The prospector paused to take the cup, then said: “I guess likely we won't make the summit this trip. We've got to hustle to get down before it turns soft.”
“Oh, but we must make the summit,” exclaimed Marcia, taking up her alpenstock. “Why, we are all but there.”
“How does it look ahead?” inquired Frederic, walking along the buttress. “Heard you chopping ice.”
“I was cutting steps across the tail end of a little glacier. It's a gliddery place, but the going looks all right once you get past. Well, likely you can make it,” he added shrilly, “but you've got to be quick.”
The life of the trail that sharpens a man's perceptives teaches him to read individuality swiftly, and this Alaskan who, the first day out on a long stampede, could have told the dominant trait of each husky in his team, knew his party as well as the risk. Golf and tennis, added to a naturally strong physique, had given the two sisters nerves of steel. Marcia, who had visited some of the great glaciers in the north, possessed the insight and coolness of a mountain explorer; and all the third woman lacked in physical endurance was more than made up in courage. The man, though enervated by over-indulgence, had the brute force, the animal instinct of self-preservation, to carry him through. So presently, when the buttress was passed, and the prospector uncoiled his rope, it was to Mrs. Feversham he gave the other end, placing Morganstein next, with Elizabeth at the center and Mrs. Weatherbee second. Once, twice, Banks felt her stumble, a sinking weight on the line, but in the instant he caught a twist in the slack and fixed his heels in the crust to turn, she had, in each case, recovered and come steadily on. It was only when the gliddery passage was made, the peril behind, that she sank down in momentary collapse.
Banks stopped to unfold his pocket-cup and take out his flask. “You look about done for,” he said briskly. “My, yes, that little taste of glacier was your limit. But you ain't the kind to back out. No, ma'am, all you need is a little bracer to put you on your feet again, good as new.”
“I never can go back,” she said, and met his concerned look with wide and luminous eyes. “Unless—I'm carried. Never in the world.”
Morganstein forced a laugh. It had a frosty sound; his lips were blue. “Excuse me,” he responded. “Anywhere else I wouldn't hesitate, but here, I draw the line.”
The prospector was holding the draught to her lips, and she took a swallow and pushed away the cup. It was brandy, raw, scalding, and it brought the color back to her face. “Thank you,” she said, and forced a smile. “It is bracing; my tensions are all screwed. I feel like climbing on to—Mars.”
Frederic laughed again. “You go on, Banks,” he said, relieving him of the cup; “she's all right. You hurry ahead before one of those girls walks over a precipice.”
He could not persuade her to take more of the liquor, so he himself drank the bracer, after which he put the cup and the flask, which Banks had left, away in his own pockets. She was up, whipping down her fear. “Come,” she said, “we must hurry to overtake them.”
Her steps, unsteady at first, grew sure and determined; she drew longer, deeper breaths; the pink of a wild rose flushed her cheeks. But Frederic, plodding abreast, laid his hand on her arm.
“See here,” he said, “you can't keep this up; stop a minute. They've got to wait for us. George, that ambition of yours can spur you to the pace. Never saw so much spirit done up in a small package. Go off, sometime, like Fourth o' July fireworks.” He chuckled, looking down at her with admiration in his round eyes. “Like you for it, though. George, it's just that has made you worth waiting for.”
She gave him a quick glance and, setting her alpenstock, sprang from his detaining hand.
“See, they have reached the summit,” she called. “They are waiting already for us. And see!” she exclaimed tensely, as he struggled after her. “It is going to be grand.”
A vast company of peaks began to lift, tier on tier like an amphitheater, above the rim of the dome, while far eastward, as they cross-cut the rounding incline, stretched those tawny mountains that had the appearance of strange and watchful beasts, guarding the levels of the desert, bare of snow. Glimpses there were of the blue Columbia, the racy Wenatchee, but Weatherbee's pocket was closed. Then, presently, as they gained the summit, it was no longer an amphitheater into which they looked, but a billowing sea of cloud, out of which rose steep and inhospitable shores. Then, everywhere, far and away, shone opal-shaded islands of mystery.
“Oh,” she said, with a little, sighing breath, “these are the Isles of the Blest. We have come through the Everlasting Door into the better country.”
