A BLIZZARD
A bitter wind searched the poplar bluff where George and his hired man,
Grierson, were cutting fuel. Except in the river valleys, trees of any
size are scarce on the prairie, but the slender trunks and leafless
branches were closely massed and afforded a little shelter. Outside on
the open waste, the cold was almost too severe to face, and George once
or twice glanced anxiously across the snowy levels, looking for some
sign of Edgar, who should have joined them with the team and sledge.
It was, however, difficult to see far, because a gray dimness narrowed
in the horizon. George stood, dressed in snow-flecked furs, in the
center of a little clearing strewn with rows of fallen trunks from
which he was hewing off the branches. The work was hard; his whole
body strained with each stroke of the heavy ax, but it failed to keep
him warm, and the wind was growing more bitter with the approach of
night.
"I don't know what can be keeping West," he said after a while. "We
haven't seen the mail-carrier either, and he's two hours late; but he
must have had a heavy trail all the way from the settlement. I expect
he'll cut out our place and make straight for Grant's. We'll have snow
before long."
There was an empty shack not far away where, by George's consent, the
mail-carrier left letters when bad weather made it desirable to shorten
his round.
Grierson nodded as he glanced about. The stretch of desolate white
prairie had contracted since he had last noticed it, the surrounding
dimness was creeping nearer in, and the ranks of poplar trunks were
losing their sharpness of form. Now that the men had ceased chopping,
they could hear the eerie moaning of the wind and the sharp patter of
icy snow-dust among the withered brush.
"It will take him all his time to fetch Grant's; I wish Mr. West would
come before it gets dark," Grierson said with a shiver, and fell to
work again.
Several minutes passed. George was thinking more about the
mail-carrier's movements than about Edgar's. The English letters
should have arrived, and he was anxiously wondering if there were any
for him. Then, as he stopped for breath, a dim moving blur grew out of
the prairie, and he flung down his ax.
"Here's West; we'll have light enough to put up the load," he said.
A little later Edgar led two powerful horses up the narrow trail, and
for a while the men worked hard, stacking the logs upon the sledge.
Then they set off at the best pace the team could make, and the cold
struck through them when they left the bluff.
"Stinging, isn't it?" Edgar remarked. "I couldn't get over earlier;
Flett turned up, half frozen, and he kept me. Seems to have some
business in this neighborhood, though he didn't say what it is."
George, walking through the snow to leeward of the loaded sledge, where
it was a little warmer, betrayed no interest in the news. Temperance
reform was languishing at Sage Butte and its leaders had received a
severe rebuff from the authorities. The police, who had arrested an
Indian suspected of conveying liquor to the reservation, had been no
more successful, for the man had been promptly acquitted. They had
afterward been kept busy investigating the matter of the shooting of
George's bull, which had recovered; but they had found no clue to the
offender, and nothing of importance had happened for some time.
It had grown dark and the wind was rapidly increasing. Powdery snow
drove along before it, obscuring the men's sight and lashing their
tingling faces. At times the icy white haze whirled about them so
thick that they could scarcely see the blurred dark shape of the
sledge, but as they had hauled a good many loads of stovewood home, the
trail was plainly marked. It would be difficult to lose it unless deep
snow fell. With lowered heads and fur caps pulled well down, they
plodded on, until at length George stopped where the shadowy mass of a
bluff loomed up close in front of them.
"I'll leave you here and make for the shack," he said. "I want to see
if there are any letters."
"It's far too risky," Edgar pointed out. "You'll get lost as soon as
you leave the beaten trail."
"I'll have the bluff for a guide, and it isn't far from the end of it
to the small ravine. After that I shouldn't have much trouble in
striking the fallow."
"It's doubtful," Edgar persisted. "Let the letters wait until
to-morrow."
"No," said George, resolutely. "I've waited a week already; the mail
is late. Besides, we'll have worse snow before morning."
Seeing that he had made up his mind, Edgar raised no more objections,
and in another few moments George disappeared into a haze of driving
snow. When he left the trail he found walking more difficult than he
had expected, but though it was hard to see beyond a few yards, he had
the bluff to guide him and he kept along the edge of it until the trees
vanished suddenly. Then he stopped, buffeted by the wind, to gather
breath and fix clearly in his mind the salient features of the open
space that he must cross.
If he could walk straight for half a mile, he would strike a small
hollow and by following it he would reach a tract of cultivated ground.
This, he thought, should be marked by the absence of the taller clumps
of grass and the short willow scrub which here and there broke through
the snow. There would then be a stretch of about two hundred acres to
cross before he found the little shack, whose owner had gone away to
work on the railroad during the winter. He expected to have some
trouble in reaching it, but he must get the letters, and he set off
again, breaking through the snow-crust in places, and trying to
estimate the time he took.
