The Snowshoe Trail

by Edison Marshall

  VII

  Bill Bronson had no realization of the full might of the stream until hefelt it around his body. The waters were fed from the snowfields on thedark peaks, and every nerve in his system seemed to snap and break inthe first shock of immersion. But he quickly rallied, battling thestream with mighty strokes.

  He knew that if the rescue were accomplished, it would have to be soon.The torrent grew ever wilder as it sped down the canyon: no human beingcould live in the great, black whirlpool at its mouth. Besides, thecold would claim him soon. Just a few little instants of struggle, andthen exhaustion, if indeed the icy waters did not paralyze his muscles.

  He swam with his eyes open, full in the current, and with a reallyincredible speed. And by the mercy of the forest gods almost at once hecaught a glimpse of Virginia's dark tresses in the water.

  She was ten feet to one side, toward the Gray Lake shore of the river,and several feet in front. The man seemed simply to leap through thewater. And in an instant more his arm went about her.

  "Give yourself to the current," he shouted. "And hang on to me."

  He knew this river. They were just entering upon a stretch of waterdreaded of old by the rivermen that had sometimes plied down the streamin their fur-laden canoes,--a place of jagged rocks and crags andbowlders that were all but submerged by the waters. To be hurledagainst their sharp edges meant death, certain and speedily. He knewthat his mortal strength couldn't avail against them. But by yieldingto the current he thought that he might swing between them into the openwaters below. His arm tightened about the girl's form.

  He had not come an instant too soon. Already she had given up. A fairswimmer, she had been powerless in the rapids. She had not dreamed butthat the trail of her life was at an end. She was cold and afraid andalone, and she had been ready to yield. But the sight of the guide'sstrong body beside her had thrilled her with renewed hope.

  Even in the shadow of death she was aware of the strong wrench of hismuscles as he swam, the saving might of his powerful frame. She knewthat he was not afraid for himself, but only for her. Even death, withall its shadow and mystery, had not broken his spirit or bowed his head:he faced it as he faced the wilderness and the whole dreadful battle oflife,--strongly, quietly, with never-faltering courage. And the girlfound herself partaking of his own strength.

  Up to now she had not entered into comradeship with this man. But hadheld herself on a different plane. But he was a comrade now; no matterthe outcome, even if they should find the inhospitable Death at the endof their trial, this relationship could never be destroyed. They foughtthe same fight, in the same shadow. Now she would not have to enter thedark gates of Eternity alone and afraid. Here was a comrade; she knewthe truth at the first touch of his arm. He could buoy up her spiritwith his own.

  "If I let go of you, can you hang on to my shoulder?" he asked her.

  "Yes----"

  He tried to look into her face, to see if she spoke the truth. But theshadows were almost impenetrable now, and the air was choked withfalling snow.

  "Then put your hand on my shoulder. I can't make progress the way I'mholding you now. I'll try to work in to the nearest shore."

  She seized his shoulder, but nearly lost her grasp in a channel of swiftwater. Her fingers locked in the cloth of his shirt. And he began, alittle at a time, to cross the sixty feet of wild water between them andthe shore.

  He had never been put to a greater test. Every ounce of his strengthwas needed. The tendency of the stream was to carry him into the centerof the current, he was heavily clothed and shod, and the girl,exhausted, was scarcely able to give aid at all. More than once he felthimself weakening. Once a sharp pain, keen as a knife wound, smote histhigh, and he was shaken with despair at the thought that swimmer'scramps--dreaded by all men who know the water--were about to put anend to the struggle. In the icy depths his bodily heat was flowing fromhim in a frightfully rapid stream.

  Closer and closer he swam, and at last only thirty feet of fast, deepwater stretched between. But it seemed wholly impossible to make thislast stretch. The sharp pain stabbed him again, and it seemed to himthat his right leg only half responded to the command of his nerves. Ina moment more they would be flung again into the cascades.

  "I'm afraid I can't make it," he said, too softly for Virginia to hear.He wrenched once more toward the shore.

  But the river gods were merciful, after all. A jack pine had fallen onthe shore, struck down by a dead tree that had fallen beyond, and itsgreen spire, still clothed with needles, lay half-submerged, forty feetout into the stream. Bill's arm encountered it, then snatched at it ina final, spasmodic impulse of his muscles. And his grip held fast.

  For an instant they were tossed like straws in the water, but graduallyhe strengthened his grip. He caught a branch with his free hand, thenslowly pulled up on it. "Hang on," he breathed. "Only a moment more."

  He drew himself and the girl up on the slender trunk, then crawled alongit toward the shore. Now they were half out of the water. And in amoment later they both felt the river bottom against their knees.

