the U P Trail (1940)

by Grey, Zane

  Next day ushered in for Neale a well-earned rest, and he proceeded to enjoy it to the full.

  The fall had always been Neale's favorite season. Here, as elsewhere, the aspect of it was flaming and golden, but different from what he had known hitherto.

  Dreaming silence of autumn held the wildness and loneliness of the Wyoming hills. The sage shone gray and purple, the ridges yellow and gold; the valleys were green and amber and red. No dust, no heat, no wind; a clear, blue, cloudless sky, sweet odors in the still air; it was a beautiful time.

  Days passed and nights passed, as if on wings. Every waking hour drew him closer to this incomparable girl who had arisen upon his horizon like a star. He knew the hour was imminent when he must read his heart. He fought it off; he played with his bliss. Allie was now his shadow instead of the faithful Larry, although the cowboy was often with them, adapting himself to the changed conditions, too big and splendid to be envious or jealous. They fished down the brook, and always at the never-to-be-forgotten ford he would cross first and turn to see her follow. She could never understand why Neale would delight in carrying her across at other points, yet made her ford this one by herself.

  "It's such a bother to take off moccasins and leggings," she would say.

  They rode horseback up and down the trails that Slingerland assured them were safe. And it was the cowboy Larry who lent his horse and taught her a flying mount; he said she would make a rider.

  In the afternoons they would climb the high ridge, and on the summit sit in the long whitening grass and gaze out over the dim and purple vastness of the plains. In the twilight they walked under the pines. When night set in and the air grew cold they would watch the ruddy fire on the hearth and see pictures of the future there, and feel a warmth on hand and cheek that was not all from the cheerful blaze.

  Neale found it strange to realize how his attachment for Larry had changed to love. All Neale's spiritual being was undergoing a great and vital change, but this was not the reason he loved Larry. It was because of Allie. The cowboy was a Texan and he had inherited the Southerner's fine and chivalric regard for women. Neale never knew whether Larry had ever had a sister or a sweetheart or a girl friend. But at sight Larry had become Allie's own; not a brother or a friend or a lover, but something bigger and higher. The man expanded under her smiles, her teasing, her playfulness, her affection. Neale had no pang in divining the love Larry bore Allie. Drifter, cowboy, gun-thrower, man-killer, whatever he had been, the light of this girl's beautiful eyes, her voice, her touch, had worked the last marvel in man; forgetfulness of self. And so Neale loved him.

  It made Neale quake inwardly to think of the change being wrought in himself. It made him thoughtful of many things. There was much in life utterly new to him.

  He had listened to a moan in his keen ear; he had felt a call of something helpless; he had found a gleam of chestnut hair; he had stirred two other men to help him befriend a poor, broken-hearted, half-crazed orphan girl. And, lo! the world had changed, his friends had grown happier in their unloved lives, a strange strength had come to him, and, sweetest, most wonderful of all, in the place of the helpless and miserable waif appeared a woman, lovely of face and form, with only a ghost of sadness haunting her eyes, a woman adorable and bright, with the magic of love on her lips.

  October came. In the early morning and late afternoon a keen cold breath hung in the air. Slingerland talked of a good prospect for fur. He chopped great stores of wood. Larry climbed the hills with his rifle. Neale walked the trails hand in hand with Allie.

  He had never sought to induce her to speak of her past, though at times the evidence of refinement and education and mystery around her made strong appeal to him. She could, tell her story whenever she liked or never; it did not greatly matter.

  Then,; one day, quite naturally, but with a shame she did not try to conceal, she confided to him part of the story her mother had told her that dark night when the Sioux were creeping upon the caravan.

  Neale was astounded, agitated, intensely concerned.

  "Allie! ... Your father lives!" he exclaimed.

  "Yes."

  "Then I must find him; take you to him."

  "Do what you think best," she replied, sadly. "But I never saw him. I've no love for him. And he never knew I was born."

  "Is it possible? How strange! ... If any man could see you now! Allie, do you resemble your mother?"

  "Yes, we were alike."

  "Where is your father?" Neale went on, curiously.

