IDA'S FIRST ASCENT
The party had spent another day or two beside the lake when, one
drowsy afternoon, Kinnaird, who sat on the hot, white shingle by the
water's edge, with a pair of glasses in his hand, sent for Weston.
Miss Kinnaird and Ida Stirling were seated among the boulders not far
away.
"I understand that the river bends around the range, and the crest of
the first rise seems no great height," he said. "There is evidently--a
bench I think you call it--before you come to the snow, and the ascent
should be practicable for a lady. Take these glasses and look at it."
Weston, who took the glasses, swept them along the hillside across the
lake. It rose very steeply from the water's edge, but the slope was
uniform, and as a good deal of it consisted apparently of
lightly-covered rock and gravel the pines were thinner, and there was
less undergrowth than usual. Far above him the smooth ascent broke off
abruptly, and, though he could not see beyond the edge, there
certainly appeared to be a plateau between it and the farther wall of
rock and snow.
"I think one could get up so far without very much trouble, sir," he
said.
"That," replied Kinnaird, "is how it strikes me. My daughter is rather
a good mountaineer, and Miss Stirling is just as anxious to make the
ascent. I may say that we have had some experience in Switzerland, not
to mention the hills among the English lakes. Do you know anything
about climbing?"
"No, sir," said Weston; "not as it is understood in Switzerland,
anyway. I don't suppose there's an ice-ax in the country, and I never
saw a party roped. Still, I have been up seven or eight thousand feet
several times."
"What were you doing?" asked Miss Kinnaird.
Weston saw the faint twinkle in Ida Stirling's eyes, and fancied that
he understood it. Very few of the inhabitants of that country climb
for pleasure, and it is difficult to obtain any of the regulation
mountaineering paraphernalia there; but when the wandering prospector
finds a snow-crested range in his way he usually scrambles over it and
carries his provisions and blankets along with him. The fact that
there are no routes mapped out, and no chalets or club shelters to
sleep in, does not trouble men of that kind.
"Once or twice we were on the gold trail," he said. "Another time I
packed for a couple of Englishmen who were looking for mountain
goats."
"Get any?" Kinnaird asked sharply.
"No, sir. We didn't even see one," said Weston; and again he noticed
Miss Stirling's smile.
"Well," said Kinnaird, "we are breaking camp tomorrow, and my idea is
that Mrs. Kinnaird should go on with the baggage in the canoes. The
rest of us will follow the bench, and after working around the head of
the big spur yonder come down again to the water by the other slope.
You are, of course, willing to make the ascent with us?"
"I am under your orders," said Weston. "Still, I shouldn't advise it."
"Why?"
It was rather difficult to answer. Weston could not tell the major
that he considered him a little too old for that work, or that he was
dubious about his daughter's stamina and courage. He had seen
self-confident strangers come down from those mountains dressed in
rags, with their boots torn off their bleeding feet. Besides, he felt
reasonably sure that, as he was not a professional guide, any advice
that he might feel it wise to offer would not be heeded.
"I have heard that there is thick timber on the other slope," he said.
"It's generally rather bad to get through."
Kinnaird, who never had been in really thick timber, dismissed the
matter with a smile.
"We will start at six to-morrow, and endeavor to get down to camp
again on the other side in the afternoon. You will arrange about
provisions."
Weston said that he would do so, but he was not exactly pleased when
he watched the major climb the hillside immediately behind them, with
his glasses, to plot out the route. It seemed very probable that once
he had fixed on one he would adhere to it at any cost, and, perhaps,
the more persistently if the course in question appeared inadvisable
to his companions. Weston did not pretend to be a great judge of
character, but Kinnaird, who, it seemed, had held command in India,
struck him as that kind of man. His wife was a little, placid lady,
whose bodily vigor and any resolution of character she might once have
possessed had apparently evaporated under the Indian sun, and, as far
as Weston had noticed, she invariably agreed with whatever was said.
When he waited on them at supper their talk was of the easier ascents
in Switzerland, and in the mountains of his own land, whose names rang
like music in his ears--the Striding Edge, the Great Gable Needle, and
Saddleback Crags. The Needle was certainly difficult to climb, but the
Striding Edge on a still day was a secure promenade compared with some
of the ledges along which he had seen western prospectors struggle
with a month's supplies.
