Chapter V
Hugh Gaylord had never known a more mysterious hour than that in which the darkness fell over the sheep camp. At the end of it he felt as if he had lost himself in a dim and eerie dream and only the eternal reality of the sheep, bedding down and bleating in the falling shadows, made it credible to him. But the mystery did not lie in the qualities of the scene itself. Rather it was in his own attitude toward them: a feeling of familiarity and long acquaintance that he could not understand.
It all seemed so natural and real. Even the dim twilight and the glow of the dying fire seemed something vividly remembered from long ago. Yet there was nothing here of the world he knew, the world of cities and gaieties and throngs. There was nothing in his past life to explain the intimacy he felt. At the edge of the little meadow the dusk deepened between the trees. The strong profiles of the pines dimmed and blurred, the distant peaks receded—with a curious effect of actual motion—into the further recesses of the twilight. Here and there the stars were pushing through, and he suddenly regarded them with some wonder. He couldn't ever remember noticing them in particular before. Perhaps the smoke that ever hung over his city mostly obscured them; possibly he had never had occasion to think about them. Now he was startled by the same curious sense of familiarity,—as if he had lain beneath them a thousand-thousand years and they were old friends come back to talk to him again.
They grew inexpressively bright. Their numbers increased, they filled the sky, they grouped themselves in geometrical patterns and designs, dropping down as if on invisible threads to the spires of the distant pines. For one little instant, as he raised his eyes aloft, he was an astrologer of old, and a knowledge of the ages was upon him. He felt stirred to the depths of his being.
He dropped his eyes to regard the sheep. The outline of the separate animals was altogether lost by now: they were just a dim, white mass in the faint glow of the fire. It was the same as always: they had all bedded down for the night. He saw the light spring up in the herder's tent as the guide lighted a candle, and this was familiar too.
The Indian came out and with strong, steady strokes began to break wood for the fire. The swarthy face looked unusually dusky in the red glow of the coals. As yet the two men had not discussed the grim find in the tent. There had been scarcely nothing to say in regard to it. Hugh felt no especial excitement or awe: he had been almost as cold and impassive in regard to the tragedy as Pete himself.
Such an attitude might have been expected in the guide, but it caused some self-wonder to see it in himself. Pete was a wilderness man, and if there is one lesson to be learned in the primeval forest it is the reality and the inevitability of death. He was used to death. He had seen it every day. All night long the ancient war of the wilderness waged on, and many were its casualties. The night shuddered with them: the agony of the deer in the cougar's claws; the crunch of fangs when the wolves tracked down their game; even the shrill, terrible death-cry of the birds when the climbing marten overtook them on their perches. Not for nothing does the buzzard watch all day from the clouds. He knows; and whoever listens to the wilderness voices knows too. The wild, despairing song of the pack, the wail of the coyote, even the murmur of the pines is a song of death, immutable and dark, at the end of their little days. But what did Hugh know of these things? He had always lived a sheltered life. Yet now he felt no horror, no excitement, only the realization that he was face to face with reality at last.
The guide had heaped fuel on the fire and it threw a bright glare over the whole camp. Hugh could even make out the dark border of the forest at the extremities of its glow. Then the Indian turning back into the tent, Hugh entered also.
"Then the shot we heard was the one that killed this man?" he asked.
"Yes. Pistol killed dog. Maybe we too far to hear shot."
"And you haven't any idea—what could have been the motive, the reason for killing him."
"Yes " The Indian paused and stared down at the still form.
"What do you think it was?" Hugh spoke very quietly.
"Big fight—over the range," Pete explained with difficulty. "This big cattle country—cattlemen always try to keep out sheep. Maybe other reasons too, but that began it. Always shooting—cattlemen and sheepmen. This first flock anywhere near—first in this part of Smoky Land."
"Then it was just cold-blooded murder."
"Yes. No signs of a fight. Maybe shot him through tent door, then tried to kill dogs. Killed one, wounded other. Now I cook supper."
The Indian, wholly without emotion, began to take stores from the dead herder's grub-box. He noted that the man's supplies seemed almost gone, only a few potatoes, a small piece of bacon in an oiled paper, and a little flour remaining. The guide saw his look of question and made explanation.
"Camp-tender come soon," he said.
"And who is the camp-tender?"
"Each sheep camp has two men. One herder. The other packs in supplies—food for herder, salt for sheep. Come every two weeks, maybe sooner, and camp-tender due here pretty soon. But he'll find—plenty sheep dead."
For once Hugh did not have to ask questions. The guide's last few words explained, in a measure, the motive for the murder. Without a herder and with only one dog left to care for the flocks, the beasts of prey would find easy hunting. "But we'll stop that game," Hugh said decidedly. "To-morrow morning—to-night, if you think we can make the trail, we'll go in and take this man's body to the coroner. Then the sheep owner can send up another herder."
Hugh looked up to find an odd, grim little smile at the guide's lips. It was a thing to notice: this dark savage was not given to smiling. "You don't know sheep," he explained. "You don't know Running Feet—what he can do in one night."