She stood looking off in rapture, but the man saw only the changing lights in her face. He turned a little, taking in the charm of pose, the lift of chin, parted lips, hand shading softly shining eyes. After a moment he answered: “Wish we had. Wish every other man you knew was left out, on the other side of the door.”
Her hand fell, she gave him her sweeping look and moved to join the waiting group.
Banks came to meet them. “We've stayed to the limit; my, yes, it's the last call,” he explained in his tense key. “There's a couple of places we don't want to see ourselves caught in when the thaw strikes. And they're getting a heavy rain down at the Springs now; likely up at the tunnel it's snow or hail.” He paused, turning to send a final glance into the mist, then said: “Less than ten minutes ago I had a sight of that train, but you see now she's wiped off the map. It'll be a close race, my, yes. Give me that stick, ma'am; you can make better time on the down-grade holding on to me.”
With this, he offered his able hand to Mrs. Weatherbee and, followed by the rest of the party, helped her swiftly down the slope. But clearly his mind was on the stalled train. “Likely, hugging the mountainside, they don't see how the snow crowds overhead,” he said. “And I'd ought to have taken time to run over and give 'em a tip. I'm going to, I'm going to, soon's I get you down to that old railroad track where you can make it alone.”
“Do you mean the Limited is in danger?” she asked, springing and tripping to his stride.
And Banks nodded grimly. “Yes, ma'am. It's a hard proposition, even to a man like Tisdale, who is used to breaking his own trail. He knows he's got to fight shy of the slides along that burned over switchback, but if he saw the box that train is in, he would just hike around to this side of the canyon, where the pitches are shorter, and the green trees stand some show to hold the snow, and work down to the old track to the Springs.”
“Is Mr. Tisdale"'—her voice broke a little—“Mr. Hollis Tisdale on that train?”
“Likely, yes. He was snowbound on her in the Rockies, last I heard, and 'feeling fit as a moose.' Being penned up so long, he'd likely rather take a hike down to the hotel than not. It would be good for his health.” And the little man piped his high, mirthless laugh.
She stumbled, and he felt the hand in his tremble, but the abrupt incline of the glacier had opened before them, and he believed she dreaded to re-cross the ice. “Keep cool,” he admonished, releasing her to uncoil the rope again, “Stand steady. Just recollect if you came over this, you can get back.”
But when, presently, the difficult passage safely made, they rounded the crag and gained the level shoulder where they had lunched, they seemed to have arrived at a different place. The lower canyon, which not two hours before had stretched into blue distance below them, was lost in the creeping sea of cloud; the abyss at their feet gathered immensity, and the top of the timbered ridge lifted midway like a strange, floating garden. The station at Cascade tunnel, all the opposite mountain, was obscured, then, while Banks stood re-coiling his rope, the sounds that had disturbed the guests at Scenic Hot Springs those previous nights rose, reverberating, through the hidden gorge. The Chinook had resumed its work.
The way below the spur broke in easy steps to the long and gradual slope that terminated above the cleaver of rock and, anxious to reach the unfortunate train, Banks hurried on. Marcia and Elizabeth trailed quickly
after, but Mrs. Weatherbee remained seated on the shelving ledge at the foot of the crag. Frederic sank heavily into the place beside her and took out the flask.
“You are all in,” he said. “Come, take this; it's diluted this time with snow.”
But she gave him no attention, except to push aside the cup. She waited, listening, leaning forward a little as though her wide eyes could penetrate the pall. Then, torn by cross currents of wind, the cloud parted, and the mountain loomed like a phantom peak over the gulf. She started up and stood swaying gently on her feet while the trees, tall and spectral and cloaked in snow, opened rank on rank like a uniformed company. Lower still, the steep roofs of the station reflected a shaft of the sun, and the long line of cars appeared clearly defined, waiting still on the tracks outside the portal.
The rent in the cloud closed. She turned with a great, sighing breath. “Did you see?” she said. “The train is safe.”