Supper, which as usual was prepared about six o'clock, had been over
an hour or two, when, after waiting for an opportunity, he found Ida
alone beside the lake.
"Can't you persuade these people not to go, Miss Stirling?" he asked.
The girl smiled.
"No," she said, "I think you ought to recognize that."
"Then can't you make some excuse, for stopping behind with Mrs.
Kinnaird?"
"Why?"
Weston made a little gesture.
"It will probably be a tough climb. I'd rather you didn't go."
Dusk was creeping up the hillside, but there was still a little light
among the misty pines, and the girl flashed a quick glance at him. He
seemed diffident, but it was evident that he did not wish her to go,
and once more she felt that he aroused her curiosity.
"That," she observed, "is not exactly an answer. Why should I stay
below?"
Weston was relieved at this, for it seemed preferable to him that she
should be the one to raise the personal side of the question.
"Well," he said, "for one thing my employer is your father."
It occurred to the girl that the qualification might as well have been
left out. It was too suggestive, since it conveyed the impression that
the fact he had mentioned was not the only one that influenced him;
but she had noticed already that Weston was not a finished
diplomatist. She became more curious as to why he was especially
concerned about her safety, though, as a matter of fact, he could not
have told her, because he did not know.
"Major and Miss Kinnaird are his guests," she observed.
Weston recognized the reproof in this, and stood silent a moment or
two until she spoke again.
"Are you afraid my nerve may not prove equal to Miss Kinnaird's?" she
asked.
Weston smiled and answered without reflection.
"No," he said, "that certainly wasn't troubling me. When the pinch
comes you could be relied on."
He was conscious that he had gone too far, and, as often happens in
such cases, immediately went further.
"There is something about you that makes me sure of it."
"Well," said Ida, coldly, "it is very probable that the pinch won't
come at all."
She turned away and left him; and Weston frowned at the supper dishes
he had carried down to the lake.
"I dare say that looked very much like a gratuitous impertinence
from--the packer," he observed.
He awakened at four the next morning; and the mists were steaming
among the pines when the Indians ferried the party across the lake.
Then for a couple of hours they went up steadily, between apparently
endless ranks of climbing pines, with odd streams of loose gravel
sliding down beneath their feet. Kinnaird led the way; the girls came
behind him climbing well; and Weston brought up the rear with an ample
supply of provisions and a couple of big blankets strapped on his
shoulders. He explained that the blankets would do to sit on, but,
knowing a little about those mountains, he was somewhat dubious about
their getting down again that afternoon. The load was heavy, and by
and by his injured foot commenced to grow painful.
Then they left the last of the dwindling pines behind, and pushed on
along a slope that was strewn with shattered rock and debris which
made walking arduous. Then they reached a scarp of rock ground smooth
by the slipping down of melting snow, and when they had crossed that
their difficulties began. The scarp broke off on the verge of an
almost precipitous rift, and a torrent that seemed drawn out into
silk-like threads roared in the depths of it. A few pines were
sprinkled about the slopes of the gully, and one or two of them which
had fallen lay athwart the creek.
They stopped for a few minutes upon a dizzy ledge of rock, from which
they looked far down across battalions of somber trees upon the
gleaming lake below. Here Weston was guilty of an indiscretion. He
admitted afterward that he ought to have known that a man used to
command in India, who claimed some acquaintance with Alpine climbing,
was not likely to be advised by him.
"I believe we could get down, sir, and there are several logs across
the creek," he said. "We must get over it somehow, and the gully will
probably run into a canon lower down."
"That," remarked Kinnaird, dryly, "is perfectly evident. It is,
however, my intention to follow up the gully."
Weston was conscious that Ida Stirling was glancing at him, but his
face remained expressionless; and as he suggested nothing further,
they went on again. The mountain slope had been steadily growing
steeper beneath them, and they had not yet reached the bench. They
went up for another hour, and then came out upon the expected strip of
plateau in the midst of which the gully died out. The plateau,
however, lay on the northern side of a great peak, and was covered
with slushy snow. Kinnaird looked somewhat dubiously at the latter,
which seemed deep in the hollows.
"The snow will have gone once we get around the western shoulders," he
said. "It must be almost as near to get down from that side, and the
canoes will have gone on by now. Still, it's rather a long time since
breakfast."
He glanced at the girls, and appeared relieved when Ida said:
"I think we would better push on a little further before we stop for
lunch."