  He drew her to the bank, staggered and fell, and for a moment both ofthem lay lifeless to the soft caress of the snow. But Bill did not darelose consciousness. He was fully aware that the fight was only halfwon. And despair swept the girl when her clear thought returned to tellher they had emerged upon the opposite shore from the party, and thatthey were drenched through and lost in the night and storm,--endless,weary paces from warmth and shelter.

  Before the thought had gone fully home she saw that Bill was on hisfeet. The twilight had all but yielded to the darkness, yet she sawthat he still stood straight and strong. It was not that he had alreadyrecovered from the desperate battle in the river. Strong as he was, forhimself he had only one desire--to lie still and rest and let theterrible cold take its toll. But he was the guide, the forester, andthe girl's life was in his care.

  "Get off your clothes," he commanded. "All of them--the darknesshides you--and I'll wring 'em out. If I don't you can't live to getto the cabin. Your stockings first."

  The thought of disobedience did not even come to her. He was fightingfor her life; no other issue remained.

  "Rub your skin all over with your hands," he went on, "and keep moving.Above all things keep the blood going in your veins. Rub as hard as youcan--I can't make a fire here--with no ax--in the snow."

  Already she had tossed him her drenched stockings, and he was wringingthem in his strong hands. She rubbed her legs dry with her palms, andput the stockings back on. Then she drew off her coats and outing suit,and he wrung them as dry as he could. Then quickly she dressed again.

  "Now--fast as you can walk toward the cabin."

  He was not sure that he could find it in the darkness. He hoped toencounter the moose trail where it left the ford; beyond that he had torely on his woodsman's instincts. He was soaked through and exhaustedand he knew from the strange numbness of his body that he was slowlybeing chilled to death. It was a test of his own might and enduranceagainst the cruel elements and a power beyond mere physical strengthcame to his aid.

  They forced their way through the evergreen thickets of the river bank,walking up the stream toward the ford. He broke through the brushybarriers with the might of his body; he made a trail for her in thesnow. The darkness deepened around them. The snow fell ever heavier,and the winds soughed in the tree tops.

  After the first half-mile all consciousness of effort was gone from thegirl. She seemed to move from a will beyond her own, one step afteranother over that terrible trail. She lost all sense of time, almost ofidentity. Strange figures, only for such eyes as might see in thedarkness, they fought their way on through the drifts.

  But they conquered at last. Partly by the feel of the snow under hisfeet, partly by his woodsman's instincts, but mostly because the forestgods were merciful, Bill kept to the moose trail that led from the fordto the cabin. And the man was
swaying, drunkenly, when he reached thedoor.

  His cold hands could scarcely draw out the rusted file that acted as abrace for the chain. Yet his voice was quiet and steady when he spoke.

  "There are blankets in there, plenty of 'em," he told her. "It'smy main supply cabin. Spread some of them out and take off yourclothes--all of 'em--and get between them. I'll build a fire as fastas I can."

  She turned to obey. She heard him take down an ax that had been lefthanging on the cabin walls and heard his step in the snow as he began tocut into kindling some of the pieces of cordwood that were heapedoutside the door. She undressed quickly, then lay shivering between thewarm, heavy blankets.

  In a moment the man faltered in, his arms heavy with wood. She heardhim fumbling back of the little stove, then a match gleamed in thegloom. She had never seen such a face as this before her now. Itslines were deep and incredibly dark: utter fatigue was inscribed uponthe drawn features and in the dark, dull eyes. She was suddenly shakenwith horror at the thought that perhaps she was looking upon the firstshadow of death itself.

  He had cut the kindling with his knife, inserted the candle end, and alittle blaze danced up. She watched him feed the fire with strange,heavy motions. He took a pan down from the wall, then went out into thedarkness.

  Haunted by fears, it seemed to her she waited endless hours for him toreturn again. When he came the pan was filled with water from a littlestream that flowed behind the cabin. He put it on the stove to heat.

  She dozed off, then wakened to find him sitting on the edge of her bed,holding a cup of some steaming liquid. Vaguely she noticed that he hadtaken off his wet clothes and had put on a worn overcoat that had beenhanging back of the stove, wrapping two thick blankets over this. Heput his left arm behind her and lifted her up, then fed her spoonfuls ofthe hot liquid. She didn't know what it was, other than it containedwhisky.

  "Take some of it yourself," she told him at last.

  He shook his head and smiled,--a wistful yet manly smile that almostbrought tears to her eyes. That smile was the last thing that sheremembered. The warm, kindly liquor stole through her veins, and shedropped into heavy slumber.

  * * * * *

  In the stress of that first hour after the disaster of the river,Lounsbury and Vosper had a chance to test the steel of which they weremade. This was the time for inner strength, and courage, and beyond allthings else, for self-discipline. But only the forest creatures, suchlittle folk as watch with beady eyes from the coverts all the drama ofthe wilderness, beheld how they stood that test.

