The Man of the Forest | Page 9

Zane Grey
with that running
start launched their heavy bodies into whirring flight. They flew low, at
about the height of a man from the grass, and vanished in the woods.
Dale threw the two turkeys over his shoulder and went on his way.
Soon he came to a break in the forest level, from which he gazed down
a league-long slope of pine and cedar, out upon the bare, glistening
desert, stretching away, endlessly rolling out to the dim, dark horizon
line.
The little hamlet of Pine lay on the last level of sparsely timbered forest.
A road, running parallel with a dark-watered, swift-flowing stream,
divided the cluster of log cabins from which columns of blue smoke
drifted lazily aloft. Fields of corn and fields of oats, yellow in the
sunlight, surrounded the village; and green pastures, dotted with horses
and cattle, reached away to the denser woodland. This site appeared to
be a natural clearing, for there was no evidence of cut timber. The
scene was rather too wild to be pastoral, but it was serene, tranquil,
giving the impression of a remote community, prosperous and happy,
drifting along the peaceful tenor of sequestered lives.

Dale halted before a neat little log cabin and a little patch of garden
bordered with sunflowers. His call was answered by an old woman,
gray and bent, but remarkably spry, who appeared at the door.
"Why, land's sakes, if it ain't Milt Dale!" she exclaimed, in welcome.
"Reckon it's me, Mrs. Cass," he replied. "An' I've brought you a
turkey."
"Milt, you're that good boy who never forgits old Widow Cass. . . .
What a gobbler! First one I've seen this fall. My man Tom used to fetch
home gobblers like that. . . . An' mebbe he'll come home again
sometime."
Her husband, Tom Cass, had gone into the forest years before and had
never returned. But the old woman always looked for him and never
gave up hope.
"Men have been lost in the forest an' yet come back," replied Dale, as
he had said to her many a time.
"Come right in. You air hungry, I know. Now, son, when last did you
eat a fresh egg or a flapjack?"
"You should remember," he answered, laughing, as he followed her
into a small, clean kitchen.
"Laws-a'-me! An' thet's months ago," she replied, shaking her gray
head. "Milt, you should give up that wild life -- an' marry -- an' have a
home."
"You always tell me that."
"Yes, an' I'll see you do it yet. . . . Now you set there, an' pretty soon I'll
give you thet to eat which 'll make your mouth water."
"What's the news, Auntie?" he asked.
"Nary news in this dead place. Why, nobody's been to Snowdrop in two

weeks! . . . Sary Jones died, poor old soul -- she's better off -- an' one of
my cows run away. Milt, she's wild when she gits loose in the woods.
An' you'll have to track her, 'cause nobody else can. An' John Dakker's
heifer was killed by a lion, an' Lem Harden's fast hoss -- you know his
favorite -- was stole by hoss-thieves. Lem is jest crazy. An' that
reminds me, Milt, where's your big ranger, thet you'd never sell or
lend?"
"My horses are up in the woods, Auntie; safe, I reckon, from
horse-thieves."
"Well, that's a blessin'. We've had some stock stole this summer, Milt,
an' no mistake."
Thus, while preparing a meal for Dale, the old woman went on
recounting all that had happened in the little village since his last visit.
Dale enjoyed her gossip and quaint philosophy, and it was exceedingly
good to sit at her table. In his opinion, nowhere else could there have
been such butter and cream, such ham and eggs. Besides, she always
had apple pie, it seemed, at any time he happened in; and apple pie was
one of Dale's few regrets while up in the lonely forest.
"How's old Al Auchincloss?" presently inquired Dale.
"Poorly -- poorly," sighed Mrs. Cass. "But he tramps an' rides around
same as ever. Al's not long for this world. . . . An', Milt, that reminds
me -- there's the biggest news you ever heard."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Dale, to encourage the excited old
woman.
"Al has sent back to Saint Joe for his niece, Helen Rayner. She's to
inherit all his property. We've heard much of her -- a purty lass, they
say. . . . Now, Milt Dale, here's your chance. Stay out of the woods an'
go to work. . . . You can marry that girl!"
"No chance for me, Auntie," replied Dale, smiling.

The old woman snorted. "Much you know! Any girl would have you,
Milt Dale, if you'd only
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