AN ACCIDENT
With the help of men from the railroad settlement Harding finished his
house and made it weather-proof before the frost struck deep into the
soil. Plowing was now impossible, but there was much to be done. The
inside of the dwelling had to be fitted up, and logs were needed for the
stables he must build in the spring. Trees large enough for the purpose
were scarce; and where coal is unobtainable, cutting wood for fuel keeps
the settler busy during the rigorous winter. Harding might have
simplified his task by buying sawed lumber, but the long railroad
haulage made it expensive, and he never shrank from labor which led to
economy. He was not a niggard, but he had ambitions and he saw that his
money must be made productive if those ambitions were to be gratified.
He was coming home one evening with Devine, bringing a load of wood on
his jumper-sled. It had been a bitter day, and the cold got keener as a
leaden haze crept up across the plain. There was still a curious gray
light, and objects in the immediate foreground stood out with harsh
distinctness. The naked branches of the poplars on the edge of the
ravine they skirted cut sharply against the sky, and the trail, which
ran straight across the thin snow, was marked by a streak of dingy blue.
The wind was fitful, but when it gathered strength the men bent their
heads and shivered in their old deerskin jackets.
As the oxen plodded on, Devine looked round at the sled rather
anxiously.
"Hadn't you better throw some of these logs off, Craig?" he suggested.
"It's a heavy load, and I'm afraid there's a blizzard working up. We
want to get home before it breaks."
"The oxen can haul them," Harding replied. "We'll get nothing done for
the next few days, and we have our hands plumb full this winter."
"I used to think I was a bit of a hustler," Devine said, "but you sure
have me beat."
"If I'm not mistaken, we'll get a lie-off to-morrow." Harding struck one
of the oxen with his mittened hand. "Pull out, Bright, before you
freeze!"
The big animals moved faster, and the tired men plodded on silently.
There is no easy road to wealth on the wheatlands of the West; indeed,
it is only by patient labor and stoic endurance that a competence can be
attained. Devine and his comrade knew this by stern experience, and,
half frozen as they were, they braced themselves for the effort of
reaching home. They must adapt their pace to the oxen's, and it was not
quick enough to keep them warm.
As they approached a bluff, Harding looked up.
"Somebody riding pretty fast!" he said.
A beat of hoofs, partly muffled by the snow, came down the bitter wind,
and a few moments later a horseman appeared from behind the trees. He
was indistinct in the gathering gloom, but seemed to be riding
furiously, and Harding drew the oxen out of the trail.
"One of the Allenwood boys. Young Mowbray, isn't it?" said Devine.
The next moment Lance Mowbray dashed past them, scattering the snow. The
horse was going at a frantic gallop, the rider's fur coat had blown
open, his arms were tense, and his hands clenched on the bridle. His
face was set, and he gazed fixedly ahead as if he did not see the men
and the sledge.
"It's that wild brute of a range horse," Harding remarked. "Nearly
bucked the boy off the last time he passed my place. Something in the
bluff must have scared him; he has the bit in his teeth."
"Looks like it," Devine agreed. "Young Mowbray can ride, but I'm
expecting trouble when he makes the timber."
They turned and stopped to watch, for the Allenwood trail ran down the
side of the ravine among the trees not far away. Horse and rider rapidly
grew indistinct and vanished over the edge of the hollow. Then there was
a dull thud and the beat of hoofs suddenly broke off. The deep silence
that followed was ominous.
"Throw the load off, and bring the oxen!" cried Harding as he started to
run along the trail.
He was breathless when he reached the edge of the declivity; but he saw
nothing when he looked down. A blurred network of trunks and branches
rose from the shadowy depths with a pale glimmer of snow beneath; that
was all, and there was no sound except the wail of the rising wind.
Plunging straight down through the timber, Harding made for a bend of
the trail where there was a precipitous bank, and on reaching it he saw
a big, dark object lying in the snow some distance beneath him. This
was the horse; its rider could not be far away. When he scrambled down
he found the boy lying limp and still, his fur cap fallen off and his
coat torn away from his body. His face looked very white, his eyes were
closed, and he did not answer when Harding spoke. Kneeling down, he saw
that the lad was alive but unconscious. Nothing could be done until
Devine arrived.
It was a relief when he heard the oxen stumbling through the brush.
Presently Devine came running up, and after a glance at the boy turned
and felt the horse.
"Stone dead! What's the matter with Mowbray?"
"Some ribs broken, I suspect," said Harding. "Bring the sled close up.
We've got to take him home."
They laid Lance on the jumper, and Harding stripped off his own skin
coat and wrapped it round the boy.
"The shock's perhaps the worst thing, and he feels cold."
Both had had some experience of accidents in a country where surgical
assistance could seldom be obtained, and Devine nodded agreement.
