The Snowshoe Trail Part 8

"Sure. That is, if we start first thing to-morrow. There's a clear trail through the snow most of the way--our own trail, comin' out.

But it will be hard goin' and not safe to wait."

"Then I suppose--the horses will be sent down below, because of the snow. That's another reason why they can't even search for the bodies."

"Yes. Of course they may float down to the Yuga and be seen somewhere by the Indians. But not much chance."

They lighted their pipes, and the horror of the tragedy began slowly to pa.s.s from them. The blinding snow and the cold and their own discomfort occupied all their thoughts. There was only one ray of light,--that in the morning they could turn back out of the terrible wilderness, down toward the cities of men.

They didn't try to sleep. The snow and the cold and the shrieking wind made rest an impossibility. They did doze, however, between times that they rose to cut more fuel for the fire. The hours seemed endless.

Darkness still lay over the river when they went again to their toil.

Lounsbury, himself offered to cook breakfast and tried to convince himself the act ent.i.tled him to praise. In reality, he was only impatient to hasten their departure. Vosper packed the hungry horses, slyly depositing portions of their supplies and equipment in the evergreen thickets to lighten his own work. He further lightened the packs by putting a load on Mulvaney. And they climbed down to the water's edge to glance once more at the turbulent stream.

"No use of waiting any more," Lounsbury said at last.

"Of course not. Get on your horse." Then they rode away, these two worthy men, back toward the settlements. Some of the pack horses--particularly the yellow Baldy and his kind--moved eagerly when they saw that their masters had changed directions. But Vosper had to urge Mulvaney on with oaths and blows.

VIII

In Virginia's first moment of wakening she could not distinguish realities from dreams. All the experiences of the night before seemed for the moment only the adventures of a nightmare. But disillusionment came quickly. She opened her eyes to view the cabin walls, and the full dreadfulness of her situation swept her in an instant.

Her tears came first. She couldn't restrain them, and they were simply the natural expression of her fear and her loneliness and her distress.

For long moments she sobbed bitterly, yet softly as she could. But Virginia was of good metal, and in the past few days she had acquired a certain measure of self-discipline. She began to struggle with her tears. They would waken Bill, she thought--and she had not forgotten his bravery and his toil of the night before. She conquered them at last, and, miserable and sick of heart, tried to go back to sleep.

Her muscles pained her, her throat was raw from the water, and when she tried to make herself comfortable her limbs were stiff and aching. But she knew she had to look her position in the face. She turned, pains shooting through her frame, and gazed about her.

The cabin, she could see, was rather larger than any of those in which they had camped on their journey. It was well-c.h.i.n.ked and st.u.r.dy, and even had the luxury of a window. For the moment she didn't see Bill at all. She wondered if he had gone out. Then, moving nearer to the edge of her cot, she looked over intending to locate the clothes she had taken off the night before. Then she saw him, stretched on the floor in the farthest corner of the room.

He gave the impression of having dropped with exhaustion and fallen to sleep where he lay. She could see that he still wore the tattered overcoat he had found hanging on the wall, and the two blankets were still wrapped about him. He was paying for his magnificent efforts of the night before. Morning was vivid and full at the window, but he still lay in heavy slumber.

She resolved not to call him; and in spite of her own misery, her lips curled in a half-smile. She was vaguely touched; someway the sight of this strong forester, lying so helpless and exhausted in sleep, went straight to some buried instinct within her and found a tenderness, a sweet graciousness that had not in her past life manifested itself too often.

But the tenderness was supplanted by a wave of icy terror. She was a woman, and the thought suddenly came to her that she was wholly in this man's power, naked except for the blankets around her, unarmed and helpless and lost in the forest depths. What did she know of him? He had been the soul of respect heretofore, but now--with her uncle on the other side of the river--; but she checked herself with a revulsion of feeling. The strength that had saved her life would save him against himself. They would find a way to get out to-day; and she thought that this, at least, she need not fear.

He had been busy before he slept. His clothes and hers were hung on nails back of the little stove to dry. He had cut fresh wood, piling it behind the stove. She guessed that he had intended to keep the fire burning the whole night, but sleep had claimed him and disarranged his plans.

His next thought was of supplies. The simple matter of food and warmth is the first issue in the wilderness; already she had learned this lesson. Her eyes glanced about the walls. There were two or three sacks, perhaps filled with provisions, hanging from the ceiling, safely out of the reach of the omnivorous pack-rats that often wreak such havoc in unoccupied cabins. But further than this the place seemed bare of food.

Blankets were in plenty; there were a few kitchen utensils hanging back of the stove, and some sort of an ancient rifle lay across a pair of deer horns. Whether or not there were any cartridges for this latter article she could not say. Strangest of all, a small and battered phonograph, evidently packed with difficulty into the hills, and a small stack of records sat on the crude, wooden table. Evidently a real and fervent love of music had not been omitted from Bill's make-up.

