FullReads

*****

She recovered her consciousness in the flickering light of a fire of bark, that played upon the rafters of a roof thatched with bark and upon a floor of strewn and shredded bark. She even suspected she was lying upon a mattress of bark underneath the heavy bearskin she could feel and touch. She had a delicious sense of warmth, and, mingled with this strange spicing of woodland freedom, even a sense of home protection. And surely enough, looking around, she saw her father at her side.

He briefly explained the situation. They had been at first attracted by the cry of the frightened horses and their plunging, which they could see distinctly, although they saw nothing else. “But, Mr. Tenbrook”–

“Mr. Who?” said Amy, staring at the rafters.

“The owner of this cabin–the man who helped us–caught up his gun, and, calling us to follow, ran like lightning down the trail. At first we followed blindly, and unknowingly, for we could only see the struggling horses, who, however, seemed to be ALONE, and the wagon from which you did not seem to have stirred. Then, for the first time, my dear child, we suddenly saw your danger. Imagine how we felt as that hideous brute rose up in the road and began attacking the wagon. We called on Tenbrook to fire, but for some inconceivable reason he did not, although he still kept running at the top of his speed. Then we heard you shriek–“

“I didn’t shriek, papa; it was the horses.”

“My child, I knew your voice.”

“Well, it was only a VERY LITTLE scream–because I had tumbled.” The color was coming back rapidly to her pink cheeks.

“And, then, at your scream, Tenbrook fired!–it was a wonderful shot for the distance, so everybody says–and killed the bear, though Tenbrook says it oughtn’t to. I believe he wanted to capture the creature alive. They’ve queer notions, those hunters. And then, as you were unconscious, he brought you up here.”

“WHO brought me?”

“Tenbrook; he’s as strong as a horse. Slung you up on his shoulders like a feather pillow.”

“Oh!”

“And then, as the wagon required some repairing from the brute’s attack, we concluded to take it leisurely, and let you rest here for a while.”

“And where is–where are THEY?”

“At work on the wagon. I determined to stay with you, though you are perfectly safe here.”

“I suppose I ought–to thank–this man, papa?”

“Most certainly, though of course, I have already done so. But he was rather curt in reply. These half-savage men have such singular ideas. He said the beast would never have attacked you except for the honey-pot which it scented. That’s absurd.”

“Then it’s all my fault?”

“Nonsense! How could YOU know?”

“And I’ve made all this trouble. And frightened the horses. And spoilt the wagon. And made the man run down and bring me up here when he didn’t want to!”

“My dear child! Don’t be idiotic! Amy! Well, really!”

For the idiotic one was really wiping two large tears from her lovely blue eyes. She subsided into an ominous silence, broken by a single sniffle. “Try to go to sleep, dear; you’ve had quite a shock to your nerves, added her father soothingly. She continued silent, but not sleeping.

“I smell coffee.”

“Yes, dear.”

“You’ve been having coffee, papa?”

“We DID have some, I think,” said the wretched man apologetically, though why he could not determine.

“Before I came up? while the bear was trying to eat me?”

“No, after.”

“I’ve a horrid taste in my mouth. It’s the honey. I’ll never eat honey again. Never!”

“Perhaps it’s the whiskey.”

“What?”

“The whiskey. You were quite faint and chilled, you know. We gave you some.”

“Out of–that–black–bottle?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“I’d like some coffee. I don’t think he’d begrudge me that, if he did save my life.”

“I dare say there’s some left.” Her father at once bestirred himself and presently brought her some coffee in a tin cup. It was part of Miss Amy’s rapid convalescence, or equally of her debilitated condition, that she made no comment on the vessel. She lay for some moments looking curiously around the cabin; she had no doubt it had a worse look in the daylight, but somehow the firelight brought out a wondrous luxury of color in the bark floor and thatching. Besides, it was not “smelly,” as she feared it would be; on the contrary the spicy aroma of the woods was always dominant. She remembered that it was this that always made a greasy, oily picnic tolerable. She raised herself on her elbow, seeing which her father continued confidently, “Perhaps, dear, if you sat up for a few moments you might be strong enough presently to walk down with me to the wagon. It would save time.”