The Forester's Daughter: A Romance of the Bear-Tooth Range. Garland Hamlin

the flimsy wash-stand, the ugly wallpaper, and thought how far he was from home and friends, he not only sighed, he shivered. The room was chill, the pitcher of water cold almost to the freezing-point, and his joints were stiff and painful from his ride. What folly to come so far into the wilderness at this time.

      As he crawled from his bed and looked from the window he was still further disheartened. In the foreground stood a half dozen frame buildings, graceless and cheap, without tree or shrub to give shadow or charm of line – all was bare, bleak, sere; but under his window the stream was singing its glorious mountain song, and away to the west rose the aspiring peaks from which it came. Romance brooded in that shadow, and on the lower foot-hills the frost-touched foliage glowed like a mosaic of jewels.

      Dressing hurriedly he went down to the small bar-room, whose litter of duffle-bags, guns, saddles, and camp utensils gave evidence of the presence of many hunters and fishermen. The slovenly landlord was poring over a newspaper, while a discouraged half-grown youth was sludging the floor with a mop; but a cheerful clamor from an open door at the back of the hall told that breakfast was on.

      Venturing over the threshold, Norcross found himself seated at table with some five or six men in corduroy jackets and laced boots, who were, in fact, merchants and professional men from Denver and Pueblo out for fish and such game as the law allowed, and all in holiday mood. They joked the waiter-girls, and joshed one another in noisy good-fellowship, ignoring the slim youth in English riding-suit, who came in with an air of mingled melancholy and timidity and took a seat at the lower corner of the long table.

      The landlady, tall, thin, worried, and inquisitive, was New England – Norcross recognized her type even before she came to him with a question on her lips. “So you’re from the East, are you?”

      “I’ve been at school there.”

      “Well, I’m glad to see you. My folks came from York State. I don’t often get any one from the real East. Come out to fish, I s’pose?”

      “Yes,” he replied, thinking this the easiest way out.

      “Well, they’s plenty of fishing – and they’s plenty of air, not much of anything else.”

      As he looked about the room, the tourist’s eye was attracted by four young fellows seated at a small table to his right. They wore rough shirts of an olive-green shade, and their faces were wind-scorched; but their voices held a pleasant tone, and something in the manner of the landlady toward them made them noticeable. Norcross asked her who they were.

      “They’re forestry boys.”

      “Forestry boys?”

      “Yes; the Supervisor’s office is here, and these are his help.”

      This information added to Norcross’s interest and cheered him a little. He knew something of the Forest Service, and had been told that many of the rangers were college men. He resolved to make their acquaintance. “If I’m to stay here they will help me endure the exile,” he said.

      After breakfast he went forth to find the post-office, expecting a letter of instructions from Meeker. He found nothing of the sort, and this quite disconcerted him.

      “The stage is gone,” the postmistress told him, “and you can’t get up till day after to-morrow. You might reach Meeker by using the government ’phone, however.”

      “Where will I find the government ’phone?”

      “Down in the Supervisor’s office. They’re very accommodating; they’ll let you use it, if you tell them who you want to reach.”

      It was impossible to miss the forestry building for the reason that a handsome flag fluttered above it. The door being open, Norcross perceived from the threshold a young clerk at work on a typewriter, while in a corner close by the window another and older man was working intently on a map.

      “Is this the office of the Forest Supervisor?” asked the youth.

      The man at the machine looked up, and pleasantly answered: “It is, but the Supervisor is not in yet. Is there anything I can do for you?”

      “It may be you can. I am on my way to Meeker’s Mill for a little outing. Perhaps you could tell me where Meeker’s Mill is, and how I can best get there.”

      The man at the map meditated. “It’s not far, some eighteen or twenty miles; but it’s over a pretty rough trail.”

      “What kind of a place is it?”

      “Very charming. You’ll like it. Real mountain country.”

      This officer was a plain-featured man of about thirty-five, with keen and clear eyes. His voice, though strongly nasal, possessed a note of manly sincerity. As he studied his visitor, he smiled.

      “You look brand-new – haven’t had time to season-check, have you?”

      “No; I’m a stranger in a strange land.”

      “Out for your health?”

      “Yes. My name is Norcross. I’m just getting over a severe illness, and I’m up here to lay around and fish and recuperate – if I can.”

      “You can – you will. You can’t help it,” the other assured him. “Join one of our surveying crews for a week and I’ll mellow that suit of yours and make a real mountaineer of you. I see you wear a Sigma Chi pin. What was your school?”

      “I am a ‘Son of Eli.’ Last year’s class.”

      The other man displayed his fob. “I’m ten classes ahead of you. My name is Nash. I’m what they call an ‘expert.’ I’m up here doing some estimating and surveying for a big ditch they’re putting in. I was rather in hopes you had come to join our ranks. We sons of Eli are holding the conservation fort these days, and we need help.”

      “My knowledge of your work is rather vague,” admitted Norcross. “My father is in the lumber business; but his point of view isn’t exactly yours.”

      “He slays ’em, does he?”

      “He did. He helped devastate Michigan.”

      “After me the deluge! I know the kind. Why not make yourself a sort of vicarious atonement?”

      Norcross smiled. “I had not thought of that. It would help some, wouldn’t it?”

      “It certainly would. There’s no great money in the work; but it’s about the most enlightened of all the governmental bureaus.”

      Norcross was strongly drawn to this forester, whose tone was that of a highly trained specialist. “I rode up on the stage yesterday with Miss Berrie McFarlane.”

      “The Supervisor’s daughter?”

      “She seemed a fine Western type.”

      “She’s not a type; she’s an individual. She hasn’t her like anywhere I’ve gone. She cuts a wide swath up here. Being an only child she’s both son and daughter to McFarlane. She knows more about forestry than her father. In fact, half the time he depends on her judgment.”

      Norcross was interested, but did not want to take up valuable time. He said: “Will you let me use your telephone to Meeker’s?”

      “Very sorry, but our line is out of order. You’ll have to wait a day or so – or use the mails. You’re too late for to-day’s stage, but it’s only a short ride across. Come outside and I’ll show you.”

      Norcross followed him to the walk, and stood in silence while his guide indicated the pass over the range. It all looked very formidable to the Eastern youth. Thunderous clouds hung low upon the peaks, and the great crags to left and right of the notch were stern and barren. “I think I’ll wait for the stage,” he said, with candid weakness. “I couldn’t make that trip alone.”

      “You’ll have to take many such a ride over that range in the night– if you join the service,” Nash warningly replied.

      As they were standing there a girl came galloping up to the hitching-post and slid from her horse. It was Berea McFarlane. “Good morning,