During the day she had spoken with old Gabe Smith, who had come to get news from her of her father. A change had come over the camp during the past few days, the nature of which had made Gabe very anxious to have Keith McBain back again and asserting his old control. He did not have to tell Cherry that Bill McCartney was the cause of all the unrest he had reported to her. She knew the meaning of it better than Gabe. Cherry longed for her father's return. She even upbraided herself for having left town without him.
But even as she prayed for his coming, strange doubts arose in her mind concerning her father's power to combat the hostile forces of which McCartney was not only the director but the creator as well. She knew, in short, as others doubtless knew, that Keith McBain was a broken man. His power to break a man's will by a look or a word was almost gone, and none knew it so well as his own daughter.
And yet she wanted him back. After all, she had always relied upon him in critical moments in the past; it had come to be a habit with her. Besides, there was no one else to whom she could turn. Old Gabe Smith was kind and good, and would always help to the extent of his ability, but after all he was of no more use than any other camp follower when a crisis had to be met.
While she stood wondering what best to do she saw Gabe himself coming down the pathway towards her. All at once her mind was made up. With a word or two to Gabe she went back into the cabin and dressed herself preparatory to going out. In a few minutes she was back again in the doorway waiting for Gabe, who reappeared presently in the pathway leading Cherry's horse behind him, saddled and bridled, ready for the road. She allowed Gabe to help her into the saddle, and then, leaving him to blow out the light and close the door, she set off to the trail and headed for The Town. This time she was determined that her father's will should be no match for her own. She would have her way with him, no matter what he said, and he would return to camp with her and give commands.
No one saw her as she rode through the camp, no one, at least, spoke to her, and in a couple of minutes she was safely through with nothing before her but a long stretch of winding trail already wet from the rain. She went forward with great caution though she knew every foot of the trail she was traversing, and urged her horse only in the higher stretches where the road was sandy and still dry. The footing was very uncertain in spots, and on account of the increasing intensity of the darkness she was forced to rely almost wholly upon the instincts of her horse to guide her. Fortunately there was but one trail, and that one was flanked on either side by bushes and trees and fallen logs that made an effective barrier against her wandering from the beaten way.
One thing that caused her some concern as she rode along was the fact that the little creeks she had crossed countless times before, had crossed scarcely twelve hours since, as a matter of fact, had swollen considerably during the day. Every time she attempted a fording she did so with an increasing sense of surprise at the swirling of the water about her horse's legs. She knew it had been raining in the hills during the day, and she had expected some little change in the size of the streams, but nothing so formidable as the turbulent rushing of these little creeks had presented itself to her imagination. They were actually vicious, she thought to herself, and once when the water reached her foot and her horse stopped a moment and leaned against the current before he went on, she was more than a little anxious for the outcome of her mission. She experienced a strange thrill of something like fear, too, as she looked down at the water beneath her, black under the darkness of the night, and swirling and rushing crazily onward in headlong haste.
She had been on the way for nearly three hours when she came at last to the little ridge overlooking White Pine river. It was the prospect of having to make this crossing that gave her most concern. From the top of the ridge she could see nothing in the pitchy blackness of the night. Cautiously she urged her horse down the gentle slope of the ridge towards the river. She began to wonder whether the little bridge of poles had been swept out by the current. If the water had not risen above the level of the bridge there was no reason why a perfectly safe crossing could not be made. With the instinct born of long contact with the world out-of-doors she strove to measure the distance she had gone since she left the ridge crest. The bridge was some distance off yet, probably fifteen or twenty yards, when all at once she thought she heard the sound of water running about her horse's fore-feet. She urged him forward a little, and found herself standing some ten yards or so from the bridge with the water rushing just beneath her. Dimly in the darkness she could make out the form of the bridge. It was still in its place with the water rushing past at either end, though it had not gone over it as yet.
For a moment she stopped and faced the situation, and the new problems it presented to her. She had no doubt that she could cross the bridge quite safely and finish her trip successfully. But if it continued to rain during the night, there would be no getting back again. With the camp cut off from them, she and her father would simply have to wait until the rain ceased and the rivers went down sufficiently to allow a safe passage before they could think of returning. But that was like enlisting Providence on the side of the devil, for she knew it would be simply playing into the hands of McCartney to leave the camp in his charge, perhaps for days, while the wet weather made it impossible for the men to work on the grade. Though she did not know what she could do if she were alone at the camp, she felt intuitively that while her father was away her duty was to fill the place he had left, if she could do nothing but stand as a sort of symbol of the leadership which her father had embodied.
She decided to abandon the trip to The Town and to return to camp, there to match her wits against those of McCartney, and hope for the best. The decision quickly made was suddenly shaken by the fear that her father might even now be on the road. As she thought of him attempting to cross the White Pine alone with only his team to take care of him, she shrank with fear. She recalled the nights during the summer when his team had brought him safely home, though he himself had never known anything about it until he awoke the next morning. But good fortune cannot bring a man through everything, and Cherry knew her father could never cross the White Pine in its present condition and under the heavy darkness that hid everything within a few feet.
Turning her horse's head back she rode again up the slope of the ridge and dismounted when she was about half way to the crest. Here she found a fallen log in the shelter of a closely grown clump of trees and sat down. She was far enough from the river to hear quite easily other sounds than the rushing of the water. Above her the trees brushed back and forth in the wind, with boughs rustling and creaking and moaning in the darkness. The sound from the river was like the low, steady washing of a distant surf. Cherry sat and strained her ears for the least noise from the other side of the bridge. Time after time she started up at what she thought was the striking of a hoof or the scraping of a wheel upon a stone. Once she got to her feet suddenly, her heart thumping with expectancy. She was sure she had heard her father's voice in a gruff word of command to his team. But although she stood with breath held and ears strained for the slightest sound, none came, and she sat down again, feeling that she might have been dreaming.