In The Carquinez Woods | Page 9

the solitude and silence came upon her
gradually, with a growing realization of the events of the past
twenty-four hours, but without a shock. She was alone here, but safe
still, and every hour added to her chances of ultimate escape. She
remembered to have seen a candle among the articles on the shelf, and
she began to grope her way towards the matches. Suddenly she stopped.
What was that panting?
Was it her own breathing, quickened with a sudden nameless terror? or
was there something outside? Her heart seemed to stop beating while
she listened. Yes! it was a panting outside--a panting now increased,
multiplied, redoubled, mixed with the sounds of rustling, tearing,
craunching, and occasionally a quick, impatient snarl. She crept on her

hands and knees to the opening and looked out. At first the ground
seemed to be undulating between her and the opposite tree. But a
second glance showed her the black and gray, bristling, tossing backs
of tumbling beasts of prey, charging the carcass of the bear that lay at
its roots, or contesting for the prize with gluttonous, choked breath,
sidelong snarls, arched spines, and recurved tails. One of the boldest
had leaped upon a buttressing root of her tree within a foot of the
opening. The excitement, awe, and terror she had undergone
culminated in one wild, maddened scream, that seemed to pierce even
the cold depths of the forest, as she dropped on her face, with her hands
clasped over her eyes in an agony of fear.
Her scream was answered, after a pause, by a sudden volley of
firebrands and sparks into the midst of the panting, crowding pack; a
few smothered howls and snaps, and a sudden dispersion of the
concourse. In another moment the young man, with a blazing brand in
either hand, leaped upon the body of the bear.
Teresa raised her head, uttered a hysterical cry, slid down the tree, flew
wildly to his side, caught convulsively at his sleeve, and fell on her
knees beside him.
"Save me! save me!" she gasped, in a voice broken by terror. "Save me
from those hideous creatures. No, no!" she implored, as he endeavored
to lift her to her feet. "No--let me stay here close beside you. So,"
clutching the fringe of his leather hunting-shirt, and dragging herself on
her knees nearer him-- "so--don't leave me, for God's sake!"
"They are gone," he replied, gazing down curiously at her, as she
wound the fringe around her hand to strengthen her hold; "they're only
a lot of cowardly coyotes and wolves, that dare not attack anything that
lives and can move."
The young woman responded with a nervous shudder. "Yes, that's it,"
she whispered, in a broken voice; "it's only the dead they want. Promise
me--swear to me, if I'm caught, or hung, or shot, you won't let me be
left here to be torn and--ah! my God! what's that?"

She had thrown her arms around his knees, completely pinioning him
to her frantic breast. Something like a smile of disdain passed across
his face as he answered, "It's nothing. They will not return. Get up!"
Even in her terror she saw the change in his face. "I know, I know!" she
cried. "I'm frightened--but I cannot bear it any longer. Hear me! Listen!
Listen--but don't move! I didn't mean to kill Curson--no! I swear to
God, no! I didn't mean to kill the sheriff--and I didn't. I was only
bragging--do you hear? I lied! I lied--don't move, I swear to God I lied.
I've made myself out worse than I was. I have. Only don't leave me
now--and if I die--and it's not far off, may be--get me away from
here--and from THEM. Swear it!"
"All right," said the young man, with a scarcely concealed movement
of irritation. "But get up now, and go back to the cabin."
"No; not THERE alone." Nevertheless, he quietly but firmly released
himself.
"I will stay here," he replied. "I would have been nearer to you, but I
thought it better for your safety that my camp-fire should be further off.
But I can build it here, and that will keep the coyotes off."
"Let me stay with you--beside you," she said imploringly.
She looked so broken, crushed, and spiritless, so unlike the woman of
the morning that, albeit with an ill grace, he tacitly consented, and
turned away to bring his blankets. But in the next moment she was at
his side, following him like a dog, silent and wistful, and even offering
to carry his burden. When he had built the fire, for which she had
collected the pine-cones and broken branches near them, he sat down,
folded his arms, and leaned back against the tree in reserved and
deliberate silence.
Humble and