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SYNOPSIS.
Enid Maitland, a frank, free and un
spoiled young Philadelphia girl, is taken
to the Colorado mountains by her uncle.
Robert Maitland. James Armstrong.
Maltland’s protege, falls in love with her.
His persistent wooing thrills the girl, but
she hesitates, and Armstrong goes east
•on business without a deflnite answer.
CHAPTER lll.—(Continued.)
“It was four years an' nine months
exactly, Bob,” drawled old Kirkby,
who well knew what was coming.
“Yes, I dare say you are right. I
was up at Evergreen at the time look
ing after timber interests, when a
mule came wandering into the camp,
saddle and pack still on his back."
“I knowed that there mule,” said
Kirkby, “I’d sold it to a feller named
Newbold, that had come out yere an’
married Louise Rosser, old man Ros
ser’s daughter, an’ him dead, an' bein’
an’ orphan an’ this feller bein’ a fine
young man from the east, not a bit of
a tenderfoot nuther, a minin’ engi
neer he called hisself.”
"Well, I happened to be there, too,
you remember,” continued..Maitland,
“and they made up a party to go and
hunt up the man, thinking something
might have happened.”
“You see,” explained Kirkby, “we
was all mighty fond of Louise Rosser,
the hull camp was actin’ like a father
to her at the time, so long 's she
hadn’t nobody else; we was all at the
weddln’, too, some six months afore.
The gal married him on her own
hook, of course nobody makln’ her,
but somehow she didn’t seem none
too happy, although Newbold, who
was a perfect gent, treated her white
as far as we knowed.”
The old man stopped again and re
sumed his pipe.
“Kirkby, you tell the story,” said
Maitland.
“Not me," said Kirkby. , “I have
seen men shot afore for takin' words
out ’n other men’s mouths an’ I ain’t
never done that yit.”
“You always were one of the most
silent men I ever saw,” laughed
George. “Why, that day Pete yere got
shot accidental an’ had his whole
breast tore out w’en we was lumber
ing over on Black mountain, all you
said was, 'Wash him off, put some
axle grease on him an’ tie him up.’
'That’s so,” answered Pete, "an’
there must have been somethin’ pow
erful soothin’ In that axle grease, for
here I am safe an’ sound to this day."
“It takes an old man,” assented
Kirkby, “to know when to keep his
mouth shet. I learned it at the muz
zle of a gun.”
“I never knew before,” laughed
Maltland, “how still a man you can
be. Well, to resume the story, having
nothing to do I went out with the
posse the sheriff gathered up —’’
"Him not thinkin’ there had been
any foul play,” ejaculated the old man.
“No, certainly not.”
“Well, what happened, Uncle Bob?”
inquired Enid.
“Just you wait,” said young Bob,
who had heard the story. “This is
an awful good story, Cousin Enid."
"I can’t wait much longer,” returned
the girl. “Please go on.’’
“Two days after we left the camp,
we came across an awful figure,
ragged, blood stained, wasted to a
skeleton, starved —”
“I have seed men In extreme cases
afore,” Interposed Kirkby, “but never
none like him.”
“Nor I,” continued Maitland.
“Was it Newbold?” asked Enid.
“Yes.”
“And what had happened to him?”
“He and his wife had been prospect
ing in these very mountains; she had
fallen over a cliff and broken herself
so terribly that Newbold-had to shoot
her.”
“What!” exclaimed Bradshaw. "You
don’t mean that he actually killed
her?”
“That’s what he done,” answered
eld Kirkby.
“Poor man,” murmured Enid.
“But why?” asked Philips.
“They were five days away from a
settlement, there wasn't a human be
ing within a hundred and fifty miles
of them, not even an Indian,” contin
ued Maitland. “She was so frightfully
broken and mangled that he couldn’t
carry her away.”
“But why couldn’t he leave her and
go for help?” asked Bradshaw.
‘The wolves, the bears, or the vul
tures would have got her. These
woods and mountains were full of
them then and there are some of them
left now I guess.”
The two little girls crept closer to
their big cousin, each casting anxious
glances beyond the Are light.
“Oh, you’re all right, little gals,”
said Kirkby reassuringly, “they
wouldn’t come nigh us while this fire
is burnin’ an’ they 've been pretty
well hunted out I guess; ’sides there’s
men yere who’d like nothin’ better’n
drawin’ a bead on a big b’ar.”