  For the first few seconds Lounsbury sat upon his horse and simply staredin mute horror. Then he half-climbed, half-fell from the saddle, andfollowed by Vosper, started running down the river bank. Immediately helost sight of Virginia and Bill. Almost at once thereafter the cold andthe darkness got into his spirit and appalled him.

  "They're lost, they're lost," he cried. "There's not a chance on earthto get 'em out."

  The branches tripped him and he fell sprawling in the snow. He got upand hastened on. Vosper, his thews turning to mushroom stalks withinhim, could only follow, swearing hoarsely. At each break of the treesthey would clamber down to the water's edge and look over the tumultuouswastes, and each time the twilight was deeper, the snow flurriesheavier. And soon they came to a steep bank which they could notdescend.

  "It's a death trip. I knew it was a death trip," Lounsbury moaned."And what's the use of going farther. They haven't a chance on earth."

  They did, however, push on a short distance down the river. Lounsburywas of the opinion it was very far indeed. In reality it was not twohundred yards in all. And they halted once more to stare withfrightened eyes at the stream.

  "It ain't the first this river's taken," Vosper told him. "And theynever even found their bodies."

  "And we won't find these, now," Lounsbury replied. They waited a littlewhile in silence, trying to pierce the shadows. "What do you supposewe'd better do?" he questioned.

  "I don't know. What can we do?"

  "There's no chance of saving them. They're gone already. No swimmercould live in that stream. Why did we ever come--it was a wild-goosechase at best. If they did get out they'd be lost--and couldn't findtheir way. It seems to me the wisest thing for us to do is to goback--and build a big fire--so they can find their way in if they didget out."

  It was a worthy suggestion! The voice of cowardice that had beenspeaking in Lounsbury's craven soul had found expression in words atlast. He was frightened by the storm and the darkness, and he was coldand tired, and a beacon light for the two wanderers in the storm wasonly a subterfuge whereby he might justify their return to camp. Theunderstrapper understood, but he didn't disagree. They were two of akind.

  It was not that they did not know their rightful course. Both werefully aware that such a fire as they could build could only gleam a fewyards through the heavy spruce thicket. They knew that braver men wouldkeep watch over that dreadful river for half the night at least, callingand searching, ready to give aid in the feeble hope that the twoexhausted swimmers might come ashore.

  "Sure thing," Vosper agreed. "It'll be hard to make a good fire in thesnow, and we can't build one at all if them pack horses has got away bynow."

  "You mean--we'd die?" Lounsbury's eyes protruded.

  "The ax is in the pack. We wouldn't have a chance."

  Lounsbury turned abruptly, scarcely able to refrain from running. Thepack horses, however, hadn't left their tracks. And now the braveMulvaney had gained the shore and was standing motionless, gazing outover the troubled waters. No man might guess the substance of histhoughts. He scarcely glanced at the two men.

  They unpacked the animals, and by scraping off the snow and by the aidof the keen ax and a candle-stub soon lighted a fire. To satisfy thefeeble voice of his conscience Lounsbury himself cut wood to make itblaze high. They made their coffee and cooked an abundant meal.

  They stretched the tent in the evergreen thicket, and after supper theysat in its mouth in the glow of the fire. Its crackle drowned out thevoices of the wilderness about them,--such accusations as the Red Godspour out upon the unworthy. And for all their shelter they werewretched and terrified, crushed by the might of the wilderness aboutthem,--futile things that were the scorn of even the beasts.

  "Of course we'll never find the bodies," Lounsbury suggested at last.

  "No chance, that I can see. The winter's come to stay. We won't beable to get any men from Bradleyburg to help us look for 'em. Theycouldn't get through the snow."

  "You think--" Lounsbury's voice wavered, "you think--we can get backall right ourselves?"

  "Sure. That is, if we start first thing to-morrow. There's a cleartrail 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 thesnow. 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 somewhereby the Indians. But not much chance."

  They lighted their pipes, and the horror of the tragedy began slowly topass from them. The blinding snow and the cold and their own discomfortoccupied all their thoughts. There was only one ray of light,--thatin the morning they could turn back out of the terrible wilderness, downtoward the cities of men.

  They didn't try to sleep. The snow and the cold and the shrieking windmade rest an impossibility. They did doze, however, between times thatthey 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 convincehimself the act entitled him to praise. In reality, he was onlyimpatient to hasten their departure. Vosper packed the hungry horses,slyly depositing portions of their supplies and equipment in theevergreen thickets to lighten his own work. He further lightened thepacks by putting a l
oad on Mulvaney. And they climbed down to thewater'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, thesetwo worthy men, back toward the settlements. Some of the packhorses--particularly the yellow Baldy and his kind--moved eagerly whenthey saw that their masters had changed directions. But Vosper had tourge Mulvaney on with oaths and blows.