The Snowshoe Trail

by Edison Marshall

  XXV

  Now that the fight was done, Bill lay quite calm and peaceful in thedrifts. The pain of the cold and the wrack of exhausted muscles werequite gone.

  He was face to face with the flaming truth, and he knew his fate. TheNorth, defied so long, had conquered him a last. It had been waitingfor him, lurking, watching its chance; and with its cruel agents, thebitter cold and the unending snow, it had crushed and beaten him down.He felt no resentment. He was glad that the trial was over. He knew adeep, infinite peace.

  Sleep was encroaching upon him now. He felt himself drifting, and thetide would never bring him back. He stirred a little, putting his handsin his armpits, his face resting on his elbow. The wind swept by,sobbing: there in the shadow of death he caught its tones and itsmessages as never before. He was being swept into space. ...

  On the trail that he had made on the out-journey, and which he had triedto vainly to follow back, Virginia came mushing toward him. Neverbefore had her muscles responded so obediently to her will; she sped ata pace that she had never traveled before. It was as if some powerabove herself was bearing her along, swiftly, easily, with never awasted motion. She tilted the nose of her snowshoes just the rightangle, no more or less, and all her muscles seemed to work in perfectunison.

  The bitter cold of the early morning hours only made her blood flowfaster and gave her added energy. She scarcely felt the pack on herback. The snowshoe trail, however, was so faint as to be almostinvisible.

  Because the snow had been firm in this part of Bill's journey, his trackwas not so deep and the drifting snow had almost completely filled it.In a few places the track was entirely obscured; always there weremerely dim indentations. If she had started an hour later she could nothave followed the trail at all. For all the day was clear, the windstill whirled flurries of dry snow across her path.

  But she didn't permit herself to despair. If need be, she told herself,she would follow him clear to the Twenty-three Mile cabin. The trackswere ever more dim, but surely they would be deeper again where Bill hadencountered the soft snow.

  It became increasingly probable, however, that the tracks wouldcompletely fade away before that time. Soon the difficulty of findingthe imprints in the snow began to slacken her gait. To lose themcompletely meant failure: she could not find her way in these snowystretches unguided. As morning reached its full, the white wastesseemed to stretch unbroken.

  Was the wind-blown snow going to defeat her purpose, after all? A greatweight of fear and disappointment began to assail her. The truth of thematter was she had come to an exposed slope, and the trail had faded outunder the snow dust.

  At first there seemed nothing to do but turn back. It might bepossible, however, to cross the ridge in front: the valley beyond wasmore sheltered by the wind and she might pick up the trail again. Atleast she could follow her own tracks back, if she failed. She spedswiftly on.

  She had guessed right. Standing on the ridge top she could see, far offthrough one of the treeless glades that are found so often in the spruceforest, the long path of a snowshoe trail. Instinctively she followedit with her eyes.

  Clear where the trail entered the spruce thicket, her keen eyes made outa curious, black shadow against the snow. For a single second she eyedit calmly, wondering what manner of wild creature it might be. Itsoutline grew more distinct under her intense gaze, and she cried out.It was only a little sound, half a gasp and half a sob, but it expressedthe depths of terror and distress never known to her before.

  It seemed to her that she could not move at first. She could only standand gaze. The heart in her breast turned to ice, her blood seemed to gostill in her veins. She recognized this figure now. It was Bill, lyingstill in the frozen drifts.

  For endless hours, it seemed to her, she stood impotent with horror. Inreality, the time was not an appreciable fraction of a breath. Then,sobbing, she mushed frantically down toward him. She fairly raced,--withnever a misstep. For all the ghastly sickness that swept over her,she held her body in perfect discipline. She had no doubt but that thisman was dead. Likely he had lain there for hours, and really only avery short time of such cold as this was needed to take life. Already,she thought, the life had gone from his dark, gentle eyes; the braveheart was still; the brave heart was still; the mighty muscles lifelessclay.