A quarter of an hour passed and, as there was no sign of the ravine, he
began to wonder whether he had deviated much from his chosen line. In
another few minutes he was getting anxious; and then suddenly he
plunged knee-deep into yielding snow. It got deeper at the next step
and he knew that he had reached the shallow depression, which had been
almost filled up by the drifts. He must cross it, and the effort this
entailed left him gasping when he stopped again on the farther side.
It was still possible to retrace his steps, because he could hardly
fail to strike the bluff he had left, but there was no doubt that to go
on would be perilous. If he missed the shack, he might wander about
the prairie until he sank down, exhausted; and after a day of fatiguing
labor he knew that he could not long face the wind and frost. There
was, however, every sign of a wild storm brewing; it might be several
days before he could secure the letters if he turned back, and such a
delay was not to be thought of.
He went on, following the ravine where he could trace its course, which
was not always possible, until he decided that he must have reached the
neighborhood of the farm. There was, however, nothing to indicate that
he had done so. He could see only a few yards; the snow had all been
smooth and unbroken near the hollow, he could distinguish no difference
between any one part of it and the rest; and he recognized the risk he
took when he turned his back on his last guide and struggled forward
into the waste.
Walking became more difficult, the wind was getting stronger, and there
was no sign of the shack. Perhaps he had gone too far to the south.
He inclined to the right, but that brought him to nothing that might
serve as a guide; there was only smooth snow and the white haze
whirling round him. He turned more to the right, growing desperately
afraid, stopped once or twice to ascertain by the way the snow drove
past whether he was wandering from his course, and plodded on again
savagely. At last something began to crackle beneath his feet.
Stooping down, he saw that it was stubble, and he became sensible of a
vast relief. He could not be more than a few minutes walk from the
shack.
It was only three or four yards off when he saw it, and on entering he
had difficulty in closing the rickety door. Then, when he had taken
off his heavy mittens, it cost him some trouble to find and strike a
match with his half-frozen hands. Holding up the light, he glanced
eagerly at a shelf and saw the two letters he had expected; there was
no mistaking the writing and the English stamps. He thrust them safely
into a pocket beneath his furs when the match went out and struck
another, for his next step required consideration.
The feeble radiance traveled round the little room, showing the rent,
board walls and the beams rough from the saw that supported the cedar
roofing shingles. A little snow had sifted in and lay on the floor;
there was a rusty stove at one end, but no lamp or fuel, and the hay
and blankets had been removed from the wooden bunk. Still, as George
was warmly clad and had space to move about, he could pass the night
there. The roar of the wind about the frail building rendered the
prospects of the return journey strongly discouraging. He might,
however, be detained all the next day by the snow; but what chiefly
urged him to face the risk of starting for the homestead was his
inability to read his letters. The sight of them had sent a thrill
through him, which had banished all sense of the stinging cold. He had
eagerly looked forward to a brief visit to the old country, and Sylvia
had, no doubt, bidden him come. It was delightful to picture her
welcome, and the evenings they would spend in Muriel Lansing's pretty
drawing-room while he told her what he had done and unfolded his plans
for the future. He could brook no avoidable delay in reading her
message, and, nerving himself for a struggle, he set out again.
The shack vanished the moment he left it. The snow was thicker; and,
floundering heavily through the storm, George had almost given up the
attempt to find the ravine, when he fell violently into a clearer part
of it. Then he gathered courage, for the bluff was large and would be
difficult to miss; but it did not appear when he expected it. He was
breathless, nearly blinded, and on the verge of exhaustion, when he
crashed into a dwarf birch and, looking up half dazed, saw an
indistinct mass of larger trees. He had now a guide, but it was hard
to follow, with his strength fast falling and the savage wind buffeting
him. He had stopped a moment, gasping, when something emerged from the
driving snow. It was moving; it looked like a team with a sledge or
wagon, and he thought that his companions had come in search of him.
He cried out, but there was no answer, and though he tried to run, the
beasts vanished as strangely as they had appeared.
They had, however, left their tracks, coming up from the south, where
the settlement lay, and this convinced him that they had not been
driven by Edgar or Grierson. He made an attempt to overtake them and,
falling, went on again, wondering a little who the strangers could be;
though this was not a matter of much consequence. If they had blankets
or driving-robes, they might pass the night without freezing in the
bluff, where there was fuel; but George was most clearly conscious of
the urgent need for his reaching the homestead before his strength gave
out.
At last he struck the beaten trail which had fortunately not yet been
drifted up, and after keeping to it for a while he saw a faint twinkle
of light in front of him. A voice answered his shout and when he
stopped, keeping on his feet with difficulty and utterly worn out, a
team came up, blurred and indistinct, out of the driving snow. After
that somebody seized him and pushed him toward an empty sledge.