"Guess we'll have trouble in hauling up the grade and getting to
Allenwood before the blizzard, but we've got to make it."
The opposite slope was rough and steep, and the jumper too wide to pass
easily between the trees. They had to lift it, and help the oxen here
and there; but they struggled up and then found that their difficulties
were not over when they reached the open plain. The wind had risen while
they were in the hollow and was now blowing the dry snow about. It had
grown dark and the trail was faint.
"Might be wiser to take him to your homestead," Devine suggested; "but
they'll be able to look after him better at the Grange. Get a move on
the beasts, Craig; we've no time to lose."
Harding urged the oxen, which stepped out briskly with their lighter
load, but he had some difficulty in guiding them, though Devine went
ahead to keep the trail. It was impossible to see any distance, and
there was no landmark on the bare white level; the savage wind buffeted
their smarting faces and filled their eyes with snow. The cold struck
through Harding's unprotected body like a knife, but he went on
stubbornly, keeping his eyes on Devine's half-distinguishable figure. He
was sorry for the unconscious youngster, but he did not glance at him.
This was a time when pity was best expressed in action.
They had gone about two miles when the blizzard broke upon them in a
blinding cloud of snow and the cold suddenly increased. Though he wore a
thick jacket, Harding felt as if his flesh had changed to ice; his hands
were numb, and his feet seemed dead. He knew the risk he ran of being
crippled by frostbite; but to take his coat back might cost Lance his
life.
They had been struggling forward for a long time when Devine stopped and
came back.
"We've been off the trail for the last ten minutes," he said. "Guess
it's got snowed up."
It was a bald statement of an alarming situation. Their only guide had
failed them, and unless they could soon find shelter all must perish. It
might, perhaps, be possible to keep moving for another hour or two, and
then they would sink down, exhausted, to freeze. Yet, having faced
similar perils and escaped, they were not utterly dismayed.
"The long rise can't be very far off," Harding said hopefully. "If we
could make it, there's a little coulee running down the other side. Then
we ought to see the Grange lights when we strike the lake."
His voice was scarcely audible through the roar of the icy gale, but
Devine caught a word or two and understood.
"Then," he shouted back, "you want to keep the wind on your left cheek!"
It was the only guide to the direction of the blast, for the snow
whirled about them every way at once, and sight was useless amid the
blinding haze. Feeling, however, to some extent remained, and although
their faces were freezing into dangerous insensibility, so long as they
kept their course one side was still a little more painful than the
other. They struggled on, urging the jaded oxen, and dragging them by
their heads where the drifts were deep. The snow seemed to thicken as
they went. They could not see each other a yard or two apart, and the
power that kept them on their feet was dying out of them. Both had been
working hard since sunrise, and weary flesh and blood cannot long endure
a furious wind when the thermometer falls to forty or fifty below.
Nothing broke the surface of the plain except the blowing waves of snow
that swirled across their course and beat into their faces. It seemed
impossible that they could keep on. Hope had almost left them when
Devine suddenly called out:
"It's surely rising ground!"
Harding imagined by the oxen's slower pace, and his own labored
breathing, that his comrade was right, but the rise was gradual and
extensive. They might wander across it without coming near the lake; but
they could take no precautions and much must be left to chance.
"Get on!" he said curtly.
By the force of the wind which presently met them he thought they had
reached the summit. Somewhere near them a watercourse started and ran
down to the lake; but the men could not tell which way to turn, although
they knew that the decision would be momentous. One way led to shelter,
the other to death in the snowy wilds.
"Left and down!" Harding cried at a venture.
They trudged on, Devine a few paces in front picking out the trail, and
Harding urging forward the snow-blinded oxen. They had not gone more
than a few yards when Devine suddenly disappeared. There was a rush of
loosened snow apparently falling into a hollow, and then his voice rose,
hoarse but exultant.
"We've struck the coulee!"
He scrambled out and it was comparatively easy to follow the ravine
downhill; and soon after they left it the surface grew unusually level,
and no tufts of withered grass broke the snow.
"Looks like the lake," said Devine. "We'll be safe once we hit the other
side."
Harding was nearly frozen, and he began to despair of ever reaching the
Grange; but he roused himself from the lethargy into which he was
sinking when a faint yellow glimmer shone through the swirling snow. It
grew brighter, more lights appeared, and they toiled up to the front of
a building. With some trouble Devine found the door and knocked.
It was opened in a few moments by Gerald Mowbray, who stood looking out
in surprise.
Devine briefly explained.
"If it's likely to scare his mother, get her out of the way," he added.
"We have to bring him in at once. Send somebody for the oxen, and show
us where to go!"
"Wait a moment and I'll meet you," said Gerald, hastening into the
house.
When he disappeared, Devine turned to Harding.
