“We’ll return to the Springs in a few days,” she replied. “Come and see us. Our bungalow is on the other side of the river—and you, too,” she addressed Berrie; but her tone was so conventionally polite that the ranch-girl, burning with jealous heat, made no reply.
McFarlane led the way to the lake rapidly and in silence. The splendors of the foliage, subdued by the rains, the grandeur of the peaks, the song of the glorious stream—all were lost on Berrie, for she now felt herself to be nothing but a big, clumsy, coarse-handed tomboy. Her worn gloves, her faded skirt, and her man’s shoes had been made hateful to her by that smug, graceful, play-acting tourist with the cool, keen eyes and smirking lips. “She pretends to be a kitten; but she isn’t; she’s a sly grown-up cat,” she bitterly accused, but she could not deny the charm of her personality.
Wayland was forced to acknowledge that Berrie in this dark mood was not the delightful companion she had hitherto been. Something sweet and confiding had gone out of their relationship, and he was too keen-witted not to know what it was. He estimated precisely the value of the malicious parting words of Siona Moore. “She’s a natural tease, the kind of woman who loves to torment other and less fortunate women. She cares nothing for me, of course, it’s just her way of paying off old scores. It would seem that Berrie has not encouraged her advances in times past.”
That Berrie was suffering, and that her jealousy touchingly proved the depth of her love for him, brought no elation, only perplexity. He was not seeking such devotion. As a companion on the trail she had been a joy—as a jealous sweetheart she was less admirable. He realized perfectly that this return journey was of her arrangement, not McFarlane’s, and while he was not resentful of her care, he was in doubt of the outcome. It hurried him into a further intimacy which might prove embarrassing.
At the camp by the lake the Supervisor became sharply commanding. “Now let’s throw these packs on lively. It will be slippery on the high trail, and you’ll just naturally have to hit leather hard and keep jouncing if you reach the wagon-road before dark. But you’ll make it.”
“Make it!” said Berrie. “Of course we’ll make it. Don’t you worry about that for a minute. Once I get out of the green timber the dark won’t worry me. We’ll push right through.”
In packing the camp stuff on the saddles, Berrie, almost as swift and powerful as her father, acted with perfect understanding of every task, and Wayland’s admiration of her skill increased mightily.
She insisted on her father’s turning back. “We don’t need you,” she said. “I can find the pass.”
McFarlane’s faith in his daughter had been tested many times, and yet he was a little loath to have her start off on a trail new to her. He argued against it briefly, but she laughed at his fears. “I can go anywhere you can,” she said. “Stand clear!” With final admonition he stood clear.
“You’ll have to keep off the boggy meadows,” he warned; “these rains will have softened all those muck-holes on the other side; they’ll be bottomless pits; watch out for ’em. Good-by! If you meet Nash hurry him along. Moore is anxious to run those lines. Keep in touch with Landon, and if anybody turns up from the district office say I’ll be back on Friday. Good luck.”