The Place Beyond the Winds

by Harriet T. Comstock

The program, the next few days, was as clear in Farwell's mind as if he had already followed it from start to finish. By eight Pine would be on his tracks; by noon they would be together, the dogs grumbling and fighting at their heels. Two nights by the fire, smoking in a dull silence, broken now and then, in sheer desperation, by Farwell himself.

In Ledyard's plan there had evidently been but one stipulation: the constant guardianship with explicit reports. Beyond that there seemed to be no exactions. Farwell had tried to make Pine drink more than was good for him on various occasions in order to test the metal of the restraint, but the Indian displayed a wonderful self-control. He knew when and where to begin and stop in any self-indulgence, but having fulfilled his part he showed no interest or curiosity in his companion. Once the trading station was reached, Farwell might buy or seek pleasure as he chose; he might write or receive letters; might sleep or wake. So long as the tangible Farwell was where the guide could locate him at a moment's notice, he was free to think and act to his own satisfaction.

As he plodded on Farwell contemplated, as he never had before, his relations with the Indian; in fact, the Indian himself. A superficial friendliness had sprung up between the two. How deep was it? how much to be depended upon? If Ledyard could buy the fellow, might not a higher price secure his allegiance? This, strange to say, was a new thought to Farwell. Perhaps he had accepted the situation too doggedly; it was his way to cease struggling when the tide turned against him. It was weakness, it was folly, and, after Priscilla went, after the girl opened the doors again into that old life, how could he endure the loneliness, the tugging of her hold upon him from the place he once had called his?

The day came late to the deep woods beyond Kenmore, and Farwell seemed going toward the night instead of facing the morning. At five he paused to feed his dogs and take a bite himself, and, as he sat upon a fallen tree, the mystic stirrings of life thrilled him as they often had before. It was more a sense of rustle and awakening than actual sound. Hidden under the silence of the forest lay the quivering promises, as the rosy light lay just on the border of the woodland. Both were pressing warm and comfortingly close to the lonely man with his patient dogs at his feet. Farwell was a better man, a finer man, than he knew, but only subconsciously did this support him.

It was three of the afternoon before he heard the quick, measured steps on the trail behind him. He did not turn his head, but he called back a genial "Hello!" which was answered by a grunt not devoid of friendliness.

The evening meal was eaten together, and the two arranged their blankets near the fire for the night's rest. Farwell's two dogs and Pine's one faithful henchman lay down in peace a short distance away. It was as it had been for a time back, except that the Indian had become, suddenly, either an obstacle to be overcome or a friend to assist. Not realizing his new importance, the guide grunted a good night and fell into that sleep of his that never seemed to capture his senses entirely.

At the small town, which was reached late the following day, Farwell engaged two rooms at the ramshackle tavern and informed Pine that he was to share the luxuries.

This was unusual. In the past a day at the station sufficed for business transactions, and night found them in the woods again. Pine was confused but alert. However, things progressed comfortably enough. The expected mail was awaiting Farwell, and he greedily bought all the newspapers he could get. His purchases at the store did not interest the Indian and he was not even aware that several garments for a woman were included in Farwell's list. A telegram sent, and another received, did perturb the fellow a good deal, but when Farwell tore the one he got into shreds, the simple mind of the guide concluded that the matter was unimportant, and he forgot it before they reached Kenmore. He could not burden his poor intellect with unnecessary rubbish, and the whole business was getting on to what stood for nerves in the Indian's anatomy.

What really had occurred was this: Farwell had reached across the desolate stretches that divided him from his one friend and got a response. He had impressed upon John Boswell that he could not come in person to Kenmore, but he could meet a certain needy young person and convey her to safety in the States. And he had asked a question that for months had never risen to the surface—he had been too crushed to give it place.

"Is Joan Moss still alive?"