By intuition more than by actual interpretation of the words Hugh understood. He studied his guide with growing wonder. For the second time that day Pete had dropped back into his own speech. True, in this case the language itself was Hugh's own, but the idiom was, beyond all denial, savage. He had revealed for an instant something of the strange poetry of the Indian, as well as the Indian's imaginative interpretation of the wilderness. Running Feet, past all doubt, referred to some of the predatory animals that habitually; preyed on the sheep.
"In other words—if we hadn't discovered this murder, the flock would be practically wiped out by the time the camp-tender got here?"
"Maybe all gone."
"Even if they send up a man right away there will be some losses."
"We start to-morrow," Pete explained laboriously. "To-morrow sunset before we reach tel—tel—talk-over-wire? Another sunset, maybe another sunrise, before herder can come all long way. Plenty likely can't get no one. Cattle-men rich—mighty—many. Maybe no one want the job."
"And we can't start to-night?"
"Trail too dark. Maybe couldn't catch the horse. Run fast in the dark."
Hugh turned quickly. "What horse do you mean?"
Pete smiled again, very dimly. "Eyes maybe half blind. Horse grazing just inside the forest, just outside meadow. Herders always have one horse, maybe two."
Hugh had not noticed: his eyes were not trained to penetrate the thickets as those of the Indian. And at once he made up his mind as to the morning's work. After all, it was only decent to get word to the owner of the flock as soon as possible. He would not permit his own hunting trip to stand in the way. It was true that he had been looking for a good excuse to return to civilization, and now he had it; but it was not without some unexpected regrets. He had received a new point of view in this visit to the camp, and he felt that he would enjoy a few more days in the evergreen forest. But even the Old Colonel would understand why it was necessary that he change his plans. In the morning they would catch the horse, place the herder's body upon it, and go down with their story to the settlements. He wondered if there would be a bereaved family to face; he hoped that this, at least, would be spared him. The murdered man looked like a South-European, evidently of the class of shiftless and uneducated men from which most flock owners have to recruit their herders.
His mind flew back to the Old Colonel, sitting in the Greenwood Club. Some way, the memory of the old man was more clear than any time since he had come. It seemed to him that he could remember, word for word, all that the old sportsman had told him. Curiously he had not remembered being so impressed at the time. In some dim under-consciousness he realized that there would be further instructions for him now; but just what they were he did not permit himself to guess. He was eager to return,—go back to God's country.
After the simple meal, the guide prepared to go back to the camp after some of the more valuable of the camp supplies and Hugh's bedding. "And where do you expect to sleep yourself?" Hugh asked.
The Indian pointed to the herder's bed, as if that explained the matter completely. And, after all, why not? This was no time for nonsense and hysteria. For once in his life, there in that far sheep camp, Hugh felt that he was down to facts.
He heard the departing footsteps of the Indian fading slowly to a dim whisper infinitely distant. He was alone. He awoke with a start to the fact that he was really alone for the first time in his life. At this hour, in his own city, he would be either at his club or at dinner, in each case surrounded by his fellow human beings. Servants slept within a few doors of his room at his own house; his pleasures had always been of a sociable nature. On previous nights in the wild he had his guide: what loneliness he might have felt was forgotten in the fumes of strong drink. For the first time in his life, it seemed to him, Hugh had a chance to become acquainted with himself.
His thoughts were singularly clear as he sat beside the camp fire. He looked back over his past life, and it seemed to him that he was looking for something in it that he could not find. He didn't know quite what it was. He wasn't sure why he felt such a sudden, overpowering need for it. Perhaps the name of it was justification,—and yet he could not have told what was the high offense he wanted to justify. There beside the sleeping flock new knowledge came to him, a realization of the great themes and purposes of existence never known before. He felt vaguely uneasy about his wasted days, wishing that he could see some destination, some height, some star to which they were pointing. He had an obscure feeling that all his life he had shirked responsibility; and stranger still,—that in the deep realms of his spirit he was shirking it now.
The great shepherd dog came and crouched beside him, and the man held the soft head in his hands. His thought went back to the pedigreed, savage, characterless dog that he himself owned, and unconsciously he compared the animals. The thought returned to him again and again, try as he might to repel it. It haunted and disturbed him, and he didn't know why. His own dog had won numerous ribbons at the dog shows, he had been bought at a fabulous price, and his pedigree went back many generations. Yet by what fairness could the two animals be named in the same breath? One was a slacker: the other a brave and faithful servant of a great cause. One was an ornament in a dog show: the other guarded—with his life if necessary—the grazing flocks. From dawn till dark he was at his toil, through the blasting heat of summer and the bitter winter cold, watching through the night and running through the day. Hugh was not blind to the fact of his present fidelity: that although his master lay murdered and he himself had been slightly wounded, the brave animal still kept his watch over the sheep. He had been busy at it when the two men had come, and even now his intelligent eyes studied the shadows of the encroaching forest. Hugh felt a sudden glow in his heart. His hands pressed tighter at the soft ears.