Then Bill stirred in his sleep. She lay still, watching. She saw his eyes open. And his first glance was toward her.

He flashed her a smile, and she tried pitifully to answer it. "How are you?" he asked.

"Awfully lame and sore and tired. Maybe I'll be better soon. And you----?"

"A little stiff, not much. I'm hard to damage, Miss Tremont. I've seen too much of hardship. But I've overslept--and there isn't another second to be lost. I've got to dress and go and locate Vosper and Lounsbury."

"I suppose you'd better--right away. They'll be terribly distressed--thinking we're drowned." She turned her back to him, without nonsense or embarra.s.sment, and he started to dress. She didn't see the slow smile, half-sardonic, that was on his lips.

"I'm not worrying about their distress," he told her. "I only want to be sure and catch them before they give us up for lost--and turn back.

I can never forgive myself for failing to waken. It was just that I was so tired----"

"I won't let you blame yourself for that," the girl replied, slowly but earnestly. "Besides, Uncle Kenly won't go away for two or three days at least. He's been my guardian--I'm his ward--and I'm sure he'll make every effort to learn what happened to us."

"I suppose you're right. You know whether or not you can trust Lounsbury. I only know--that I can't trust Vosper."

"They'll be waiting for us, don't fear for that," the girl went on. She tried to put all the a.s.surance she could into her tone. "But how can we get across?"

"That remains to be seen. If they're there to help, with the horses, we might find a way." The man finished dressing, then turned to go. "I'm sorry I can't even take time to light your fire. You must stay in bed, anyway--all day."

He left hurriedly, and as the door opened the wind blew a handful of snow in upon her. The snow had deepened during the night, and fall was heavier than ever. Shivering with cold and aching in every muscle, she got up and put on her underclothing. It was almost dry already. Then, wholly miserable and dejected, she lay down again between her blankets, waiting for Bill's return. And his step was heavy and slow on the threshold when he came.

She couldn't interpret the expression on his face when she saw him in the doorway. He was curiously sober and intent, perhaps even a little pale. "Go to sleep, Miss Tremont," he advised. "I'll make a fire for breakfast."

He bent to prepare kindling. The girl swallowed painfully, but shaken with dread shaped her question at last. "What--what did you find out?"

He looked squarely into her eyes. "Nothing that you'll want to hear, Miss Tremont," he told her soberly. "I went to the river bank and looked across. They--they----"

"They are gone?" the girl cried.

"They've pulled freight. I could see the smoke of their fire--it was just about out. Not a horse in sight, or a man. There's no chance for a mistake, I'm afraid. I called and called, but no one answered."

The tears rushed to the girl's eyes, but she fought them back. There was an instant of strained silence. "And what does it mean?"

"I don't know. We'll get out someway----"

"Tell me the truth, Bill," the girl suddenly urged. "I can stand it. I will stand it--don't be afraid to tell me."

The man looked down at her in infinite compa.s.sion. "Poor little girl,"

he said. "What do you want to know?"

She didn't resent the words. She only felt speechlessly grateful and someway comforted,--as a baby girl might feel in her father's arms.

"Does it mean--that we've lost, after all?"

"Our lives? Not at all." She read in his face that this, at least, was the truth. "I'll tell you, Miss Tremont, just what I think it means.

If we were on the other side of the river, and we had horses, we could push through and get out--easy enough. But we haven't got horses--even Buster is drowned--and it would be a hard fight to carry supplies and blankets on our backs, for the long hike down into Bradleyburg. It would likely be too much for you. Besides, the river lays between.

In time we might go down to quieter waters and build a raft--out of logs--but the snow's coming thicker all the time. Before we could get it done and get across, we couldn't mush out--for the snows have come to stay and we haven't got snowshoes. We could rig up some kind of snowshoes, I suppose, but until the snow packs we couldn't make it into town. It's too long a way and too cold. In soft snow even a strong man can only go a little way--you sink a foot and have to lift a load of snow with every step. Every way we look there's a block. We're like birds, caught in a cage."

"But won't men--come to look for us?"

"I've been thinking about that. Miss Tremont, they won't come till spring, and then they'll likely only half look for us. I know this northern country. Death is too common a thing to cause much stir.

Lounsbury will tell them we are drowned--no one will believe we could have gotten out of the canyon, dressed like we were and on a night like last night. If they thought we were alive and suffering, the whole male population would take a search party and come to our aid. Instead they know--or rather, they think they know--that we're dead. There won't be any horses, it will be a fool's errand, and mushing through those feet of soft snow is a job they won't undertake."

"But the river will freeze soon."