Alton of Somasco: A Romance of the Great Northwest

by Harold Bindloss

Okanagan found the trail again lower down the valley, and he and another tireless man headed for the river through a country no horse could traverse all that day, leaving Seaforth behind them worn-out at noon. He sat down to wait for Horton considerably disturbed in mind, and his anxieties would not have been diminished had he known that Alton was starting for Somasco by the Atlantic express that afternoon.

It was next day when Alton reached the settlement and found the few women there in a state of excitement, while when he had heard their story he borrowed the best horse he could find and rode out at a gallop towards the ranges. He had also spent several days in the bush without finding any trace of the party when he camped one evening on the edge of one of the many deep ravines the torrents wear out of the hillsides. It stretched, a dim shadowy chasm, across his path, and looking down he could faintly see the firs that clung here and there to the sides of it loom faintly black through the drifting mist. It was too dark to seek for a way of descending or round the head of it, and he decided to remain where he was until the morning. Twenty minutes sufficed to make his simple camp, and he sat with his back to a cedar-trunk and a can of green tea beside him, while the shadows crept higher up the hillsides and night tame down to meet them out of the dimness of the east.

The fire crackled joyously. There was hope in all the smells of spring, and the stir of life in every growing thing, while the chill that came down from the white peaks fired the blood like wine; but Alton sighed as he glanced up at the stars above him and his face was sombre. There was, it seemed, no possibility of the railroad being built to Somasco, he could only see disaster in front of him, and knew that with the hope of prosperity a brighter one had gone. He would be a poor man, and was a cripple, and—for he had not forgotten his deficiencies—could have laughed at the folly which had led him to grasp at that which could never be his. Then his slow, enduring stubbornness came to his help again as he remembered that there yet remained to him the fight with Hallam.

"I was a fool. She only wanted to be kind," he said.

Still, he groaned in a fit of passion as the memory of one moment at midnight in Somasco ranch returned to him, for all his pulses throbbed feverishly as he felt in fancy the warm white arm steal round his neck.

"I must have dreamt it—with the rest," he said. "And if I didn't, that was enough to remember. God bless her for her gentleness."

Again he flung the memories from him with an effort that brought a dew to his face, but the conflict which must be fought every day was over, and he stretched his long limbs amidst the soft cedar-twigs and lay down to sleep with a stolid acquiescence that if wholly free from bitterness was but little brightened by the victory. The man's life had been a struggle almost since its beginning, and he was stubborn, but his own headstrong passions had been the most obdurate enemy he had ever brought into subjection.

Sleep came and brought him forgetfulness. The fire sank to a lambent flicker above the white-flecked embers, the pines sang their mystic songs about him as a little breeze awoke, and their soft sighing was answered by the growl of the torrent far down in the ravine. Now and then the horse stamped restlessly and tugged at the lariat that was pegged down within reach of Alton's arm, and once came up and looked down on him. Alton usually slumbered lightly in the bush, but man's primitive instincts reassert themselves in the wilderness, and because it is possible that his senses were not wholly dormant and there was some subtle sympathy between him and the beasts that served him he did not awaken.

Then the horse grew restless and pricked its ears, stood still snorting, and backed away to the length of its tether as a face looked out from the undergrowth. The sinking light of the fire was on it, and it was an evil face with the stamp of hunger on it, and malevolence in the staring eyes. Again the horse snorted and trembled as an arm was thrust out of the bushes and something glinted in the hand, but Alton still lay motionless with the pack saddle under his shoulders.

Then a man crawled clear of the undergrowth, rose up, and stooped over the lariat with a knife in his hand. He needed a horse badly, and one stroke with the blade would give him one; but he needed food and a saddle almost as much, and moving forward a few paces gazed at the sleeping man. He saw the pack that had been seized to the saddle, and guessed that there were several days' provisions inside it, while a wolfish gleam came into his eyes as he straightened himself and stood very still listening. His garments hung in thorn-rent rags about him, weariness was in his very attitude, but his face had written on it the cunning and courage of desperation, for he had been hunted by tireless men who were then close behind him, and had travelled for the most part starving and without sleep. With a good horse and provisions he could yet escape his enemies, and the man looked scarcely human as he stood watching the sleeper with a sullen glow in his eyes.