wasextracting from every word and tone their full meaning, and it frightened her a little.
At last he said, in a voice which was tense with emotion, "Then I hope I shall never be free."
She hastened to lessen this tension. "The judge has promised to grant you a hearing soon. Mr. Rawlins thinks it only a case for Justice Court, anyway." She rose. "But let me see Mrs. Throop for a few minutes and then we will go."
"Wait a moment," he pleaded, but she would not stay her course—she dared not.
They found Mrs. Throop in the hall, discussing the interesting situation with Rawlins, and when Helen extended her hand and began to thank her again for her kindness, the matron cut her short. "Never mind that now. I want you should all stay to supper."
Helen expressed regret and explained that it was necessary to return to the bedside of her father, and so they managed to get away, although Mrs. Throop followed them to the door, inviting them both to come again. She saw no humor in this, though the men had their joke about it.
Rawlins discreetly dropped back into the office, and the two young people passed on into the street.
"You must let me watch with your father to-night," Hanscom said. "I've been a nurse—along with the rest of my experiences."
"If I need you I shall certainly call upon you, and if you need money you must call upon me."
There was something warmer than friendship in her voice, but the ranger was a timid man in any matter involving courtship, and he dared not presume on anything so vague as the change of a tone or the quality of a smile. Nevertheless he said:
"I cannot imagine how it happens that you are here in this rough country, but I am glad you are. I shall be glad all my life—even if you go away and forget me."
"I shall not forget you," she replied, "not for what you've done, but for what you are." And in this declaration lay a profound significance which the man seized and built upon.
"I am not even a forest ranger now. I am nothing but a dub—and you—they say are rich—but some day I'm going to be something else. I haven't any right—to ask anything of you—not a thing, but I must—I can't think of you going entirely out of my life. I want you to let me write to you. May I do that?"
Her answer was unexpected. "You once spoke of getting a transfer to a forest near Denver. If you should do that, you might see me occasionally—for I may make my home in Colorado Springs."
He stopped and they faced each other. "Does that mean that youwantme to stay in the service?"
Her face was pale, but her eyes were glowing. "Yes."
His glance penetrated deeper. "And you will wait for me?"
"As long as you think it necessary," she answered, with a smile whose meaning did not at once make itself felt, but when it did he reached his hand as one man to another. She took it, smiling up at him in full understanding of the promise she had made.
"Right here I make a new start," he said.
"I shall begin a new life also," she replied, and they walked on in silence.
Have you seen sunsets so beautiful that your heart ached to watch them fade? So my heart aches to see the trails fading from the earth.
As I re-enter the mountain forest I am a reactionary. I would restore every hill-stream to its former beauty if I could. I would carry forward every sign, every symbol, of the border in order that the children of the future should not be deprived of any part of their nation's epic westward march.
I here make acknowledgment to the trail and the trail-makers. They have taught me much. I have lifted the latch-string of the lonely shack, and broken bread with the red hunter. I know the varied voices of the coyote, wizard of the mesa. The trail has strung upon it, as upon a silken cord, opalescent dawns and ruby sunsets. My camping-places return in the music of gold and amber streams. The hunter, the miner, the prospector, have been my companions and my tutors—and what they have given me I hold with jealous hand.
The high trail leads away to shadow-dappled pools. It enables me to overtake the things vanishing, to enter the deserted cabin, to bend to the rude fireplace and to blow again upon the embers, gray with ashes, till a flame leaps out and shadows of mournful beauty dance upon the wall.
I am glad that I was born early enough to hear the songs of the trailers and to bask in the light of their fires.
Signature: Hamlin Garland
Transcriber's NoteTypographical errors corrected in the text:Page 108 ranche changed to ranchPage 109 penon changed to piñonPage 171 to changed to doPage 314 worthy changed to worthPage 316 misnumbered section V changed to VIPage 329 misnumbered section VI changed to VIIPage 331 jurisdication changed to jurisdictionPage 338 misnumbered section VII changed to VIIIPage 358 misnumbered section VIII changed to IXPage 362 Kaufman changed to Kauffman
Transcriber's Note