They plunged into a snow-drift to the knees, and when they had
floundered through it for thirty yards or so Weston sank suddenly well
over his waist. He flung himself forward, and with the help of
Kinnaird wriggled clear, but when they looked down there was empty
blackness beneath the hole he had made.
"It's a snow-bridge, I think, sir," he said. "The creek's running
under it. Anyway, I didn't touch anything solid with my feet."
Kinnaird's face grew graver.
"If you're right," he observed, "it would be wiser to work around."
They spent an hour doing it, and then, crossing knee-deep, they sat
down on a ledge of jutting rock while Weston laid out a simple meal.
It was very cold in the shadow of the peak, and a bitter wind that
seemed to be gathering strength whistled eerily about the desolation
of rock and snow. They were wet to the knees, and Weston fancied that
the girls' cheerfulness was a trifle forced. He was ready to admit
that he was somewhat stiff and weary, for he had carried the
provisions and the heavy blankets that the girls had now tucked round
them.
The latter commenced to flag when they started again; and, as it
happened, the strip of bench they followed rapidly narrowed in and
grew rougher until it became little more than a sloping ledge with the
hillside dropping almost sheer away from it. It was strewn with great
fragments that had fallen from the wall of rock above, and banks of
snow lay packed between them in the hollows. Every now and then one or
another of the party sank deep on stepping down from some ledge of
slippery stone. They were on the northern side of a spur of the higher
range, though they were approaching the angle where it broke off and
fell in a steep declivity facing west. This point they had to turn
before they reached the spot from which Kinnaird purposed descending
to the river. They made very slow progress, while the shadow of the
peaks grew blacker and longer across the hills. At length, when they
had almost reached the corner, Kinnaird stopped to consider, and the
girls sat down with evident alacrity. This time he looked at Weston,
and his manner implied that he was willing to consider any views that
he or the others might express.
"I'm afraid that I have been a little at fault," he admitted. "In
fact, I quite expected that we would be down again by this time. It is
now well on in the afternoon, and, as we have probably covered about
two-thirds of the distance, it would not be advisable to go back as we
came up."
"That," said Arabella Kinnaird decisively, "is unthinkable."
She turned to Weston, who nodded.
"Anyway, the canoes have gone on, which means that there would be
nothing to eat until we came up with them," he said. "It must be eight
or nine miles, by water, from our last camp to where they are to wait
for us, and the ladies couldn't go so far through the thick timber in
the valley."
Kinnaird looked beneath him.
"Well, I don't think anybody could get straight down from here," he
said.
It was clearly beyond the power of those who were with him, as they
quite realized. A few yards away, the hillside fell almost
precipitously for perhaps a thousand feet to the tops of the pines
below. Part of it was smooth rock, but long banks of gravel lay
resting in the hollows at so steep a slope that it was evident that a
footstep would be sufficient to dislodge them. Indeed, without that,
every now and then some of them broke away and plunged down into the
valley. Close behind the party a wall of crags rose sheer for a
hundred feet at least. Kinnaird glanced up at them with a frown.
"I fancy we should find another level strip above," he said; "but
since we can't get up the only thing to do is to push on. From what I
saw through my glasses when I went up the lake, there is certainly an
easier slope once we get around the corner."
They went on, wearily, with the wall of rock creeping out nearer and
nearer to the edge of the declivity, and it became quite clear to
Weston that the girls' strength was rapidly failing. Still, he quietly
urged them on, for it was now becoming a somewhat momentous question
whether they could get down before darkness fell; and as a rule the
white mists settle heavily upon those ranges with the dusk. Then the
margin between rock and declivity almost disappeared, and Weston,
looking down on the somber tree-tops, felt reasonably certain that
there was now another wall of crags between the foot of the slope and
them.
"I suppose you are quite sure, sir, that the face of the hill is less
steep around the corner in front of us?" he asked.
"I am," replied Kinnaird. "I traced out the route with my glasses from
the head of the lake. Where I was wrong was in not heading for higher
level. The bench I intended to follow is clearly above us."