"And so,” continued Maitland, “when
she begged him to shoot her, to put
her out of her misery, he did so and
then he started back to the settlement
to tell his story and stumbled on us
looking after him.”
“What happened then?”
“I A back to the camp,” said
Maitland. “We loaded Newbold on a
mule and took him with us; he was
so crazy he didn’t know what was
happening; he went over the shooting
again and again in his delirium. It
was awful.”
“Did he die?"
“I don’t think so,” was the answer,
“but really I know nothing further
about him. There were some good
women in that camp; we p-ut him in
their hands and 1 left shortly after
wards.”
"I kin tell the rest,” said old Kirk
by. “Knowln’ more about the moun
tains than most people hereabouts I
led the men that didn’t go back with
Bob an’ Newbold to the place w'ere
he said his woman fell, an’ there we
found her, her body leastways.”
“But the wolves?” queried the girl.
“He’d drug her into a kind of a
holler and piled rocks over her. He’d
gone down into the canon, w’lch was
something frightful, an’ then climbed
up to w'ere she’d lodged. We had
plenty of rope, havin’ brought it along
a purpose, an’ we let ourselves down
to the shelf where she was a lyin’.
We wrapped her body up in blankets
an’ roped it an’ finally drug her up
on the old Injun trail, leastways I sup
pose it was made afore there was any
Injuns, an’ brought her back to Ever
green camp, w’lch the only thing about
it that was green was the swing doors
on the saloon. We got a parson out
from Denver an’ give her a Christian
burial.”
“Is that all?” asked Enid as the old
man paused again.”
“Nope."
“Oh. the man?” exclaimed the wom
an with quick intuition.
“He recovered his senses so they
told us, an’ we’en we got back he’d
gone.”
“Where?” was the Instant question.
Old Kirkby stretched out his hands.
“Don't ax me,” he said, “he’d jest
gone. I ain’t never seed or heerd of
him sence. Poor little Louise Rosser,
she did have a hard time.”
“Yes,” said Enid, “but I think the
man had a harder time than she. He
loved her?” '
“It looked like it,” answered Kirkby.
“If you had seen him, his remorse,
his anguish, his horror,” said Mait
land, “you wouldn't have had any
doubt about it. But it is getting late.
In the mountains everybody gets up
at daybreak. Your sleeping bags are
In the tents, ladies; time to go to
bed.”
As the party broke up, old Kirkby
rose slowly to his feet; he looked
meaningly toward the young woman,
upon whom the spell of the tragedy
still lingered, he nodded toward the
young brook, and then repeated his
speaking glance at her. His meaning
was patent, although no one else had
seen the covert invitation.
“Come Kirkby,” said the girl in
quick response, “you shall be my es
cort. I want a drink before I turn in.
No, never mind,” she said, as Brad
shaw and Philips both volunteered,
“not this time.”
The old frontiersman and the young
girl strolled off together. They stop
ped by the brink of the rushing tor
rent a few yards away. The noise
that it made drowned the low tones of
their voices and kept the others, busy
preparing to retire, from hearing what
they said.
“That ain’t quite all the story, Miss
Enid,” said the old trapper meaningly.
"There was another man.”
"What!” exclaimed the girl.
“Oh, there wasn’t nothin’ wrong
with Louise Rosser, w'ich she was
Louise Newbold, but there was an
other man; I suspected it afore, that's
why she was sad. W’en we found her
body I knowed it.”
"I don’t understand.”
“These’U explain,” said Kirkby. He
drew out from his rough hunting coat
a package of soiled letters; they were
carefully enclosed in an oil skin and
tied with a faded ribbon. “You see,"
he continued, holding them in his
hand yet carefully concealing them
from the people at the fire. “W’en
she fell off the cliff—somehow the
mule lost his footin’, nobody never
knowed how, leastways the mule was
dead an’ couldn’t tell—she struck on
a spur or shelf about a hundred feet
below the brink; evidently she was
carryin’ the letters in her dress. Her
bosom was frightfully tore open an’
the letters was lyin’ there. Newbold
didn’t see ’em, because he went down
into the canon an’ came up to the
shelf, or butte head, w’ere the body
was lyin’, but we dropped down. 1
was the first man down an’ I got ’em.