  "How should I know? It was in New Orleans that mother ran off from him. I; I never blamed her; since she said what she said.... Do you? Will this; make any difference to you?"

  "My God, no! But I'm so; so thunderstruck.... This man; this Durade- -tell me more of him."

  "He was a Spaniard of high degree, an adventurer, a gambler. He was mad to gamble. He forced my mother to use her beauty to lure men to his gambling-hell.... Oh, it's terrible to remember. She said he meant to use me for that purpose. That's why she left him. But in a way he was good to me. I can see so many things now to prove he was wicked.... And mother said he would follow her; track her to the end of the world."

  "Allie! If he should find you some day!" exclaimed Neale, hoarsely.

  She put her arms up round his neck. And that, following a terrible pang of dread in Neale's breast, was too much for him. The tide burst. Love had long claimed him, but its utterance had been withheld. He had been happy in her happiness. He had trained himself to spare her.

  "But some day; I'll be; your wife," she whispered.

  "Soon? Soon?" he returned, trembling.

  The scarlet fired her temples, her brow, darkening the skin under her bright hair.

  "That's for you to say."

  She held up her lips, tremulous and sweet.

  Neale realized the moment had come. There had never been but the one kiss between them; that of the meeting upon his return in September.

  "Allie, I love you!" He spoke thickly.

  "And I love you," she replied, with sweet courage.

  "This news you've told; this man Durade," he went on, hoarsely, "I'm suddenly alive; stinging; wild! ... If I lost you!"

  "Dear, you will never lose me; never in this world or any other," she replied, tenderly.

  "My work, my hope, my life, they all get spirit now from you ... Allie! You're sweet; oh, so sweet! You're glorious!" he rang out, passionately.

  Surprise momentarily checked the rising response of her feeling.

  "Neale! You've never before said; such-things! ... And the way you look!"

  "How do I look?" he queried, seeing the joyousness of her surprise.

  Then she laughed and that was new to him; a sound low, unutterably rich and full, sweet-toned like a bell, and all resonant of youth.

  "Oh, you look like Durade when he was gambling away his soul ... You should see him!"

  "Well, how's that?"

  "So white; so terrible; so piercing!"

  Neale drew her closer, slipped her arms farther up round his neck. "I'm gambling my soul away now," he said. "If I kiss you I lose it; and I must!"

  "Must what?" she whispered, with all a woman's charm.

  "I must kiss you!"

  "Then hurry!"

  So their lips met.

  In the sweetness of that embrace, in the simplicity and answering passion of her kiss, in the overwhelming sense of her gift of herself, heart and soul, he found a strength, a restraint, a nobler fire that gave him peace.

  Allie was to amaze Neale again before the sun set on that memorable day.

  "I forgot to tell you about the gold!" she exclaimed, her face paling.

  "Gold!" ejaculated Neale.

  "Yes. He buried it; there; under the biggest of the three trees together. Near a rock! Oh, I can see him now!"

  "Him! Who? Allie, what's this wild talk?"

  She pressed his hand to enjoin silence.

  "Listen! Horn had gold. How much I don't know. But it must h
ave been a great deal. He owned the caravan with which we left California. Horn grew to like me.

  But he hated all the rest.... That night we ended the awful ride! The wagons stalled! ... The grayness of dawn; the stillness; oh, I feel them now! ... That terrible Indian yell rang out. All my life I'll hear it! ... Then Horn dug a hole. He buried his gold.... And he said whoever escaped could have it. He had no hope."

  "Allie, you're a mine of surprises. Buried gold! What next?"

  "Neale, I wonder; did the Sioux find that gold?" she asked.

  "It's not likely. There certainly wasn't any hole left open around that place. I saw every inch of ground under those trees.... Allie, I'll go there to-morrow and hunt for it."

  "Let me go," she implored. "Ah! I forgot! No; no! ... There must be my mother's grave."

  "Yes, it's there. I saw. I will mark it.... Allie, how glad I am that you can speak of her; of her past; her grave there without weakening. You are brave! But forget ... Allie, if I find that gold it'll be yours."

  "No. Yours."