Weston glanced at Ida, and noticed that her face was very weary and a
trifle gray, but she smiled at him reassuringly; and they floundered
on until the wall of rock pushed them right out to the edge of the
declivity. They clung to it here and there with their hands while they
felt for a foothold among the banks of gravel. Suddenly, Ida slipped
and clutched at Weston. Her hand fell upon the package of provisions
that he had slung behind his shoulders with a strip of deerhide, and,
for she was of full stature and not particularly slender, it broke
away. Then there was a roar of sliding stones, and Weston, dropping on
his knees, flung an arm about the girl. She fell as he did it, and
they slid down together a yard or so before he drove one foot deep
into the gravel and brought himself up. Then he risked a glance at
her.
"Don't look down!" he commanded sharply.
Her face was set and white, but she met his gaze, and in her eyes
there was something that suggested confidence in him. He felt that he
could be sure of her nerve, but whether her strength or his would
suffice for the scramble back was another matter, and he was horribly
afraid. Kinnaird, lying flat down, held out his hand, and in a moment
or two Weston and the girl stood with the others close beneath the
rock. He did not know how they got there. He was quivering all
through, and the perspiration of tense effort dripped from him. While
he stood there gasping, the packet of provisions, which had apparently
rested for a few moments among the gravel dislodged by his efforts to
climb up, rolled down the slope, and he watched it rush downward until
he turned his eyes away. It was too horribly suggestive; but his gaze
was drawn back again against his will, and he saw the package vanish
suddenly. That made it quite clear that the slope ended in another
wall of crags.
He did not remember whether Ida or the others said anything to him;
but they crept on again, almost immediately, clinging to the rock, and
scarcely venturing to glance down at the climbing forest which now
appeared to lie straight beneath them but very far away. A cold wind
stung their faces, the rocks above rose higher, but there was, at
least, no snow beneath their feet, and they moved on yard by yard,
scarcely daring to breathe at times, until at length Kinnaird cried
out in a voice that was hoarse with exultation:
"We are over the worst!"
Then Weston gasped with sincere relief, for it was clear that they had
crept around the perilous corner. The wall of rock receded, and the
slope became less steep in front of them. It was, however, strewn with
massy fragments and debris carried down by the snow, and the sun that
flung a warm light upon it hung just clear of the peaks across the
valley. There was no doubt that his companions were worn out, and he
fancied that the girls could scarcely drag themselves along, but they
had now no provisions and it was clearly advisable to get down, at
least as far as the timber, where one could make a fire, before
darkness fell; and they pushed on. Arabella Kinnaird, scrambling over
a pile of ragged stones, came down heavily. She cried out as she did
so, and then rising with some difficulty, immediately sat down again
with her face awry.
"It's my knee," she said faintly.
Kinnaird scrambled toward her, but she waved him back.
"Go on with the packer," she said.
Kinnaird and Weston proceeded a little farther down the slope, which
was practicable, though very steep; and when Ida called them back,
Arabella smiled ruefully.
"It's horribly bruised, and I'm afraid I've twisted a ligament or
something of that kind," she said. "At least, I can't put any weight
on it."
There was an expressive silence for the next few moments, and Kinnaird
gazed down into the valley with consternation in his eyes. The sun had
dipped behind the peaks by this time, and the great hollow was growing
dim and hazy. The river was blotted out, and even the climbing forest
seemed indistinct.
"Could you get along on my arm?" he asked.
"No," said Arabella sharply, "I don't think I could put my foot on the
ground."
Weston said nothing, though he realized that the situation was
becoming serious. They had had no more than one hasty meal since early
morning, and they were worn out. It was also, as he knew, very cold up
on the hills at night. While he considered the matter, Kinnaird
stretched out a pointing hand.
"Look!" he said.
A trail of filmy vapor crawled out athwart the lower pines and covered
them as it rolled rapidly upward. While they watched it the depths of
the valley were filled and became a dim white plain that extended its
borders as it ascended. Long billows of vapor rolled out from its
edges and slid up the hollows, blotting out the somber ranks of
climbing pines one by one until all had gone and rock scarp and rugged
peak rose isolated from a vast sweep of mist. It crawled up the slope
where they sat, and then stopped and came no higher, leaving the
rampart of rock and snow behind them to glimmer coldly blue and gray
against the clear green radiance of the evening sky. Kinnaird looked
at Weston as if willing to entertain any suggestion.
"It's clear that we can't get down," he said.
Weston nodded.
"I fancy that I could reach the timber, sir," he said. "I'll bring up
a load of branches to make a fire."
He loosed the blankets from his shoulders, and floundering down the
slope was lost in the vapor.