Nobody else seeln’ me, an’ there ain’t
no human eyes, not even my wife’s,
that’s ever looked on them letters, ex
cept mine and now yourn.”
"You are going to give them to
me?”
"I am,” said Kirkby.
"But why?”
"I want you to know the hull story. ’
“But why
i “I rather guess them letters’ll tell,"
answered the old man evasively, “an’
I like you, and I don’t want to see
I you throwed away.”
, “What do you mean ?” asked the girl
i curiously, thrilling to the solemnity of
i the moment, the seriousness, the kind
; affection of the old frontiersman, the
; weird scene, the fire light, the tents
gleaming ghostlike, the black wall of
the, canon and the tops of the moun
tain range broadening out beneath the
• stars in the clear sky where they
I twinkled above her head, the strange
t and terrible story, and now the letters
• in her hand, which somehow seemed
to be Imbued with human feeling.
Kirkby patted her on the shoulder.
“Read the letters,” he said; "they’ll
; tell the story. Good night.”
i
CHAPTER IV.
>1 —
The Pool and the Water Sprite.
Long after the others in the camp
i had sunk into the profound slumber
1 of weary bodies and good consciences,
i a solitary candle in. the small tent oc-
I cupied by Enid Maltland alone gave
I evidence that she was busy over the
; letters which Kirkby had handed to
i her.
It was a very thoughtful girl in
i deed who confronted the old frontiers
i man the next morning. At the first
. convenient opportunity when they
• were alone together she handed him
■ the packet of letters. 4
; “Have you read ’em?” he asked.
J “Yes.”
: “Wall, you keep ’em,” said the old
i man gravely. “Mebbe you'll want to
read ’em agin.”
I “But I don’t understand why you
want me to have them.”
“Wall, I’m not quite sure myself
. why, but leastways I do an’ —”
“I shall be very glad to keep them,”
- said the girl still more gravely, sllp-
I ping them into one of the pockets of
her hunting shirt as she spoke.
The packet was not bulky, the let
ters were not many nor were they of
; any great length. She could easily
carry them on her person and in
some strange and unexplicable way
she was rather glad to have them.
. She could not, as she had said, see
• any personal application to herself in
them, and yet in some way she did
feel that the solution of the mystery
would be hers some day. Especially
’ did she think this on account of the
- strange but quiet open emphasis of
the old hunter.
i There was much to do about the
. camp in the morning. Horses and
। burros to be looked after, fire wood to
be cut, plans for the day arranged,
■ excursions laid out, mountain climbs
[ projected. Later on unwonted hands
must be taught to cast the fly for the
’ mountain trout which filled the brook
, and pool, and all the varied duties, de
। tails and fascinating possibilities of
. camp life must be explained to the
I newcomers.
The first few days were days of
। learning and preparation, days of mis
. hap and misadventure, of joyous
laughter over blunders In getting set-
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“Read the Letters,” He Said.
’ tied, or learning the mysteries of rod
’ and line, or becoming hardened and
i acclimated. The weather proved per
fect; it was late October and the
I nights were very cold, but there was
! no rain and the bright sunny days
I were invigorating and exhilarating to
s the last degree. They had huge fires
i and plenty of blankets and the colder
! it was in the night the better they
■ slept.
s It was an intensely new experience
■ for the girl from Philadelphia, but she
« showed a marked interest and adapt
; ability, and entered with the keenest
I zest into air the opportunities of the
charming days. She was a good sports
woman and she soon learned to throw
I a fly with the best of them. Old Kirk
by took her under his especial pro
tection and as he was one of the best
rods in the mountains, she had every
advantage.
She Had always lived in the midst
> of life. Except in the privacy of her
■ own chamber she had rarely ever
, been alone before —not twenty feet
• from a man, she thought whimsically,
i but here the charm of solitude at
• tracted her, she liked to take her rod
> and wander off alone. She actually
enjoyed it.
The main stream that flowed down
• the canon was fed by many affluents
from the mountain sides, and in each
-of them voracious trout appeared. She
i explored them as she had opportunity,
sometimes with the others, but more
often by herself. She discovered
charming and exquisite nooks, little
I stretches of grass, the size perhaps of
i a small room, flower decked, ferny
bordered, overshadowed by tall giant
i pine trees, the sunlight filtering
through their thin foliage, checkering
! the verdant carpet beneath. Huge
moss covered boulders, wet with the
' everdashing spray of the roaring
• brooks, lay in midstream and with
! other natural stepping stones hardby
Invited her to cross to either shore.