“Of course.” And again, having himself taken the bracer, Frederic rose and returned the flask to his pocket. “So, that was troubling you; thought that train might have been struck. Guess if an avalanche had come down there, we'd have heard some noise. It's safe enough here,” he added. “Top of this crag was built to shed snow like a church steeple.”
“But why are we waiting?” And glancing around, she exclaimed in dismay: “The others have gone. See! They are almost out of sight.”
She began to walk swiftly to the lower rim of the shoulder, and Frederic followed. Down the slope his sisters and Banks seemed to be moving through a film. They mingled with it indistinctly as the figures in faded tapestry. But Morganstein laid his hand on her arm to detain her. “What's your hurry?” he asked thickly. “All we got to do now is keep their trail. Tracks are clear as day.”
“We shall delay them; they will wait.”
She tried to pass him, but they had reached the step from the spur, and he swung around to block the narrow way. “Not yet,” he said. “This is the moment I've been waiting for. First time in months you've given me a fair chance to speak to you. Always headed me off. I'm tired of being held at arm's length. I've been patient to the limit. I'm going to know now, to-day, before we go down from this mountain, how soon you are going to marry me.”
She tried again to pass him but, taking incautious footing, slipped, and his arm saved her. “I don't care how soon it is,” he went on, “or where. Quietly at your apartments, or a big church wedding. On board the first boat sailing for Yokohama, after those coal cases are settled, suits me.”
She struggled to free herself, then managed to turn and face him, with her palms braced against his breast. His arm relaxed a little, so that he was able to look down in her lifted face. What he saw there was not altogether anger, though aversion was in her eyes; not surprise, not wholly derision, though her lips suggested a smile, but an indefinable something that baffled, mastered him. His arm fell. “Japan is fine in the spring,” he said. “And we could take our time, coming back by way of Hawaii to see the big volcano, with another stop-over at Manila. Get home to begin housekeeping at the villa in midsummer.”
“Oh,” she exclaimed at last, “do you think I am a silly girl to be dazzled and tempted? Who knows nothing of marriage and the cost?”
“No,” he responded quickly. “I think you are a mighty clever woman. But you've got to the point where you can't hedge any more. Banks has gone back on that option. If he won't buy, nobody else will. And it takes ready money to run a big ranch like that, even after the improvements are in. You can't realize on your orchards, even in the Wenatchee country, short of four years. So you'll have to marry me; only way out.”
She gave him her swift, sweeping look, and the blue lights blazed in her eyes. “I will remember you are Elizabeth's brother,” she said. “I will try to remember that. But please don't say any more. Every moment counts; come.”
Morganstein laughed. As long as she parried, as long as she did not refuse outright to marry him, he must keep reasonably cool. He stooped to pick up the alpenstock she had dropped, then offered his hand down the step from the spur. “Sorry I put it just that way,” he said. “I'm a plain business man; used to coming straight to the point; but I guess you've known how much I thought of you all these years. Had to keep on a high check-rein while Weatherbee lived, and tried my best, afterwards, to give him a year's grace, but you knew just the same. Know—don't you?—I might take my pick out of the dozen nicest girls in Seattle to-day. Only have to say the word. Not one in the bunch would turn me down. But I wouldn't have one of 'em for second choice. Nobody but you will do.” He paused, then added with his narrow look: “And what I want, you ought to know that too, I get.”
She met the look with a shake of the head and forced a smile. “Some things are not to be bought at any price. But, of course, I have seen—a woman does—” she went on hurriedly, withdrawing her hand. “There was a time, I confess, when I did consider—your way out. But I dared not take it; even then, I dared not.”
“You dared not?” Frederic laughed again. “Never thought you were afraid of me. Never saw you afraid of anything. But I see. Miserable experience with Weatherbee made you little cautious. George, don't see how any man could have deserted you. Trust me to make it up to you. Marry me, and I'll show you such a good time Weatherbee won't amount to a bad dream.”
“I do not wish to forget David Weatherbee,” she said.
“George!” he exclaimed curiously. “Do you mean you ever really loved him? A man who left you, practically without a cent, before you were married a month.”
“No.” Her voice was low; her lip trembled a little. “No, I did not love him—as he deserved; as I was able to love.” She paused, then went on with decision: “But he did not leave me unprovided for. David Weatherbee never deserted me. And, even though he had, though he had been the kind of man I believed him to be, it would make no difference. I could not marry you.”
