The Short Cut | Page 2

sun-tinged to a warm golden brown, her
hair sunburnt where it slipped out of the shadow of her big hat, her lips

red with young health, her slender body in its easy, confident carriage
showing how the muscles under the soft skin were strong and capable.
At her saddle horn, in its case, was a camera; snapped to her belt and
resting against her left hip, a pair of field glasses.
The horse played at drinking, pretending a thirst which it did not feel,
and began to paw the clear water into muddiness. The dog ran on,
turned again, barked an invitation to its mistress to join in the search for
adventures, and plunged into the tall grass.
The girl's song died away, her lips stilled by the hush of the coming
noonday. For a moment she was very silent, so motionless that she
seemed scarcely to breathe.
"Life is good here," she mused, her eyes wandering across the valley to
the wall of the mountains shutting out the world of cities. "It is like the
air, sweet and clean and wholesome! Life!" she whispered, as though in
reality she had been born just this dawn to the awe of it, the wonder of
it, "I love Life!"
She breathed deeply, her breast rising high to the warm, scented air
drawn slowly through parted lips as though she would drink of the rare
wine of the springtime.
The dog had found something in the deep grass which sent it
scampering back across the water and almost under the horse's legs,
snarling.
"What is it, Shep?" laughed the girl. "What have you found that is so
dreadful?"
But Shep was not to be laughed out of his growls and whines. Presently
he ran back toward the place where he had made his headlong crossing,
stopped abruptly, broke into a quick series of short, sharp barks, and
again turning fled to the horse and rider as though for protection,
whining his fear.

"Is it really something, Shep?" asked the girl, puzzled a little. She
leaned forward in the saddle, patting her mare's warm neck. "I think
he's just an old humbug as usual, Gypsy," she smiled indulgently. "But
shall we go over and see?"
Gypsy splashed noisily across the stream, the dog still growling and
slinking close to the horse's heels. The girl saw where Shep had parted
the grass with his inquisitive nose, leaving a plain trail. And not ten
steps from the edge of the water she came upon the thing that Shep had
found.
The mare's nostrils suddenly quivered; she trembled a moment, and
then with a snort of fear whirled and plunged back toward the creek.
But the girl had seen. The colour ran out of her face, the musing peace
fled from her eyes and a swift horror leaped out upon her. In one flash
the soft calm of the morning had become a mockery, its promise a lie.
Here, into the wonder of Life, Death had come.
She had had but an uncertain glance at the thing lying huddled in the
tall grass, but her instinct like Shep's and Gypsy's understood. And for
a blind, terror-stricken moment, she felt that she must yield as they
yielded to the fear within her, to the primitive urge to flee from Death;
that she could not draw near the spot where a man had died, where even
now the body lay cold in the sunshine.
Her hands were shaking pitifully when at last she tied Gypsy to the
lower limb of an oak beside the creek. As she went slowly back along
the little trail the dog had made she told herself that the man was not
dead, that he was sick or hurt . . . and though she had never looked
upon Death before this morning when it seemed to her that she had
looked upon Life for the first time, she knew what that grotesque horror
meant, she knew why the man lay, as he did, face down and still.
At last she stood over the body, her swift eyes informing her reluctant
consciousness of a host of details. She saw that the grass around was
beaten down in a rude circle, heard the whining of the dog at her heels,
noticed that the man lay on his right side, his head twisted so that his
cheek touched his shoulder, the face hidden, one arm crumpled under

him, one outflung and grasping a handful of up-rooted grass with set
rigid fingers.
A sickness, a faintness, and with it an almost uncontrollable desire to
run madly from this place, this thing, swept over her. But she drew
closer, kneeling quickly, and put her warm hand upon the hand that
clutched the wisp of grass so rigidly. It was cold, so