■ Waterfalls laughed musically in her
: ears, deep still pools tempted her skill
■ and address.
i Sometimes leaving rod and basket
■ by the waterside, she climbed some
particularly steep acclivity of the
■ canon wall and stood poised, wind
i blown, a nymph of the woods, upon
I some pinnacle of rock rising needle
like at the canon’s edge above the
sea of verdure which the wind waved
' to and fro beneath her feet. There in
' the bright light, with the breeze blow
ing her golden hair, she looked like
: some Norse goddess, blue eyed, ex
hillrated, triumphant.
। She was a perfectly formed woman
on the ancient noble lines of Milo
; rather than the degenerate softness
i of Medici. She grew stronger of limb
। and fuller of breath, quicker and
steadier of eye and hand, cooler of
■ nerve, in these demanding, compelling
adventures among the rocks in this
mountain air. She was not a tall
woman, indeed slightly under rather
than over the medium size, but she
was so perfectly proportioned, she car
ried herself with the fearlessness of a
young chamois, that she looked taller
than she was. There was not an
ounce of superfluous flesh upon her,
yet ,she had the grace of Hebe, the
strength of Pallas Athene, and the
swiftness of motion of Atalanta. Had
she but carried bow and spear, had
she worn tunic and sandals, she might
have stood for Diana and she would
have had no cause to blush by com
parison with the finest model of
Praxiteles’ chisel or the most splen
did and glowing example of Appelles’
brush.
Uncle Robert was delighted with
her; his contribution to her western
outfit was a small Winchester. She
displayed astonishing aptitude under
his Instructions and soon became won
derfully proficient with that deadly
weapon and with a revolver also.
There was little danger to be appre
hended in the daytime among the
mountains, the more experienced men
thought, still it was wise for the girl
always to have a weapon in readiness,
so in her journeylngs, either the Win
chester was slung from her shoulder
or carried In her hand, or else the Coit
dangled at her hip. At first she took
both, but finally it was with reluc
tance that she could be persuaded to
take either. Nothing had ever hap
pened. Save for a few birds now and
then she had seemed the only tenant
of the wilderness of her choice.
One night after a camping experi
ence of nearly two weeks in the moun
tains and just before the time for
breaking up and going back to civil
ization, she announced that early the
next morning she was going down the
canon for a day’s fishing excursion.
None of the party had ever fol
lowed the little river very far, but It
was known that some ten miles below
the stream merged In a lovely gem
like lake in a sort of crater in the
mountains. From thence by a series
of water falls It descended through
the foothills to the distant plains be
yond. The others had arranged to
climb one especially dangerous and
ambition provoking peak which tow
ered above them and which had nevei
before been surmounted so far as
they knew. Enid enjoyed mountain
climbing. She liked the uplift in feel
ing that came from going higher and
higher till .some crest was gained, but
on this occasion they urged her to ac
company them in vain.
When the fixity of her decision was
established she had a number of offers
to accompany her, but declined them
all, bidding the others go their way.
Mrs. Maitland, who was not feeling
very well, old Kirkby, who had
climbed too many mountains to feel
much interest in that game, and Pete
the horse wrangler, who had to look
after the stock, remained in camp;
the others with the exception of Enid
started at daybreak for their long as
cent. She waited until the sun was
about an hour high and then bade
good-bye to the three and began the
descent of the canon. Traveling light,
for she was going far—farther, indeed,
than she knew —she left her Winches
ter at home, but carried the revolver
with the fishing tackle and substantial
luncheon.
Now the river —a river by courtesy
only—and the canon turned sharply
back on themselves just beyond the
little meadow where the camp was
pitched. Past the tents that had been
their home for this joyous period the
river ran due east for a few hundred
feet, after which it curved sharply,
doubled back and flowed westward
for several miles before it gradually ■
swung around to the east on its prop
er course again.
It had been Enid’s purpose to cut
across the hills and strike the river
where it turned eastward once more,
avoiding the long detour back. In
fact, she had declared her intention
of doing that to Kirkby and he had
given her careful directions so that
she should not get lost in the moun
tains.