There was a silence during which they continued to follow the tracks that cross-cut the slope. But Morganstein's face was not pleasant to see. All the complaisancy of the egotist who has long and successfully shaped lives to his own ends was withdrawn; it left exposed the ugly inner side of the man. The trail was becoming soft; the damp of the Chinook began to envelop them; already the advancing film stretched like a curtain over the sun, and the three figures that had seemed parts of a shaken tapestry disappeared. Then, presently, Banks' voice, muffled like a voice under a blanket, rose through the pall. And Frederic stopped to put his hand to his mouth. “All right! Coming!” he answered, but the shout rebounded as though it had struck a sounding board.
After another plodding silence, the prospector's hail reached them again. It seemed farther off, and this time Morganstein did not respond. He stopped, however, and the woman beside him waited in expectation. “Suppose,” he said slowly, “we are lost on this mountain to-night. Make a difference to-morrow—wouldn't it?—whether you would marry me or not.”
The color rushed to her face and went; her breast rose and fell in deep, quick breaths, but she met his look fearlessly, lifting herself with the swaying movement from the balls of her feet that made her suddenly taller. “No.” And her tone, the way in which she said it, must have stung even his small soul; then she added: “You are more brutal than I thought.”
She turned after that and herself sent the belated response to Banks. But though she repeated the call twice, making a trumpet of her hands and with all the power of her voice, his hail did not reach them again. She started swiftly down. It was beginning to snow.
Frederic had nothing more to say. He moved on with her. It was as though each tried to out-travel the other, still they could not make up that delay. The snow fell in big, soft flakes that blurred the tracks they followed; soon they were completely blotted out, and though he strained his eyes continually, watching for the cleaver of rock they had climbed that morning, the landmark never appeared. Finally, at the same instant, they both stopped, listening. On the silence broke inn
umerable small sounds like many little hurrying feet. The mountain trembled slightly. “God Almighty!” he cried thickly. Then came the closer rush of a considerable body, not unlike sheep passing in a fog, and panic seized him. “We've got to keep on top,” he shouted and, grasping her arm, he swung her around and began to run back up the slope.
In the face of this common peril, personality called a truce, and she pushed on with him blindly, leaving it to him to choose the way and set the pace. But their own tracks down the incline had filled with incredible swiftness; soon they were completely effaced. And, when the noise subsided, he stopped and looked about him, bewildered. He saw nothing but a breadth of sharply dipping slope, white, smooth as an unwritten scroll, over which hung the swaying, voluminous veil of the falling snow. He put his hands to his mouth then, and lifted his voice in a great hail. It brought no reply, but in the moment he waited, somewhere far below in those obscured depths, a great tree, splitting under tremendous pressure, crashed down, then quickly the terrific sweep and roar of a second mightier avalanche filled the hidden gorge.
Morganstein caught her arm once more. “We must get back to that shoulder where it's safe,” he shouted. “Banks will come to look us up.” After that, as they struggled on up the slope, he fell to saying over and over, as long as the reverberations lasted: “Almighty God!”
As they ascended, the snow fell less heavily and finally ceased. It became firm underfoot, and a cross wind, starting in puffs, struck their faces sharply with a promise of frost. Then strange hummocks began to rise. They were upheavals of ice, shrouded in snow. Sometimes a higher one presented a sheer front shading to bluish-green. They had not passed this point with Banks, but Morganstein shaped a course to a black pinnacle, lifting through the mist beyond, that he believed was the crag at the shoulder. She stumbled repeatedly on the rough surface. Her labored breathing in the great stillness, like the beat of a pendulum in an empty house, tried his strained nerves. He upbraided her for leaving her alpenstock down the slope. But she paid no attention. She looked back constantly; she was like a woman being led away from a locked door, moving reluctantly, listening against hope for a word or sign. So, at last, they came to the rock. It was not the crag, but a hanging promontory, where the mountain broke in a three-sided precipice. The cloud surged around it like an unplumbed sea.
The Rim of the Desert Page 29
