Big Timber | Page 4

hustled
about.
But he was not there, and she recalled that he never had been notable
for punctuality. Five years is a long time. She expected to find him
changed--for the better, in certain directions. He had promised to be
there; but, in this respect, time evidently had wrought no appreciable
transformation.
She registered, was assigned a room, and ate luncheon to the
melancholy accompaniment of a three-man orchestra struggling vainly
with Bach in an alcove off the dining room. After that she began to
make inquiries. Neither clerk nor manager knew aught of Charlie
Benton. They were both in their first season there. They advised her to
ask the storekeeper.
"MacDougal will know," they were agreed. "He knows everybody
around here, and everything that goes on."

The storekeeper, a genial, round-bodied Scotchman, had the
information she desired.
"Charlie Benton?" said he. "No, he'll be at his camp up the lake. He
was in three or four days back. I mind now, he said he'd be down
Thursday; that's to-day. But he isn't here yet, or his boat'd be by the
wharf yonder."
"Are there any passenger boats that call there?" she asked.
MacDougal shook his head.
"Not reg'lar. There's a gas boat goes t' the head of the lake now an' then.
She's away now. Ye might hire a launch. Jack Fyfe's camp tender's
about to get under way. But ye wouldna care to go on her, I'm thinkin'.
She'll be loaded wi' lumberjacks--every man drunk as a lord, most like.
Maybe Benton'll be in before night."
She went back to the hotel. But St. Allwoods, in its dual capacity of
health-and-pleasure resort, was a gilded shell, making a brave outward
show, but capitalizing chiefly lake, mountains, and hot, mineral springs.
Her room was a bare, cheerless place. She did not want to sit and
ponder. Too much real grief hovered in the immediate background of
her life. It is not always sufficient to be young and alive. To sit still and
think--that way lay tears and despondency. So she went out and walked
down the road and out upon the wharf which jutted two hundred yards
into the lake.
It stood deserted save for a lone fisherman on the outer end, and an
elderly couple that preceded her. Halfway out she passed a slip beside
which lay moored a heavily built, fifty-foot boat, scarred with usage, a
squat and powerful craft. Lakeward stretched a smooth, unrippled
surface. Overhead patches of white cloud drifted lazily. Where the
shadows from these lay, the lake spread gray and lifeless. Where the
afternoon sun rested, it touched the water with gleams of gold and pale,
delicate green. A white-winged yacht lay offshore, her sails in slack
folds. A lump of an island lifted two miles beyond, all cliffs and little,
wooded hills. And the mountains surrounding in a giant ring seemed to

shut the place away from all the world. For sheer wild, rugged beauty,
Roaring Lake surpassed any spot she had ever seen. Its quiet majesty,
its air of unbroken peace soothed and comforted her, sick with hurry
and swift-footed events.
She stood for a time at the outer wharf end, mildly interested when the
fisherman drew up a two-pound trout, wondering a little at her own
subtle changes of mood. Her surrounding played upon her like a
virtuoso on his violin. And this was something that she did not recall as
a trait in her own character. She had never inclined to the
volatile--perhaps because until the motor accident snuffed out her
father's life she had never dealt in anything but superficial emotions.
After a time she retraced her steps. Nearing the halfway slip, she saw
that a wagon from which goods were being unloaded blocked the way.
A dozen men were stringing in from the road, bearing bundles and bags
and rolls of blankets. They were big, burly men, carrying themselves
with a reckless swing, with trousers cut off midway between knee and
ankle so that they reached just below the upper of their high-topped,
heavy, laced boots. Two or three were singing. All appeared unduly
happy, talking loudly, with deep laughter. One threw down his burden
and executed a brief clog. Splinters flew where the sharp calks bit into
the wharf planking, and his companions applauded.
It dawned upon Stella Benton that these might be Jack Fyfe's drunken
loggers, and she withdrew until the way should be clear, vitally
interested because her brother was a logging man, and wondering if
these were the human tools he used in his business, if these were the
sort of men with whom he associated. They were a rough lot--and some
were very drunk. With the manifestations of liquor she had but the
most shadowy acquaintance. But she would have been little less than