Ranching for Sylvia Part 38

A little later Edgar led two powerful horses up the narrow trail, and for a while the men worked hard, stacking the logs upon the sledge.

Then they set off at the best pace the team could make, and the cold struck through them when they left the bluff.

"Stinging, isn't it?" Edgar remarked. "I couldn't get over earlier; Flett turned up, half frozen, and he kept me. Seems to have some business in this neighborhood, though he didn't say what it is."

George, walking through the snow to leeward of the loaded sledge, where it was a little warmer, betrayed no interest in the news. Temperance reform was languishing at Sage b.u.t.te and its leaders had received a severe rebuff from the authorities. The police, who had arrested an Indian suspected of conveying liquor to the reservation, had been no more successful, for the man had been promptly acquitted. They had afterward been kept busy investigating the matter of the shooting of George's bull, which had recovered; but they had found no clue to the offender, and nothing of importance had happened for some time.

It had grown dark and the wind was rapidly increasing. Powdery snow drove along before it, obscuring the men's sight and lashing their tingling faces. At times the icy white haze whirled about them so thick that they could scarcely see the blurred dark shape of the sledge, but as they had hauled a good many loads of stovewood home, the trail was plainly marked. It would be difficult to lose it unless deep snow fell. With lowered heads and fur caps pulled well down, they plodded on, until at length George stopped where the shadowy ma.s.s of a bluff loomed up close in front of them.

"I'll leave you here and make for the shack," he said. "I want to see if there are any letters."

"It's far too risky," Edgar pointed out. "You'll get lost as soon as you leave the beaten trail."

"I'll have the bluff for a guide, and it isn't far from the end of it to the small ravine. After that I shouldn't have much trouble in striking the fallow."

"It's doubtful," Edgar persisted. "Let the letters wait until to-morrow."

"No," said George, resolutely. "I've waited a week already; the mail is late. Besides, we'll have worse snow before morning."

Seeing that he had made up his mind, Edgar raised no more objections, and in another few moments George disappeared into a haze of driving snow. When he left the trail he found walking more difficult than he had expected, but though it was hard to see beyond a few yards, he had the bluff to guide him and he kept along the edge of it until the trees vanished suddenly. Then he stopped, buffeted by the wind, to gather breath and fix clearly in his mind the salient features of the open s.p.a.ce that he must cross.

If he could walk straight for half a mile, he would strike a small hollow and by following it he would reach a tract of cultivated ground.

This, he thought, should be marked by the absence of the taller clumps of gra.s.s and the short willow scrub which here and there broke through the snow. There would then be a stretch of about two hundred acres to cross before he found the little shack, whose owner had gone away to work on the railroad during the winter. He expected to have some trouble in reaching it, but he must get the letters, and he set off again, breaking through the snow-crust in places, and trying to estimate the time he took.

A quarter of an hour pa.s.sed and, as there was no sign of the ravine, he began to wonder whether he had deviated much from his chosen line. In another few minutes he was getting anxious; and then suddenly he plunged knee-deep into yielding snow. It got deeper at the next step and he knew that he had reached the shallow depression, which had been almost filled up by the drifts. He must cross it, and the effort this entailed left him gasping when he stopped again on the farther side.

It was still possible to retrace his steps, because he could hardly fail to strike the bluff he had left, but there was no doubt that to go on would be perilous. If he missed the shack, he might wander about the prairie until he sank down, exhausted; and after a day of fatiguing labor he knew that he could not long face the wind and frost. There was, however, every sign of a wild storm brewing; it might be several days before he could secure the letters if he turned back, and such a delay was not to be thought of.

He went on, following the ravine where he could trace its course, which was not always possible, until he decided that he must have reached the neighborhood of the farm. There was, however, nothing to indicate that he had done so. He could see only a few yards; the snow had all been smooth and unbroken near the hollow, he could distinguish no difference between any one part of it and the rest; and he recognized the risk he took when he turned his back on his last guide and struggled forward into the waste.

Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting stronger, and there was no sign of the shack. Perhaps he had gone too far to the south.

He inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing that might serve as a guide; there was only smooth snow and the white haze whirling round him. He turned more to the right, growing desperately afraid, stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow drove past whether he was wandering from his course, and plodded on again savagely. At last something began to crackle beneath his feet.

Stooping down, he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible of a vast relief. He could not be more than a few minutes walk from the shack.

It was only three or four yards off when he saw it, and on entering he had difficulty in closing the rickety door. Then, when he had taken off his heavy mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike a match with his half-frozen hands. Holding up the light, he glanced eagerly at a shelf and saw the two letters he had expected; there was no mistaking the writing and the English stamps. He thrust them safely into a pocket beneath his furs when the match went out and struck another, for his next step required consideration.

The feeble radiance traveled round the little room, showing the rent, board walls and the beams rough from the saw that supported the cedar roofing shingles. A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor; there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or fuel, and the hay and blankets had been removed from the wooden bunk. Still, as George was warmly clad and had s.p.a.ce to move about, he could pa.s.s the night there. The roar of the wind about the frail building rendered the prospects of the return journey strongly discouraging. He might, however, be detained all the next day by the snow; but what chiefly urged him to face the risk of starting for the homestead was his inability to read his letters. The sight of them had sent a thrill through him, which had banished all sense of the stinging cold. He had eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to the old country, and Sylvia had, no doubt, bidden him come. It was delightful to picture her welcome, and the evenings they would spend in Muriel Lansing's pretty drawing-room while he told her what he had done and unfolded his plans for the future. He could brook no avoidable delay in reading her message, and, nerving himself for a struggle, he set out again.