"Get hold! You don't want to shake him, but the coats will keep him
pretty safe."
With some trouble they carried him in, passed through a vestibule, and
came with shuffling steps into a large hall. It was well lighted, and so
warm that Harding felt limp and dizzy from the sudden change of
temperature. His skin burned, the blood rushed to his head, and he
stopped for fear he should drop his burden. Gerald, it seemed, had not
had time to warn the people in the hall, and Beatrice rose with a
startled cry. One or two women sat with white faces, as if stupefied by
alarm, and two or three men got up hurriedly. Harding indistinctly
recognized Colonel Mowbray among them.
"Be quick! Get hold of him!" he called to the nearest.
He was replaced by two willing helpers, and, half dazed and not knowing
what to do, he slackly followed the others up the middle of the floor.
All who were not needed stood watching them, for they made a striking
group as they moved slowly forward, carrying what seemed to be a
shapeless bundle of snowy furs. Devine was white from head to foot, a
bulky figure in his shaggy coat and cap, though the bent forms of the
other men partly concealed him; Harding came alone, walking unsteadily,
with the snow falling off him in glistening powder, his face haggard,
and his frost-split lips covered with congealed blood.
As the little group passed on, following Gerald, Harding suddenly
reeled, and, clutching at the back of a chair, fell into it with a
crash. After that he was not sure of anything until some one brought him
a glass of wine, and soon afterward Devine came back with Gerald.
"My mother begs you will excuse her, but she'll thank you before you
go," he said. "The Colonel hopes to see you shortly, but he's busy with
Lance, and we're fortunate in having a man who should have been a
doctor. Now if you'll come with me, I'll give you a change of clothes.
Your oxen are in the stable."
"We can't stay," remonstrated Harding.
"It's impossible for you to go home."
"That's true," said Devine, touching Harding's arm. "Better get up,
Craig, before the snow melts on you."
Gerald gave them clothes, and then, saying that he was needed, left them
alone. After they had changed, Devine found his way to the stable to see
if the oxen were any the worse, and Harding went back to the hall. A
group of men and women were talking in low voices, but no one spoke to
him, and he sat down in a corner, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in
his borrowed garments. Evidently the Mowbrays had been entertaining some
of their neighbors who, to judge by scraps of conversation he overheard,
thought they would better take their leave but doubted if they could
reach home. Harding knew that he could not do so, but he felt averse to
accepting Mowbray's hospitality, and he feared that Hester would be
anxious about his safety.
He was still sitting in the corner when Beatrice came up to him.
"I'm afraid you have been neglected, but you can understand that we are
rather upset," she said.
"How is your brother?" Harding asked.
"Better than we thought at first. One of our friends has bandaged him.
There are two ribs broken, but he declares he now feels fairly
comfortable."
"I'm afraid he's exaggerating, but it's a good sign. Anyway, I'm glad to
hear he's conscious."
"He was conscious before you brought him home. He says he tried to speak
to you, but you didn't hear him."
"That's possible," Harding replied. "The trail wasn't very good--and we
were busy."
Beatrice gave him a strange look.
"So one would imagine! There was probably no trail at all. Two of our
friends who live half a mile off don't think they can get back. It's
fortunate for us that you and your partner had the strength and
courage----"
"What could we do?" Harding asked. "You wouldn't have expected us to
leave him in the bluff?"
Beatrice's eyes sparkled, and a flush of color crept into her face.
Harding thought she was wonderfully beautiful, and feared it was unwise
to look at her lest he should make a fool of himself.
"I can't say that I wouldn't have expected you to give him your coat;
but that was very fine of you," she said. "You must have known the risk
you took. When you came in you looked worse than he did."
It struck Harding as significant that she should have noticed his
appearance in the midst of her alarm; but it might not mean much, after
all. Women were often more observant than men.
"Then I ought to have been ashamed. It was the shock we were afraid of.
You see, after a bad accident there's often a collapse, and when one's
in that state even moderate cold is dangerous."
"How do you know these things?" Beatrice asked.
"When you live as we do, you learn something about accidents," he
answered.
Beatrice gave him a look that thrilled him.
"I promised Lance that I would not stay but a minute," she said; "but I
will send Mr. Kenwyne to look after you." She added in a lower voice: "I
have not attempted to thank you, but you must believe that we're very,
very grateful."
Harding's eyes followed her across the room and lingered on her when she
stopped a moment to speak with one of the neighbors. Kenwyne's voice at
his elbow roused him.
"Colonel Mowbray expects you to remain here, but on the whole I think
you'd better come with me," Kenwyne was saying. "They're naturally in
some confusion, and my farm isn't very far. I think my team can make
it."
Harding was glad to get away quietly, but he left a message that he
hoped to call in the morning for his oxen and for news of Lance.