The Everlasting Whisper - Jackson Gregory
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THE EVERLASTING WHISPER
_A Tale of the California Wilderness_.
By JACKSON GREGORY
To Maxwell E. Perkins
With The Author'S Grateful Recognition Of His Countless Sympathetic
Criticisms And Suggestions
_Chapter I_
It was springtime in the California Sierra. Never were skies bluer,
never did the golden sun-flood steep the endless forest lands in richer
life-giving glory. Ridge after ridge the mountains swept on and fell
away upon one side until in the vague distances they sank to the
monotonous level of the Sacramento Valley; down there it was already
summer, and fields were hot and brown. Ridge after ridge the mountains
stretched on the other side, rising steadily, growing ever more august
and mighty and rocky; on their crests across the blue gorges the snow
was dazzling white and winter held stubbornly on at altitudes of seven
thousand feet. Thus winter, springtime, and ripe, fruit-dropping summer
coexisted, touching fingers across the seventy miles that lie between
the icy top of the Sierra and the burning lowlands.
Here, in a region lifted a mile into the rare atmosphere, was a ridge
all naked boulder and spire along its crest, its sides studded with pine
and incense cedar. The afternoon sunlight streaked the big bronze tree
trunks, making bright gay spots and patches of light, casting cool black
shadows across the open spaces where the brown dead needles lay in thick
carpets. It was early June, and thus far only had the springtime
advanced in its vernal progress upward through the timbered solitudes.
Some few small patches of snow still lingered on in spots sheltered from
the sun, but now they were ebbing away in thin trickles. Down in a
hollow at the base of the sunny slope was a round alpine lake no bigger
than a pond in a city park. It was of the same deep, perfect blue as the
sky, whose colour it seemed not to reflect but to absorb.
A tiny fragment of this same heavenly azure drifted downward among the
trees like a bit of sky falling. A second bit of blue that had skimmed
across the lake and was visible now only as it rose and winged across
the contrasting coloured meadow rimming the pool was like a bit of the
lake itself. Two bluebirds. They swerved before the meeting, their wings
fluttered, they lighted on branches of the same tree and shyly eyed each
other. Did a man need to have the still message of all the woods summed
up in final emphasis, this it was: spring is here.
The man himself, as the birds had done before him, had the appearance of
materializing spontaneously from some distilled essence of his
environment. A moment ago the spaces between the wide-set cedar-trees
were empty. Yet he had been there a long time. It was only because he
had moved that he attracted attention even of the sharp-eyed forest folk
who were returning to tree and thicket. As the bluebirds had been
viewless when merged into the backgrounds of their own colour, so he,
while sitting with his back against a tawny cedar, had been drawn into
the entity of the wilderness to which, obviously, he belonged. Here he
blended, harmonized, disappeared when he held motionless. The well-worn,
tall, laced boots were of brown leather, much scuffed, one in colour
with the soil dusting them. The khaki trousers gathered into the
boot-tops, the soft flannel shirt, were the brown of the tree trunks;
skin of hands and face and muscular throat were the bronze of ripe
pine-cones and burnished pine-needles. And, in a landscape spotted with
light and shadow, the head of black hair might have passed for a bit of
such pitch-black shadow as a tuft of thick foliage casts upon the
light-smitten ground.
Beyond this outward harmony there was something at once more intangible
and yet more vital and positive that made the man a piece with the
natural world about him. Perhaps it was that he had lived so many months
of so many years in the open that he had grown to be true brother of the
wild; that he had shed coat after coat of artificial veneer as he took
on the layers of tan; that in doing so he shed from his mind many of the
artificialities of the twentieth century and remembered ancient
instincts. His deep chest knew the tricks of proper breathing; he would
come to the top of a steep climb with unlaboured breath. He stood tall
and stalwart, filled with vigorous strength in repose like the straight
valiant cedars. His eyes were black and piercing, as keen as those of
the hawk which, circling in the deeper sky, had seen him when he moved;
he, too, had seen the hawk. All about him was a lustily masculine phase
of the world, giant trees dominating giant slopes, rugged boulders
upheaved, iron cliffs defying time and battling the years; he, like
them, was virile, his sex clothing him magnificently. He had not shaved
for three days and yet, instead of looking untidy, was but clothed in
the greater vitality. While his eyes sped swiftly hither and thither,
now busied with wide groupings, now catching small details, his face was
impassive. In keeping both with his own magnificent physique and the
rugged note of the forest, it was the face of a man who had defied and
battled.
