He watched her face as he spoke, and he saw the light—as unmistakable as the dawn that he had seen come over the mountains—grow in her face. It was reward enough. The joy that he got out of the work itself was henceforth simply clear profit; for another motive—one that had just come into his life—justified beyond all question the expenditure of his time and the chance of death.
He didn’t try to explain the matter to his own satisfaction. He only knew that he felt a great and resistless desire to help this straight young mountain girl in her venture, to take sides with her against the monstrous odds that opposed her. He had committed himself: he noticed with an inward laugh that the girl had not promised even to attempt to get another herder to take his place. And he felt vaguely and secretly glad.
The two of them started to drive the white flocks back to the camp.
CHAPTER XII
As the stars emerged and the little mountain wind sprang up and crept forth in its never-ending explorations of the thickets, the shepherdess explained all things to Hugh’s satisfaction. But first there was supper: a meal the like of which he had never tasted before.
The girl cooked it. Hugh watched her, her swift, graceful motions, the ease and strength with which she went about her tasks, and he found an unlooked-for delight in the sight. She had brought fresh stores; and the meal—from Hugh’s suddenly rejuvenated point of view—was more nearly a banquet. Were there not new potatoes, roasted in the ashes, flapjacks with syrup, a fresh, white-breasted grouse that she had beheaded with her pistol on the way out, and for dessert dried apples stewed to a succulency and tenderness that passed all description? Hugh had eaten some thousands of meals in his time. He had dined in the most famous cafés and restaurants of Europe, he had been at pretentious dinner parties. Yet he couldn’t remember ever experiencing the simple and healthy zest for food, the sheer delight of eating, the amazing appetite that had come upon him now. No meal in his whole life had ever tasted so good or satisfied him more.
In the first place he had done a man’s work. For the first time in recent years his body actually demanded food: plenty of it and soon, for he had missed his lunch; besides, he had that inner peace and satisfaction of a day’s work completed. Then its very preparation made it appetizing,—the slim, sure hands of the girl, her brown arms flashing, the fragrant wood smoke, the long, impressive vista of the Rockies behind the camp.
After supper he helped her wash the camp dishes; then cut fir boughs for her bed that was to be situated nearly a quarter of a mile away, across the meadow. The idea of being afraid of him seemingly didn’t even occur to her. She would have slept out the same way had he been from any other class of men, and Hugh could understand how his predecessors had respected her heavy revolver. Then there was a quiet hour with his new-found friend, his pipe,—and the girl telling her story in the fire’s glow.
“My father’s name is Crowson—Ezra Crowson,” she began in the direct mountain way. “And mine—out here we don’t bother with last names—is Alice Crowson. You don’t have to call me Miss, Mr. Gaylord——”
“And by the same token,” he replied, “my first name is Hugh.”