But she had plenty of time and no
excuse or reason for saving it, she
never tired of the charm of the canon;
therefore, instead of plunging directly
over the spur of the range, she fol
lowed the familiar trail and after she
had passed westward far beyond the
limits of the camp to the turning, she i
decided, in accordance with that ut
terly irresponsible thing, a woman's
will, that she would not go down the
canon that day after all, but that she
1 would cross back over the range and
strike the river a few miles above the
camp and go up the canon.
She had been up in that direction a
few times, but only for a short dis
tance, as the ascent above the camp
was very sharp, in fact for a little
more than a mile the brook was only
a succession of water fall; the best
fishing was below the camp and the ;
finest woods were deeper in the canon. I
She suddenly concluded that she I
would like to see what was up in that I
unexplored section of the country and j
so, with scarcely a momentary hesi
tation. she abandoned her former plan
and began the ascent of the range.
Upon decisions so lightly taken .
what momentous consequences de-1
pend? Whether she should go up the
I 1
i stream or down the stream, whether
, she should follow the rivulet to its
■ source or descend it to its mouth,
■ was apparently a matter of little mo
l ment, yet her whole life turned abso-
I lutely upon that decision. The idle
and unconsidered choice of the houi;
I was frought with gravest possibilities.
- Had that election been made with any
f suspicion, with any foreknowledge, had
■ it conie as the result of careful rea
' soning or far-seeing of probabilities,
it might have been understandable,
i but an impulse, a whim, the vagrant
i idea of an idle hour, the careless
> chance of a moment, and behold! a
■ life is changed. On one side were
■ youth and Innocence, freedom and
happiness, a happy day, a good rest
by the cheerful fire at night; on the
■ other, peril of life, struggle, love,
i jealousy, self sacrifice, devotion, suffer
i ing, knowledge—scarcely Eve herself
l when she stood apple In hand with
, ignorance and pleasure around her
• and enlightenment and sorrow before
• her, had greater choice to make.
How fortunate we are that the fu
. ture is veiled, that the psalmist’s
prayer that he might know his end
> and be certified how long he had to
• live is one that will not and cannot
. be granted; that it has been given to
but One to foresee his own future,
; The Girl Stood as It Were on the
Roof of the World.
for no power apparently could enable
us to stand up against what might be,
because we are only human beings
not sufficiently alight with the spark
divine. We wait for the end because
we must, but thank God we know it
not until it comes.
Nothing of this appeared to the girl
that bright sunny morning. Fate hid
in those mountains under the guise of
fancy. Lighthearted, carefree, fitted
with buoyant joy over every fact of
life, she left the flowing water and
scaled the cliff beyond which in the
wilderness she was to find after all,
the world.
The ascent was longer and more
• difficult and dangerous than she had
imagined when she first confronted it,
perhaps it was typical and foretold her
progress. More than once she had
to stop and carefully examine the face
of the canon wall for a practicable
trail; more than once she had to ex
ercise extremest care in her climb,
but she was a bold and fearless moun
taineer by this time and at last sur
mounting every difficulty she stood
I panting slightly, a little tired, but
triumphant upon the summit.
The ground was rocky and broken,
the timber line was close above her
and she judged that she must be sev
eral miles from the camp. The canon
was very crooked, she could see only
a few hundred yards of it in any di
rection. She scanned her circum
scribed limited horizon eagerly for the
smoke from the great fire that they
always kept burning in the camp, but
not a sign of it was visible. She was
evidently a thousand feet above the
river whence she had come. Her
standing ground was a rocky ridge
which fell away more gently on the
! other side for perhaps two hundred
■ feet toward the same brook. She
could see through vistas in the trees
the uptossed peaks of the main range,
bare, chaotic, snow crowned, lonely,
majestic, terrible.
The awe of the everlasting hills is
greater than that of heaving seas.
Save in the infrequent periods of calm,
the latter always moves; the moun
tains are the same for all time. The
ocean is quick, noisy, living; the
mountains are calm, still —dead!
The girl stood as it were on the
roof of the world, a solitary human
i being, so far as she knew, in the eye
of God above her. Ah, but the eyes
i divine look long and see far; things
| beyond the human ken are all re
vealed. None of the party had ever
I come this far from the camp in this
direction she knew. And she was
glad to be the first, as she fatuously
' believed, to observe that majestic solt
* tude.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