Beyond the lake a peak upthrust its rocky front into the sky. It frowned
across the ridges, darkened by the shadows which its own irregularities
cast athwart its massive features. But the sun, slowly as it rolled,
sought out those shadows; they moved, crept to other hiding-places, and
the golden light coaxed a subdued, soft gentleness across the massive
boulders. This, too, the man saw.
He stood looking out across the ridges and so to the final bulwark
against the sky still white with last December. He sought landmarks and
measured distance, not in miles but in hours. Then he glanced briefly at
the sun. But now, before starting on again, he turned from the more
distant landscape and, remembering the immediate scene about him as he
had viewed it last, drowsing in the Indian summer of last October, he
noted everywhere the handiwork of young June. The eyes which had been
keen and alert filled suddenly with a shining brightness.
The springtime, eternally youthful coquette, had come with a great
outward display of timidity and shyness into the sternly solemn forest
land of the high Sierra. To the last fine detail and exquisite touch
was she, more here than elsewhere, softly, prettily, daintily feminine,
her light heart idly set on wooing from its calm and abstracted
aloofness this region of granite and lava, of rugged chasms and august
ancient trees. She filled the air with fragrances, lightly shaken; she
scattered bright fragile flowers to brighten the earth and clear
bird-notes to sparkle through the air. Hesitant always in the seeming,
she came with that shy step of hers to the feet of glooming precipices;
under crests where the snow clung on she played at indifference,
loitering with a new flower, knowing that little by little the thaw
would answer her veiled efforts, that in the end the monarch of all the
brooding mountain tops would discard the white mantle of aloofness and
thrill to her embrace; knowing, too, that with each successive conquest
made secure she would only laugh in that singing voice of hers and turn
her back and pass on. On and on, over ridges and ranges, and so around
the world.
The woods lay steeped in sunshine, enwrapped in characteristic quietude.
There was no wind to ruffle the man's hair, no sound of a falling cone
or of dead leaves crackling under a squirrel's foot. And yet the man had
the air now of one listening, hearkening to the silence itself. For
silence among the pines is not the dead void of desert lands, but a
great hush like the finger-to-lip command in a sleeper's room, or the
still message of a sea-shell held to the ear. The countless millions of
cedar and pine needles seemed as motionless as the very mountains
themselves, yet it was they who laid the gently audible command upon the
balmy afternoon and whispered the great hush. That whisper the man
heard, it seemed to him, less with his ears than with his soul.
He went back to the tree against which he had rested and picked up his
hat and a small canvas roll. And yet again, with his hat in his hand, he
stood motionless, his eyes lingering along the cliff tops across the
little lake, his attitude that of a man listening to an invitation which
he would like to accept but in the end meant to refuse. Already he had
marked out the way he planned to go, and still the nearer peaks with the
sunshine upon them called to him. One would have hazarded that they were
familiar from oft-repeated visits, and that among his plans to the
contrary a desire to climb them insisted. He glanced at the sun again,
shook his head, and took the first step slantingly downward along the
slope. But only once more to grow as still as the big trees about him.
Slowly he drew back into the shadows to watch and not be seen.
For abruptly two figures had appeared upon the rocky head of the
mountain across the lake. They had come up from the further side, and
when he saw them first stood clear-cut against the sky. They might have
been hunters since each carried a rifle. And yet the watcher's brows
gathered in a frown and his eyes glinted angrily.
The two figures separated, one going along the crest of the ridge, the
other climbing downward cautiously until he stood at the edge of the
cliffs. He craned his body to look down as though seeking a way to the
lake; he straightened and stared for a long time toward the snow tops of
the more distant altitudes. The sun lay in pools all about him, and
across the distance separating him and his companion from the man who
watched them so intently, his gestures could be followed readily. He
turned and must have said something to his companion, who leaped down
from a boulder and came to his side. The second man towered over him,
head and shoulder. This the eyes upon the other slope were quick to
note; they cleared briefly as though with a new understanding, only to
grow harder than before.
They talked together, and yet the only sound to carry across the lake
and meadow was the rush of air through innumerable tree-tops. The blue
water glinted softly under the westering sun; in the blue void of the
sky the hawk wheeled, silent and graceful and watchful. The smaller man
pointed, his arm outheld steadily. The other drew nearer, towering above
him. He, too, pointed or seemed about to point. They stood so close
together that the two figures merged. From a distance they looked like
one man now.