  "But I wasn't one of the caravan. He did not give it to any outsider. You escaped. Therefore it will belong to you."

  "Dearest, I am yours."

  Next day, without acquainting Slingerland or Larry with his purpose, Neale rode down the valley trail.

  He expected the road to cross the old St. Vrain and Laramie Trail, but if it did cross he could not find the place. It was easy to lose bearings in these hills.

  Neale had to abandon the hunt for that day, and turning back, with some annoyance at his failure, he decided that it would be best to take Larry and

  Slingerland into his confidence.

  Allie was waiting for him at the brook ford.

  "Oh, it was gone!" she cried.

  "Allie, I couldn't find the place. Come, ride back and let me walk beside you.... We'll have fun telling Larry and Slingerland."

  "Neale, let me tell them," she begged.

  "Go ahead. Make a strong story. Larry always had leanings toward gold-strikes."

  And that night, after supper, when the log fire had begun to blaze, and all were comfortable before it, Allie glanced demurely at Larry and said:

  "Reddy, if you had known that I was heiress to great wealth, would you have proposed to me?"

  Slingerland roared. Larry seemed utterly stricken.

  "Wealth!" he echoed, feebly.

  "Yes. Gold! Lots of gold!"

  Slingerland's merry face suddenly grew curious and earnest.

  Larry struggled with his discomfiture.

  "I reckon I'd done thet anyhow; without knowin' you was rich; if it hadn't been fer this heah U. P. surveyor fellar."

  And then the joke was on Allie, as her blushes proved. Neale came to her rescue and told the story of Horn's buried gold, and of his own search that day for the place.

  "Shore I'll find it," declared Larry. "We'll go to-morrow...."

  Slingerland stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  "If thar's gold been buried thar it's sure an' certain thar yet," he said. "But

  I'm afraid we won't git thar tomorrow."

  "Why not? Surely you or Larry can find the place?"

  "Listen."

  Neale listened while he was watching Allie's parted lips and speaking eyes. A low, whining wind swept through the trees and over the roof of the cabin.

  "Thet wind says snow," declared the trapper.

  Neale went outside. The wind struck him cold and keen, with a sharp edge to it.

  The stars showed pale and dim through hazy atmosphere. Assuredly there was a storm brewing. Neale returned to the fire, shivering and holding his palms to the heat.

  "Cold, you bet, with the wind rising," he said. "But, Slingerland, suppose it does snow. Can't we go, anyhow?"

  "It ain't likely. You see, it snows up hyar. Mebbe we'll be snowed in fer a spell. An' thet valley is open down thar. In deep snow what could we find? We'll wait an' see."

  On the morrow a storm raged and all was dim through a ghostly, whirling pall.

  The season of drifting snow had come, and Neale's winter work had begun.

  Five miles by short cut over the ridges curved the long survey over which Neale must keep watch; and the going and coming were Neale's hardest toil. It was laborsome to trudge up and down in soft snow.

  That first snow of winter, however, did not last long, except in the sheltered places. Fortunately for Neale, almost all of his section of the survey ran over open ground. But this fact augured seriously for his task when the dry and powdery snow of midwinter began to fall and sweep before the wind and drift over the lee side of the ridge.

  During the first week of tramping he thoroughly learned the lay of the land, the topography of his particular stretch of Sherman Pass. And one day, taking an early start from camp, he set forth to make his first call upon his nearest associate in this work, the engineer Service. Once high up on the pass he found the snow had not all melted, and still higher it lay white and unbroken as far as he could see. The air was keener up there. Neale gathered that Service would have a colder job than his own, if it was not so long and hard.

  He found Service at home in his dugout, warm and comfortable and in excellent spirits. They compared notes, and even in this early work they decided it would be a wise plan for the engineering staff to study the problem of drifting snow.

  Neale enjoyed a meal with Service, and then, early in the afternoon, he started back on his long tramp homeward. He gathered from his visit that Service did not mind the lonesomeness, but that he did suffer from the cold more than he had expected. Service was not an active, full-blooded man, and Neale had some misgivings. Judging from the trapper's remarks, winter high up in the Wyoming hills was something to dread.

