THE FOLLOWING OF THE TRAIL
Chapter XLIV
For a moment they sat listening to the clear staccato knocking of the distant blows, and the more forceful thuds of the man nearer at hand.A bird or so darted from the direction of the sound and shot silently into the thicket behind them.
"What are they doing? Are they cutting lumber?" asked Hilda.
"No," answered Thorpe, "we do not cut saw logs at this time of year.
They are clearing out a road."
"Where does it go to?"
"Well, nowhere in particular.That is, it is a logging road that starts at the river and wanders up through the woods where the pine is.""How clear the axes sound.Can't we go down and watch them a little while?""The main gang is a long distance away; sound carries very clearly in this still air.As for that fellow you hear so plainly, he is only clearing out small stuff to get ready for the others.You wouldn't see anything different from your Indian chopping the cordwood for your camp fire.He won't chop out any big trees.""Let's not go, then," said Hilda submissively.
"When you come up in the winter," he pursued, "you will see any amount of big timber felled.""I would like to know more about it," she sighed, a quaint little air of childish petulance graving two lines between her eyebrows.
"Do you know, Harry, you are a singularly uncommunicative sort of being.I have to guess that your life is interesting and picturesque, --that is," she amended, "I should have to do so if Wallace Carpenter had not told me a little something about it.Sometimes I think you are not nearly poet enough for the life you are living.Why, you are wonderful, you men of the north, and you let us ordinary mortals who have not the gift of divination imagine you entirely occupied with how many pounds of iron chain you are going to need during the winter." She said these things lightly as one who speaks things not for serious belief.
"It is something that way," he agreed with a laugh.
"Do you know, sir," she persisted, "that I really don't know anything at all about the life you lead here? From what I have seen, you might be perpetually occupied in eating things in a log cabin, and in disappearing to perform some mysterious rites in the forest." She looked at him with a smiling mouth but tender eyes, her head tilted back slightly.
"It's a good deal that way, too," he agreed again."We use a barrel of flour in Camp One every two and a half days!"She shook her head in a faint negation that only half understood what he was saying, her whole heart in her tender gaze.
"Sit there," she breathed very softly, pointing to the dried needles on which her feet rested, but without altering the position of her head or the steadfastness of her look.
He obeyed.
"Now tell me," she breathed, still in the fascinated monotone.
"What?" he inquired.
"Your life; what you do; all about it.You must tell me a story."Thorpe settled himself more lazily, and laughed with quiet enjoyment.
Never had he felt the expansion of a similar mood.The barrier between himself and self-expression had faded, leaving not the smallest debris of the old stubborn feeling.
"The story of the woods," he began, "the story of the saw log.It would take a bigger man than I to tell it.I doubt if any one man ever would be big enough.It is a drama, a struggle, a battle.
Those men you hear there are only the skirmishers extending the firing line.We are fighting always with Time.I'll have to hurry now to get those roads done and a certain creek cleared before the snow.Then we'll have to keep on the keen move to finish our cutting before the deep snow; to haul our logs before the spring thaws; to float them down the river while the freshet water lasts.
When we gain a day we have scored a victory; when the wilderness puts us back an hour, we have suffered a defeat.Our ammunition is Time; our small shot the minutes, our heavy ordnance the hours!"The girl placed her hand on his shoulder.He covered it with his own.
"But we win!" he cried."We win!"
"That is what I like," she said softly, "the strong spirit that wins!" She hesitated, then went on gently, "But the battlefields, Harry; to me they are dreadful.I went walking yesterday morning, before you came over, and after a while I found myself in the most awful place.The stumps of trees, the dead branches, the trunks lying all about, and the glaring hot sun over everything! Harry, there was not a single bird in all that waste, a single green thing.
You don't know how it affected me so early in the morning.I saw just one lonesome pine tree that had been left for some reason or another, standing there like a sentinel.I could shut my eyes and see all the others standing, and almost hear the birds singing and the wind in the branches, just as it is here." She seized his fingers in her other hand."Harry," she said earnestly, "I don't believe I can ever forget that experience, any more than I could have forgotten a battlefield, were I to see one.I can shut my eyes now, and can see this place our dear little wooded knoll wasted and blackened as that was."The man twisted his shoulder uneasily and withdrew his hand.
"Harry," she said again, after a pause, "you must promise to leave this woods until the very last.I suppose it must all be cut down some day, but I do not want to be here to see after it is all over."Thorpe remained silent.
"Men do not care much for keepsakes, do they, Harry?--they don't save letters and flowers as we girls do--but even a man can feel the value of a great beautiful keepsake such as this, can't he, dear?