It was with startling abruptness that the two figures were torn apart,
each resolved again into an individual. One, the towering man, had drawn
suddenly back; the other was falling. And yet the silence was unbroken.
There was never a cry to echo through the gorges from a horror-clutched
throat. The falling man plunged straight down a dozen feet, struck
against a ragged rock, writhed free, fell again a few feet, and began to
roll. There had been the flash of the sun on the rifle in his hand; he
had clutched wildly at that as though it could save him. Now it flew
from his grasp as he rolled over and over, plunging down the steep flank
of the mountain.
The man who had watched from across the lake had not stirred. The big
man on the cliffs came back slowly to the brink and crouched there,
looking down, motionless so long that it was hard for the eye to be sure
of him, to know if it were really a human being or a poised boulder
squatting there. There came no call from below; the hawk wheeled and
wheeled, lost interest, drifting away. In the little hollow where the
lake glinted it was very still with the soft perfection of the first
spring days.
The man on the cliff stood up, holding his rifle. He had done with
looking down; now he pivoted slowly, looking off in all other
directions. Presently he began climbing back up the few feet to the
knife-like crest from which he had descended not five minutes ago. He
paused there for hardly more than an instant and then went on, down the
further side, out of sight.
The man who had seen all this from his own slope caught up his canvas
roll again and hurried down toward the lake. For the first time he spoke
aloud, saying:
"Swen Brodie. There's not another man in the mountains brute enough for
that."
He hastened on, taking the shortest way, making nothing of the steepest
slopes. He was going straight toward the nearer end of the lake, which
he must skirt to come up the further mountain and to the man who had
fallen; and, by the way, straight toward the peak, still bright in the
sunlight, which he had wanted to revisit all along.
_Chapter II_
Much of the descent of the long slope was taken at a run, on ploughing
heels. He crossed the springy meadow at a jog-trot. But the climb to the
fallen man was another matter. The sun was appreciably lower, the
shadows already made dusky tangles among the trees, when the man
carrying the canvas roll came at last under the cliffs. From out these
shadows, before his keen eyes found the man they sought, he heard a
voice calling faintly:
"That you, Brodie?"
"No. Brodie's gone."
The voice, though very weak, sharpened perceptibly:
"You, who are you?"
"What difference does it make?--if you need help."
"Who said I wanted help? Not Brodie!"
"No. Not Brodie."
He dropped his roll and began working his way through the bushes.
Presently he came to a spot from which he could see a figure propped up
against a tree. There was a rifle across the man's knees, gripped in
both hands. And yet surely the rifle had been whirled out of his hands
in his fall. Then he was not hurt badly, after all, since he had managed
to work his way back up to it.
"Oh! It's you, is it, King?" The man against the tree did not seem
overjoyed; there was a sullen note in his voice.
King came on, breaking his way through the brush.
"Hello," he said, a little taken aback. "It's you, is it? I thought it
would be----" But he did not say who. He came on and stood over the man
on the ground, stooping for an instant to peer close into his face.
"Hurt much?" he asked.
The answer was a long time coming. The face was bloodlessly grey. From
it a pair of close-set, shallow brown eyes looked shiftily. A tongue ran
back and forth between the colourless lips.
"It's my leg," he said. "I don't know if it's broke. And I'm sort of
bunged up." He looked up sharply. "Oh, I'll be all right," he grunted,
"and don't you fool yourself."
"Did Brodie----?"
The man began to tremble; the hands on his gun shook so that the weapon
veered and wavered uncertainly.
"Yes, rot his soul." He began to curse, at first softly, then with a
strained voice rising into a storm of windy incoherence. Suddenly he
broke off, eyeing King with suspicion upon the surface of his shallow
eyes. "What are you after?"
"I didn't know how badly you were hurt. I came to see if I could lend
you a hand."
"You know I don't mean that. What are you after, here in the mountains?"
His voice was surly with truculence.
King grew angry and burst out bluntly:
"The devil take you, Andy Parker. I wanted to help you. If you don't
take my interference kindly, I'll be on my way."
He turned to be off. Why the man was not already dead from that fall he
did not know. But if the fellow was able to shift for himself, it suited
King well enough. He had business of his own and no desire to step to
one side or another to deal with Swen Brodie or Andy Parker, or with any
man who trailed his luck with such as these. But now Parker called to
him, and in an altered voice, a whine running through the words.