The shack vanished the moment he left it. The snow was thicker; and, floundering heavily through the storm, George had almost given up the attempt to find the ravine, when he fell violently into a clearer part of it. Then he gathered courage, for the bluff was large and would be difficult to miss; but it did not appear when he expected it. He was breathless, nearly blinded, and on the verge of exhaustion, when he crashed into a dwarf birch and, looking up half dazed, saw an indistinct ma.s.s of larger trees. He had now a guide, but it was hard to follow, with his strength fast falling and the savage wind buffeting him. He had stopped a moment, gasping, when something emerged from the driving snow. It was moving; it looked like a team with a sledge or wagon, and he thought that his companions had come in search of him.

He cried out, but there was no answer, and though he tried to run, the beasts vanished as strangely as they had appeared.

They had, however, left their tracks, coming up from the south, where the settlement lay, and this convinced him that they had not been driven by Edgar or Grierson. He made an attempt to overtake them and, falling, went on again, wondering a little who the strangers could be; though this was not a matter of much consequence. If they had blankets or driving-robes, they might pa.s.s the night without freezing in the bluff, where there was fuel; but George was most clearly conscious of the urgent need for his reaching the homestead before his strength gave out.

At last he struck the beaten trail which had fortunately not yet been drifted up, and after keeping to it for a while he saw a faint twinkle of light in front of him. A voice answered his shout and when he stopped, keeping on his feet with difficulty and utterly worn out, a team came up, blurred and indistinct, out of the driving snow. After that somebody seized him and pushed him toward an empty sledge.

"Get down out of the wind; here's the fur robe!" cried a voice he recognized. "We came back as soon as we had thrown off the load."

George remembered very little about the remainder of the journey, but at last the sledge stopped where a warm glow of light shone out into the snow. Getting up with some trouble he reached the homestead door and walked heavily into the room where he sank, gasping, into a chair.

He felt faint and dizzy, he could scarcely breathe; but those sensations grew less troublesome as he recovered from the violent change of temperature. Throwing off his furs, he noticed that Flett sat smoking near the stove.

"Here's some coffee," said the constable. "It's pretty lucky Grierson found you. I can't remember a worse night."

George drank the coffee. He still felt heavy and partly dazed; his mind was lethargic, and his hands and feet tingled painfully with the returning warmth. He knew that there was something he ought to tell Flett, but it was a few minutes before he could think clearly.

"I met a team near the bluff and lost it again almost immediately," he mumbled finally.

Flett's face became intent.

"Did the men who were with it see you? Which way were they going?"

"No," said George sleepily. "Anyway, though I called I didn't get an answer. I think they were going west."

"And there's no homestead for several leagues, except Langside's shack.

They'll camp there sure."

"I don't see why they shouldn't," George remarked with languid indifference.

"Hasn't it struck you why those fellows should be heading into waste prairie on a night like this? Guess what they've got in the wagon's a good enough reason. If the snow's not too bad, they'll pull out for the Indian reservation soon as it's light to-morrow."

"You think they have liquor with them?" asked George.

Flett nodded and walked toward the door, and George felt the sudden fall of temperature and heard the scream of the wind. In a minute or two, however, the constable reappeared with Edgar.

"I'd get them sure; they're in the shack right now," Flett declared.

"You would never find it," Edgar remonstrated. "We had hard enough work to strike the homestead, and we were on a beaten trail, which will have drifted up since then. You'll have to drop the idea--it's quite impossible."

"It's blamed hard luck," grumbled Flett. "I may trail the fellows, but I certainly won't get them with the liquor right in the wagon, as it will be now, and without something of that kind it's mighty hard to secure a conviction. I've no use for the average jury; what we want is power to drop on to a man without any fuss or fooling and fix him so he won't make more trouble."

"It's fortunate you'll never get it," Edgar remarked. "I've a notion it would be a dangerous thing to trust even a Northwest policeman with.

You're not all quite perfect yet."

Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered the letters and eagerly opened the one from Sylvia. It consisted of a few sentences in which she carelessly told him that if he came over he would not see her, as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel. The hint of regret that her journey could not be put off looked merely conventional, but she said he might make his visit in the early summer, as she would have returned by then.

George's face hardened as he read it, for the disappointment was severe. He thought that Sylvia might have remembered that he could not leave the farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded and, for once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic faith, which idealized its object, was bound to bring him suffering when dispelled by disillusion; offering sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation was quick and generous, he must believe in what he admired, and it was, perhaps, a misfortune that he was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical good-humor. He could distinguish white from black--the one stood for spotless purity, the other was very dark indeed--but his somewhat restricted vision took no account of the more common intermediate shades.

For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming Sylvia. Her letter had hurt him, but he began to make excuses for her, and several that seemed satisfactory presented themselves; then, feeling a little comforted, he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety. When he read it, he let it drop upon the table and set his lips tight. His cousin informed him that it would be most injudicious to raise any money just then by selling shares, as he had been requested to do.

Those he had bought on George's account had depreciated in an unexpected manner and the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must carry on his farming operations as economically as possible, until the turn came.

"Bad news?" said Edgar sympathetically.

"Yes. I'll have to cut out several plans I'd made for spring; in fact, I don't quite see how I'm to go on working on a profitable scale.

We'll have to do without the extra bunch of stock I was calculating on; and I'm not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening wheat.

There are a number of other things we'll have to dispense with."

"We'll pull through by some means," Edgar rejoined encouragingly, and George got up.

"I feel rather worn out," he said. "I think I'll go to sleep."