"Get down out of the wind; here's the fur robe!" cried a voice he
recognized. "We came back as soon as we had thrown off the load."
George remembered very little about the remainder of the journey, but
at last the sledge stopped where a warm glow of light shone out into
the snow. Getting up with some trouble he reached the homestead door
and walked heavily into the room where he sank, gasping, into a chair.
He felt faint and dizzy, he could scarcely breathe; but those
sensations grew less troublesome as he recovered from the violent
change of temperature. Throwing off his furs, he noticed that Flett
sat smoking near the stove.
"Here's some coffee," said the constable. "It's pretty lucky Grierson
found you. I can't remember a worse night."
George drank the coffee. He still felt heavy and partly dazed; his
mind was lethargic, and his hands and feet tingled painfully with the
returning warmth. He knew that there was something he ought to tell
Flett, but it was a few minutes before he could think clearly.
"I met a team near the bluff and lost it again almost immediately," he
mumbled finally.
Flett's face became intent.
"Did the men who were with it see you? Which way were they going?"
"No," said George sleepily. "Anyway, though I called I didn't get an
answer. I think they were going west."
"And there's no homestead for several leagues, except Langside's shack.
They'll camp there sure."
"I don't see why they shouldn't," George remarked with languid
indifference.
"Hasn't it struck you why those fellows should be heading into waste
prairie on a night like this? Guess what they've got in the wagon's a
good enough reason. If the snow's not too bad, they'll pull out for
the Indian reservation soon as it's light to-morrow."
"You think they have liquor with them?" asked George.
Flett nodded and walked toward the door, and George felt the sudden
fall of temperature and heard the scream of the wind. In a minute or
two, however, the constable reappeared with Edgar.
"I'd get them sure; they're in the shack right now," Flett declared.
"You would never find it," Edgar remonstrated. "We had hard enough
work to strike the homestead, and we were on a beaten trail, which will
have drifted up since then. You'll have to drop the idea--it's quite
impossible."
"It's blamed hard luck," grumbled Flett. "I may trail the fellows, but
I certainly won't get them with the liquor right in the wagon, as it
will be now, and without something of that kind it's mighty hard to
secure a conviction. I've no use for the average jury; what we want is
power to drop on to a man without any fuss or fooling and fix him so he
won't make more trouble."
"It's fortunate you'll never get it," Edgar remarked. "I've a notion
it would be a dangerous thing to trust even a Northwest policeman with.
You're not all quite perfect yet."
Then George, recovering from his lethargy, remembered the letters and
eagerly opened the one from Sylvia. It consisted of a few sentences in
which she carelessly told him that if he came over he would not see
her, as she was going to Egypt with Herbert and Muriel. The hint of
regret that her journey could not be put off looked merely
conventional, but she said he might make his visit in the early summer,
as she would have returned by then.
George's face hardened as he read it, for the disappointment was
severe. He thought that Sylvia might have remembered that he could not
leave the farm after spring had begun. The man felt wounded and, for
once, inclined to bitterness. His optimistic faith, which idealized
its object, was bound to bring him suffering when dispelled by
disillusion; offering sincere homage to all that seemed most worthy, he
had not learned tolerance. Though his appreciation was quick and
generous, he must believe in what he admired, and it was, perhaps, a
misfortune that he was unable to recognize shortcomings with cynical
good-humor. He could distinguish white from black--the one stood for
spotless purity, the other was very dark indeed--but his somewhat
restricted vision took no account of the more common intermediate
shades.
For all that, he was incapable of seriously blaming Sylvia. Her letter
had hurt him, but he began to make excuses for her, and several that
seemed satisfactory presented themselves; then, feeling a little
comforted, he opened the letter from Herbert with some anxiety. When
he read it, he let it drop upon the table and set his lips tight. His
cousin informed him that it would be most injudicious to raise any
money just then by selling shares, as he had been requested to do.
Those he had bought on George's account had depreciated in an
unexpected manner and the markets were stagnant. George, he said, must
carry on his farming operations as economically as possible, until the
turn came.
"Bad news?" said Edgar sympathetically.
"Yes. I'll have to cut out several plans I'd made for spring; in fact,
I don't quite see how I'm to go on working on a profitable scale.
We'll have to do without the extra bunch of stock I was calculating on;
and I'm not sure I can experiment with that quick-ripening wheat.
There are a number of other things we'll have to dispense with."
"We'll pull through by some means," Edgar rejoined encouragingly, and
George got up.
"I feel rather worn out," he said. "I think I'll go to sleep."
He walked wearily from the room, crumpling up the letters he had risked
his life to secure.