"Hold on, King. I'm hung up here for the night, anyhow. And I ain't got
a bite of grub, and already I'm burning up with thirst. Get me a drink,
will you?"
Without answer, King went to his canvas roll, and Parker, thinking
himself deserted, began to plead noisily. On his knees King opened his
roll, got out a cup, and began to search for water. Above him there were
patches of snow; he found where a trickle of clear cold water ran in a
narrow rivulet, and presently returned to the injured man with a
brimming cup. Parker drank thirstily, demanded more, and sank back with
a long sigh.
"The thing's unlucky, you know, King," he said queerly.
"Is it?" said King coolly. It was like him not to pretend that he did
not know to what Andy Parker's thoughts had flown.
Parker nodded, pursing his lips, and kept on nodding like a broken
automatic toy. At the end he jerked his head up and muttered:
"There's been the devil's luck on it for more'n sixty years and maybe a
thousand years before that! Oh, _you_ know! Look how it went with those
old-timers. The last one of the Seven got it. Look how it happens with
old man Loony Honeycutt, clucking and chuckling and stepping up and down
in his shadow all the time; gone nuts from just _smelling_ of it! Look
what happens to me, all stove up here." He paused and then spat out
venomously: "Oh, it'll get Swen Brodie and it'll get you, too, Mark
King. You'll see."
"Another drink before I go?" demanded King.
Parker put his fingers to his scalp and examined them for traces of
blood.
"I got a terrible headache," he said. "Aching and singing and sort of
dizzy."
King went for more water, this time filling his one cook-pot. When he
returned Parker was trying to stand. He had drawn himself up, holding to
the tree with both shaking hands, putting his weight gingerly on one
leg. Suddenly his weak hands gave way, he swayed and fell. King,
standing over him, thought at first he was dead, so white and still was
he. But Parker had only fainted.
The sun sank lower; the shadows down about the lake shores thickened
and began to run, more and more swiftly, up the surrounding slopes. The
tall peaks caught the last of the fading light, and like so many
watch-towers blazed across the wilderness. Upward, about their bases,
surged the flooding shadows like a dark tide rising swiftly; the light
on the tallest spire winked and went out; and all of a sudden the rush
of air through the pine tops strengthened and a growing murmur like the
voice of a distant surf made it seem that one could hear the flood of
the night sweeping through gorge and canon and inundating the world.
And, despite all that Mark King could do, the sunset glow had gone and
the first big star was shining before Andy Parker stirred.
His first call was for water. Then he complained of a terrible pain in
his vitals, a pain that stabbed him through from chest to abdomen.
Thereafter he was never coherent again, though for the most part he
babbled like a noisy brook. He spoke of Swen Brodie and old Loony
Honeycutt and Gus Ingle all in one breath, and King knew that Gus Ingle
was sixty years dead; he dwelt hectically on the "luck of the unlucky
Seven." And when, far on in the night, he at length grew silent and King
went to peer into his face by the light of his camp-fire, Andy Parker
was dead.
* * * * *
Mark King made the grave in the dawn. In his roll, the handle slipped
out so that it might lie snug against the steel head, was a short
miner's pick. A little below where Parker lay in his last wide-eyed
vigil under the stars, King found a fairly level space free of rock and
carpeted in young grass. Here with a pine-tree to mark head and foot, he
worked at the shallow grave. He put his own blanket down, laid the quiet
figure gently upon it, bringing the ends over to cover him. He marked
the spot with a pile of rocks; he blazed the two trees. It was all that
he could do; far more than Andy Parker would have done for him or for
any other man.
The sun was rising when, he made his way to the top of the ridge and
came to stand where he had seen Parker and Swen Brodie side by side. He
clambered on until he came to the very crest over which Swen Brodie had
disappeared. Just where had Brodie gone? He wondered. The answer came
before the question could have been put into words. Though it was full
day across the heights where King stood, it would be an hour and longer
before the sun got down into the canons and meadows. He saw the flare of
a camp-fire shining bright through the dark of a low-lying flat two
miles or more from his vantage-point. Brodie would be cooking his
breakfast now.
After that King did not again climb up where his body would stand out
against the sky which was filling so brightly with the new morning. He
moved along the ridge steadily and swiftly like a man with a definite
objective who did not care to be spied on. In twenty minutes, after many
a hazardous passage along a steep bare surface, he came to a spot where
the knife edge of the ridge was broken down and blunted into a fairly
level space a hundred yards across. Here was an accumulation of soil
worn down from the granite above, and here, an odd, isolated tuft of
scrawny verdure, grew a small grove of trees, stunted pine and
scraggling brush.