A word came to Hugh's lips and he spoke it in the silence. "Service," he said softly. "Old fellow, you give service." Suddenly he knew that this was the great debt that all living things owed: service in the great cause of existence that no man fully understands. He tried to remember what service he himself had given. Dim regrets swept over him.
He rose to throw more wood upon the fire; then stood listening to the voices of the forest. They were so faint and obscure that he had to strain to hear them. It was strange that he had been deaf to them before. They came whispering through the mighty silences, and they filled him with haunting memories. At first the crackle of the fire had obscured them, but as he waited the separate tones became more distinct and permitted some measure of interpretation. He heard the rustling of the thickets, the noise of flicking leaves dim as eyelids winking against a pillow, the sad murmur of the pine limbs, scraping together. Behind them all was the faint murmur of the wind,—a little wind that had sprung up in the snow fields and was making a secret march down through the thickets.
Something of the same sense of familiarity that had come to him on first observing the sheep returned to him now. It seemed wholly natural that he should be sitting here in the silence, beside the flocks.—Throughout the ages men of his breed had sat the same way, the firelight playing on them, the faithful dog beside them. The wind whispered and stirred in the wilderness just the same, the white sheep slept. Watching the flocks,—the phrase was as old as the mountains themselves.
Yet for a moment he found it hard to believe in the dangers of which the guide had spoken: dangers that would soon exterminate the flock except for the protection of herders and dogs. No scene could be more peaceful: the dark forest so lightly stirred by the wind, the river singing past, the soft firelight, the stars in the sky. The breath of the night was sweet and cool; surely there would be no hurry about notifying the flock owner of the herder's death. He turned again to the dog. "You can take care of them, can't you, boy?" he asked.
He glanced down, then stiffened with excitement. For once the dog did not seem to hear him. The animal had got up and now was standing braced, every nerve and muscle alert, gazing into the shadows beyond the river. Hugh's hand fell on the shaggy neck, but the animal didn't start. And the hair stood stiff like quills at the shoulders.
"What is it, boy?" Hugh asked.
The dog made no answer. Instead, a strange and terrible reply came from the wilderness. It was a dreadful, a commanding voice, and it seemed to freeze the whole forest world with horror. It obliterated the wind and silenced all the little voices to which Hugh had listened with such delight a moment before. It was a long, wild scream, beginning low in the scale and rising to an incredible height.
For innumerable seconds, it seemed to Hugh, the same crescendo note was maintained. The air seemed to shudder. Then, with great soaring leaps, the scream dropped away into a long, singsong whine. Slowly this faded, growing dim and more dim, until it was just a dying whimper in the air. Hugh couldn't tell exactly when the voice ceased. He had a strange impression that it still continued, only so dim and fine that human ears were not tuned to receive it. Then the wilderness silence closed down again.
The dog leaped forward, barking, and Hugh found himself erect, with his rifle in his hands. In his own heart he knew this wilderness voice. If he did not know the breed that uttered it, at least he realized its savagery, its age-old menace. There is no utterance that pen can describe more wild and weird than some of the twilight cries of the coyotes; yet Hugh was inclined to think that another, more deadly animal had spoken in this case. On a few occasions he had heard members of his club—back from hunting trips in the West—describe the cries of the cougars or pumas: one of the most distinctive and awe-inspiring of all the wilderness voices. It is not heard often. Many men have lived years in the forest without ever hearing it at all. But once heard it is never forgotten. Hugh believed that he had heard it now.
And it had meant more to him than the mere night cry of an animal. It typified to him the very spirit of the wilderness. It was the voice not alone of a hungry creature, stalking in the shadows, but—in his thought—it expressed all the ancient terror of the darkness, the primeval forces that war with man.
Nothing had changed. Still the sheep slept in the meadow and a great beast of prey menaced them from the shadowed forest. The long conflicts against the powers of the wilderness had not yet been won: the shepherds of Judea might have known the same cry. The fire burned low, and it seemed to Hugh that the shadows gathered menacingly about the sheep.
Perhaps Broken Fang himself had spoken. Besides its menace and savagery the voice had been also a living expression of power and pride that only one of the greatest of wilderness creatures would possess. No craven coyote, he believed, could utter such a ringing challenge. The dog raced around the flock, seemingly ready to protect them with his life. No wilderness voice was so terrible as to frighten him from his watch.
And then, at the most wonderful thought of all, Hugh's heart gave a great leap in his breast. Watching the flock! That was it,—he was watching the flock himself. True, the dog was still on guard, fearless and constant in his vigil, but he could not claim all the guardianship of the sheep. It was his own presence as much as the growlings of the dog that kept the puma at a distance. Except for him, white fangs even now would be tearing at the throats of the lambs.
For the first time in his life he was serving. Was not his gun resting in his hands? For once in his life he was bearing arms in the oldest war that mankind knows,—the war against the menace of the wild. The blood leaped and sang in his veins.