  No moment of her life had ever been fraught with such overwhelmingbitterness as this. She had never known such fear, even in the grip ofthe wild waters or during the grizzly's charge. This was something thatwent deeper than mere life: it touched realms of her spirit undreamedof, and the blow seemed more cruel and more dreadful than any thatthe world could deal direct to her. If she had paused for one secondof self-analysis, heaven knows what light might have burst upon herspirit--what deep and wondrous realizations of her attitude toward Billmight have come to her; but she did not pause. She only knew that shemust reach his side. Her only thought was that Bill was dead, gonefrom her life as a flame goes from an extinguished candle.

  She knelt beside him, and with no knowledge of effort turned him overand lifted his head and shoulders into her arms. His eyes were closed,his face expressionless, his arms dropped limply to his side. At firstshe dared not dream but that the cold had already taken away his life.The dread Spirit of the North had lain in ambush for him a long time,but it had conquered him at last.

  They made an unearthly picture,--these two so silent in the drifts.Endless about them lay the snow; the winter forest was deep in itseternal silence, the little spruce trees stood patient and inert andqueer, under their heavy loads of snow. Never a voice in all thewastes, never a tear of pity or a stretching hand of mercy,--onlythe cold, only the silence, only the dread solitude of a landuntamed,--the unconquerable wild. Yet her sorrow, her ineffabledespair left no room for resentment against this dreadful land. Itwas only a lost fight in an eternal war; only a little incident inthe vast and inscrutable schemes of a remorseless Nature.

  She knew life now, this girl of cities. She knew that in her past lifeshe had never really lived: she had only moved in a gentle dream that anartificial civilization had made possible. The gayeties, the culture,the luxuries and the fashions that had seemed so real and so essentialbefore were revealed in their true light, only as dreams that wouldpass: deep in them she had never heard the crash of armor in thebattlefields without her bower. But she knew now. She saw life as itwas, stark and cruel, remorseless, pitiless to the weak, treacherous tothe strong, ever waging war against all creatures that dwelt upon theearth.

  Yet so easily could it have been redeemed! If this man were standingstrong beside her, life would be nothing to fear, nothing to appall herspirit. All the ancient persecutions of the elements, all the pitfallsof life and the exigencies of fortune could never bow their heads.Instead they would know high adventure and the exhilaration of battle;even if at the day's end they should go down into death, it would bewith unbroken spirits and brave hearts.

  But she couldn't stand alone! She needed the touch of his hand, hisshoulder against hers, the communion of his spirit and his strength.Life was an appalling thing to face alone! There was no joy now in thepunishing cold and the wastes of forest; only sadness and fear anddespair. Sitting in the snow, his head and shoulders in her arms, sheknew a fear and a loneliness undreamed of before, a loss that couldnever be atoned for or redeemed.

  She too knew the lesson that Bill had learned in his hour ofbitterness,--that one moment of heaven may atone for a whole life ofstruggle and sorrow. One clasp of arms, one whispered message, onemighty impulse of the soul in which eternity is seized and the starsare gathered might glorify the whole bitter struggle of existence.One little kiss might pay for it all. Yet for all that Harold stilllived and waited for her in the cabin, she felt that this one littleinstant of resurrection was irrevocably lost.

  It seemed so strange to her that he should be lying here, impotentin her arms. Always he had been so strong, he had stood sostraight,--always com
ing to her aid in a second of need, alwaysstrengthening her with his smile and his eyes. She could hardly believethat this was he,--never to cheer her again in their hard tramps, tolend her his mighty strength in a moment of crisis, to laugh with her atsome little tragedy. She sobbed softly, and her tears lay on his face."Bill, oh, Bill, won't you wake up and speak to me?" she cried. Shepleaded softly, but he didn't seem to hear.

  "Come back to me, Bill--I need you," she told him. He had always beenso quick to come when she needed him before now. "Are you _dead?_-- Oh,you couldn't be _dead!_ It's so cold--and I'm afraid. Oh, pleaseopen your eyes----"

  She kissed him over and over--on the lips, on his closed eyes. Shepressed his head against her soft breast, as if her fluttering heartwould give some of its life to him.

  _Dead?_ Was that it? All at once she set to work to win back herself-control. It might not yet be too late to help. She grippedherself, dispelling at once all hysteria, all her vagrant thoughts.He would have been hard at work long since. His face was stillwarm--perhaps life had not yet passed.

  She put her head to his breast. His heart was beating--slowly, butsteadily and strong.