Toward the far end of this upland flat was the disintegrating ruin of a
cabin. The walls had disappeared long ago, save for two or three rotting
logs, but a small rectangle of slightly raised ground indicated how they
had extended. Even the rock chimney had fallen away, but something of
the fireplace, black with burning, stood where labouring hands had
placed it more than half a century before.
Here he made his own breakfast from what was ready cooked in his pack,
dispensing with the fire, which would inevitably tell Brodie of his
presence. For Brodie, callously brutish as he was, must be something
less than human not to turn his chill blue Icelandic eyes toward the
spot where he had abandoned his fallen companion.
King's first interest was centred on the ground underfoot. He went back
and forth and about the ruin of the cabin several times seeking any
sign that would tell him if Brodie and Andy Parker had been here before
him. But there were no tracks in the softer soil, no trodden-down grass.
It was very likely that no foot had come here since King's own last
October. A look of satisfaction shone for an instant in his eyes. Then,
done with this keen examination, they went with curious eagerness to the
more distant landscape. He passed through the storm-broken trees and to
the far rim of the flat, where he stood a long time staring frowningly
at one after another of the spires and ridges lifted against the sky,
probing into the mystery of the night still slumbering in the ravines.
Now his look had to do, in intent concentration, with a slope not five
hundred yards off; now with a blue-and-white summit toward which a man
might toil all day and all night before reaching.
He might have been the figure of the "Explorer," grim and hard and
determined; silent and solitary in a land of silence and solitude,
brooding over a region where "the trails run out and stop." Something
urged, something called, and his blood responded. About him rose the
voice of the endless leagues of pines in a hushed utterance which might
have been the whisper:
"Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges--
Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!"
He made sure that he had left no sign of his visit here, not so much as
a fallen crust of bread, caught up his pack and found the familiar way
down the cliffs, striking off toward the higher mountains and the high
pass through which he would travel to-night.
_Chapter III_
To have followed the pace which he set that day would have broken the
heart of any but a seasoned mountaineer. No man in these mountains could
have so much as kept him in sight, saving alone Swen Brodie, and he was
left far back yonder, miles on the other, lower, side of the ridge. By
mid-forenoon King had outstripped the springtime and was among snow
patches which grew in frequency and extent; at noon he built his little
fire on a snow crust. He crossed a raging tributary of the American,
travelling upward along the rock-bound, spray-wet gorge a full mile
before he came to the possible precarious ford. At six o'clock he made a
second fire in a bleak windy pass, surrounded by a glimmering ghostly
waste. Trees were stiff with frost; the wind whistled and jeered through
them and about sharp crags, filling the crisp air with eerie,
shuddersome music. He set his coffee to boil while meditating that down
in the Sacramento Valley, which one could glimpse from here by day, it
was stifling hot, like midsummer. He rested by his fire with his canvas
drawn up about his shoulders, smoked his pipe, remade his pack, and went
on. He counted on the moon presently and a bed at a slightly lower
altitude among the trees; to-night Andy Parker was sleeping in his army
blanket.
He crunched along over the snow crust which rarely failed him, and
though the daylight passed swiftly, the dead-white surface seemed to
hold an absorbed radiance and shed it softly. By the time he got down to
the timber-line again the moon was up. He left the country of Five Lakes
well to his left, ignoring the invitation of the trail beyond down the
tall walls of Squaw Creek canon. He went straight down the long pitch of
the mountain, heading tenaciously toward the tiny lakelet which, so far
as he knew, had been nameless until his old friend Ben Gaynor had built
a summer home there two years ago and had christened the pond among the
trees. Lake Gloria! Mark King liked the appellation little enough,
telling himself with thorough-going unreason that there was a silly name
to fit to perfection a silly girl, but altogether out of place to tie on
to an unspoiled Sierra lake. Ben would have done a better job in naming
it Lake Vanity. Or Self-Regard. King could think of a score of
designations more to the point. For though he had never so much as set
his eyes on either Gloria or her mother, he had his own opinion of both
of them. Nor did he in the least realize that that opinion was based
rather less on actual knowledge than moulded by his own peculiar form of
jealousy, that jealousy which one time-tried friend feels when the other
allows love of women to occupy a higher place than friendship.