The Heart of Cherry McBain: A Novel

by Douglas Durkin

And as he mounted higher, the coming of the new day broke upon him like a benediction, so that his very soul sang with the joy of the open sky and the rolling hills, the free trail and the throbbing pulse of youth. When he reached the top of the first upstanding hill he emerged from the fringe of trees that lined the crest just in time to see the sun pushing its way above the horizon. In the valley that lay before him the morning mist was stretched low and motionless. On the hillside opposite, where the sun's rays had not yet found their way, the trees were hidden in the half-dusk like ghosts waiting for some voice to waken them. The trail that led before him lost itself under cover of the white shroud, and over all was poured the rich glory of the rising sun. King took off his hat and looked long and silently. Then facing northward he dismounted and, taking the bridle rein in one hand, left the trail and plunged into the woods.

Early that night he found a circle of tamaracs beside a little stream of cold water and decided to put up for the night. The day had been a long one, and had proven very heavy, but he had succeeded in his quest and was content with the results of his efforts. He was very tired, and after removing the saddle and pack from his horse he found a grassy plot not far away and tethered him for the night. Then he prepared a little smudge at the edge of the plot and returned to his camp. When he had eaten his supper he unstrapped his blankets and tossed them in a loose roll upon the soft ground where it was covered with brown needles and dry cones. Then he rolled himself a cigarette and smoked it in silence while he thought over the results of his day's cruising.

The sun had already gone down when he got up and went again to make sure that his horse had received all the attention necessary for the night. When he had satisfied himself that everything was as it should be, and had partly smothered the smudge in order that its usefulness might last well through the night, he turned back up the hill again to roll in for the night. A passing mood caused him to circle about so that he came out on a small elevation, clear of trees, that stood back from his camp.

When he had reached the top of the hill he could see clear away to the west over the broad valley where lay the town and his own little cabin that he had left early that morning. He thought he could make out the place, off to the north, where lay the right-of-way and Keith McBain's construction camp. Then as his eyes swept the intervening space something arrested his attention.

Everywhere were the slow-forming mists of the early evening. But down there to the right—it couldn't be more than a mile away—there was something that was not mist, though it was difficult to make it out, even at so short a distance, with the shadows already beginning to deepen in the lower places. What he saw was a slowly rising thin column of smoke, and his heart beat faster as he began to realize slowly what it might mean. Someone was down there making a camp for the night. There was no reason in the world for anyone wandering through the hills at such a time—unless it was the same reason that had brought King Howden himself there. It was not easy to explain, but he was not slow in coming to a decision to act. Merely as a matter of self-defence he determined that he should at least guard against being discovered.

He hurried down the hill, sliding, leaping, and running by turns, and came in a few seconds to the edge of the little meadow where his horse was standing in the comfortable protection of the cloud of smoke rising from the smudge.

"You poor old cuss," he said regretfully, "you'll have to use your tail to keep the mosquitoes off to-night. No more smoke, if they eat you alive."

With that he kicked the smudge-pile vigorously, scattering it over the ground and leaving the embers smoking feebly where they lay in the grass. Then he went carefully from one spot to another and stamped out the last traces of the fire. Going back to the spot he had chosen for the night he left Sal on guard with a word of warning not to follow him, and set off again in the direction in which he had discovered the smoke. He had no intention of attempting to satisfy his curiosity by spying on strangers. He wanted to be reasonably sure that he himself was not being spied upon—that was all.

And so he moved about cautiously and waited patiently for the first sound that would announce the approach of anyone. When it was very late and he had heard nothing to alarm him, he returned, confident that he would not be molested, and rolling himself in his blankets, pillowed his head on the saddle and went to sleep.

The next morning he was awake at dawn, and without waiting to prepare breakfast, he clambered up the hill behind his camping place and sat down to watch for the first signs of life in the camp below. And as he sat and waited he worked out in his own mind, now fresh from the night's sound sleep under the open sky, what was at least a tentative explanation of the new circumstance that had so suddenly forced itself into his plans. He remembered now, with a new sense of its possible significance, the unexpected arrival in town of Cherry McBain late in the evening. Why had she come for her father? Then he recalled the fact that Keith McBain had not come to town alone. Was there any special significance in the presence of Tom Rickard in town at the same time? There was nothing in Keith McBain's silence that was unusual to one who knew him, but King felt that the old contractor had been more than ordinarily silent and perhaps a little ill-natured. He could not help thinking that something was brewing behind it all and, right or wrong, his conviction was that the camp down there a mile or so away had some connection with it all.