  November brought the real storms; the gray banks of rolling cloud, the rain and sleet and snow and ice, and the wind. Neale concluded he had never before faced a real wind, and when, one day on a ridge- top, he was blown off his feet he was sure of it. Some days he could not go out at all. Other days it was not imperative, for it was only during and after snow-storms that he could make observations. He learned to travel on snow-shoes, and ten miles of such traveling up and down the steep slopes was the most killing hard toil he had ever attempted. After such trips he would reach the cabin utterly fagged out, too tired to eat, too weary, to talk, almost too dead to hear the solicitations of his friends or to appreciate Allie's tender, anxious care. If he had not been strong and robust and in good training to begin with, he would have failed under the burden. Gradually he grew used to the strenuous toil, and became hardened, tough, and enduring.

  Though Neale hated the cold and the wind, there were moments when an exceedingly keen exhilaration uplifted him. These experiences visited him while on the heights, looking far over the snowy ridges to, the white, monotonous plain or up toward the shining peaks. All seemed barren and cold. He never saw a living creature or a track upon those slopes. When the sun shone all was so dazzlingly, glaringly white that his eyes were struck by temporary blindness.

  Upon one of the milder days, which were getting rarer in mid- December, Neale again visited his comrade on the summit. He found Service in bad shape. In falling down a slippery ledge he had injured or broken his lame leg. Neale, with great concern, tried to ascertain the nature and extent of the harm done, but he was unable to do so. Service was practically helpless, although not suffering any great pain. The two of them decided, at length, that he had not broken any bones, but that it was necessary to move him to where he could be waited upon and treated, or else some one must be brought in to take care of him. Neale deliberated a moment.

  "I'll tell you what," he said, finally. "You can be moved down to Slingerland's cabin without pain to you. I'll get Slingerland and his sled. You'll be more comfortable there. It'll be better all around."

  So that was decided upon. And Neale, after doing all he could for Service, and assuring him that he would return in less than twenty- four hours, turned his steps for the valley.


  The sunset that night struck him as singularly dull, pale, menacing. He understood its meaning later, when Slingerland said they were in for another storm. Before dark the wind began to moan through the trees like lost spirits.

  The trapper shook his shaggy head ominously.

  "Reckon thet sounds bad to me," he said. And from moan it rose to wail, and from wail to roar.

  That alarmed Neale. He went outside and Slingerland followed. Snow was sweeping down-light, dry, powdery. The wind was piercingly cold. Slingerland yelled something, but Neale could not distinguish what. When they got back inside the trapper said:

  "Blizzard!"

  Neale grew distressed.

  "Wal, no use to worry about Service," argued the trapper. "If it is a blizzard we can't git up thar, thet's all. Mebbe this'll not be so bad. But I ain't bettin' on thet."

  Even Allie couldn't cheer Neale that night. Long after she and the others had retired he kept up the fire and listened to the roar of the wind. When the fire died down a little the cabin grew uncomfortably cold, and this fact attested to a continually dropping temperature. But he hoped against hope and finally sought his blankets.

  Morning came, but the cabin was almost as dark as by night. A blinding, swirling snow-storm obscured the sun.

  A blizzard raged for forty-eight hours. When the snow finally ceased falling the cold increased until Neale guessed the temperature might be forty degrees below

  zero. The trapper claimed sixty. It was necessary to stay indoors till the weather moderated.

  On the fifth morning Slingerland was persuaded to attempt the trip to aid

  Service. Larry wanted to accompany them, but Slingerland said he had better stay with Allie. So, muffled up, the two men set out on snow-shoes, dragging a sled.

  A crust had frozen on the snow, otherwise traveling would have been impossible.

  Once up on the slope the north wind hit them square in the face. Heavily clad as he was, Neale thought the very marrow in his bones would freeze. That wind blew straight through him. There were places where it took both men to hold the sled to keep it from getting away. They were blown back one step for every two steps they made. On the exposed heights they could not walk upright. At last, after hours of desperate effort, they got over the ridge to a sheltered side along which they labored up to Service's dugout.