that will do you much more good," said the practical Bessie; and he did find it comforting in a degree, though she allowed no further opportunity for tenderness that evening. Yet tired Humphrey soon forgot his burns, and even his love in the deep sleep of youth and exhaustion.
The next day the burns were better, and the love had wakened full-armed, and confident that before another sunset a more satisfactory understanding would be reached. A short time after breakfast, when Bessie announced that she was going to feed the fowls, Humphrey followed her down the stream a short distance where they were moving about in a querulous, high-stepping manner, as if they had not forgiven their little mistress for tying their legs together and putting them in a place of hot, wet darkness for a long and tiresome period. They acted as if they believed her to be responsible for the generally unpleasant state of things, standing aloof with heads held very high, indeed, ready to be off at the slightest aggressive movement on her part.
Mason watched them, and listened to Bessie's even tones, as she told of their various interesting characteristics. He was turning over in his mind how he would make a certain statement in the most effective manner to bring the understanding between them upon a more comfortable and secure basis than it seemed to be. His love had given him more insight, and he felt the subtle remoteness in her manner that had not been there before. He believed Annie Drew or Charley Lorillard were to blame for it,—which the most, he did not know,—and was about to begin his investigation by a blunt question to that effect when they heard the voices of men across the brook.
In a few moments two blackened and dingy travelers waded across a shallow ford and joined them on the trail to the Riordan's camp. One was a man who lived on a stream in the heart of the burned timber district, with a native wife and her several children. The other was a young man whom Mason knew very slightly, as a hunter, trapper, and keen horse-trader, who was sure to get the best of every bargain he made. Just now Mason determined that he should do him a favor without being conscious of it. He would make him tell the news he wished Bessie to find convincing, and she could not question the truth of this man's statements, he was so personally interested.
They listened with interest to an account of the adventures of these new comers, who had been hemmed in by the fire and obliged to take refuge in the stream, standing in the water up to their necks, and occasionally dipping their heads under to keep from being overpowered by the heat. The children sitting in the shallow water were joined by coons, foxes, and squirrels, that waded about them, all fear of humanity and each other lost in the great danger that threatened all alike. Herds of elk came dashing madly across, only to be turned by the fire on the other side, and go aimlessly down stream, and frightened deer swam about them, seemingly unaware of their presence. When they could at last make their way through the track of fire, they found in several places piles of dead elk that had probably run until exhausted, and been suffocated and burned together.
"And a great loss, too," said the younger man. "If I could have their horns in San Francisco, I could sell them for ten dollars apiece. A chap from there told me he would give a twenty for two fine ones. That is how I came to be caught by the fire at Somers's,—I was hunting for them. I could pick them up by the dozen now, but when in calamity could I get them out of the timber? Besides, I can't wait. I have got to be in Ellensburg the last of this week."
