He took up his pack and went out without another word. The furious wind seemed to seize him and whirl him away the moment he stepped outside the door. Hugh had not answered his farewell, for he was disappointed and indignant at being left behind and he did not mind how plainly Oscar saw it. After all, it was he himself who had seen the footprints by the marsh; he ought to be the person to go and look for them again. He went out to feed Hulda, slamming the door smartly behind him and never looking at Oscar, who was still in sight, trudging along the open ridge above the valley. Hugh understood now why Oscar had asked so many questions about the region where the footprints had been seen, about how long the boy had walked before he came in sight of the cabin, about the contour of the land and the direction in which the shadows fell.
Hugh, as he moved sulkily toward the shed, began composing bitter speeches to be launched at Oscar when he should return. He stopped for a moment and looked across at Jasper Peak and the shack high up on its rocky shoulder. Yes, there was the plume of smoke again, torn and whirled about by the wind, but still sending up its ominous signal. He turned to open the shed door. He would tell Oscar plainly that—that—But, after all, why should Oscar have gone at all? It was a forlorn hope at the best for which he was risking everything, leaving in Hugh’s safe-keeping property that was infinitely valuable in the light of the purpose it was to serve. A sudden change of feeling overcame Hugh, filling him with shame for his blind ill-temper.
He ran back to the top of the hill to see Oscar just about to disappear into the forest. It was too far for a shout to carry, but, yes, Oscar looked back just as he plunged into the wood. Hugh raised his arm high in a gesture of farewell and Oscar waved his woolen cap in generous-hearted understanding. Thus good feeling was reëstablished between them before they parted, parted for a longer time than either of them could have thought.
Hugh went back to attend to Hulda’s wants for the day. She was a patient cow, but even she looked around at him in reproachful surprise over the awkwardness of his good offices.
“And I suppose I will have to try to milk her to-night,” he reflected with some misgiving. He was not sure that her patience and forbearance were great enough for him to attempt such a feat.
As he returned to the cabin he was wondering how he was to spend the lonely day. There were, he found, however, any number of things to be done, pans to be cleaned, water to be carried, some last weeds and dried stalks to be cleared from Oscar’s vegetable garden and in the small field that he had cultivated. Oscar had managed to raise quite a store of wheat, had ground it by hand in the rude little mill that he had constructed himself and had put it aside for use during the winter. He had potatoes, too, and beans, turnips and other vegetables that could be dried or stored, so that the supplies that must be carried so laboriously from Rudolm need be the fewest possible.
After he had finished his work in the cabin and had cooked his dinner, trying to imitate Oscar’s skill in tossing flapjacks and not succeeding very well, Hugh took an ax and went out to the edge of the forest to cut wood. Gathering the winter’s fuel was an endless task, one upon which he and Oscar spent all of their extra time. He looked across at Jasper Peak again as he came out, but a curtain of rain was falling between him and the mountain and the cabin opposite was invisible. It was growing colder and colder, the wind coming in icy gusts and the roar of the flooded stream becoming louder as darkness fell. Hugh worked actively all afternoon, as much for the sake of keeping warm and occupied, as for what he might accomplish. He had a generous store of wood to reward him for his heavy toil when at last it grew so late that he could see to wield the ax no longer. He walked heavily back to the cabin, wet and weary and wishing that Oscar would come home. In the shelter of the trees he had not noticed the wind and was amazed at its strength when he crossed the open ridge and ran for the cabin door.
On looking at the clock he realized that he had spent more time in the forest than he had intended and that he must make haste about his evening tasks. The fire was nearly out and did not wish to burn, for the wood was wet and the wind, whistling down the chimney, filled the room with sparks and smoke. He grew impatient and irritated at last, kicked the logs into place and received in return such a puff of ashes in his face that he was nearly choked. As he went to the door for a breath of fresh air, he remembered, with sudden dismay, that he must milk Hulda.
For a long time after, Hugh preferred not to remember that interview between himself and the indignant cow. Even when he did think of it, he realized that Hulda showed the greatest forbearance and that the kick she gave him was probably an involuntary one, administered when cow nature could endure no more. She looked around at him a moment later with apology in her mild brown eyes, encouraging him to forget his smarting knee, to sit down upon the stool and attempt the task again. At last he straightened his aching back and stood gazing with pride at the bucket half full of foaming milk.
“You are a good cow, Hulda,” he confided to her; “there are not many who would stand for what you have.”