The day was fair when Carson left Saguache with pretty Annie Amos
seated beside him in the sleigh. Although he had spent the night in
fearful anxiety, walking the streets, he now felt such a relief over
getting out of town, undiscovered by Mary Greenwater, that he was
bubbling over with high spirits. In the presence of Annie his better
nature stood outward and he even surprised himself with his quick
sallies of wit and repartee. Annie was charmed with his presence, and
as the two chatted gaily, they did not notice the lowering clouds
about the Spanish Peaks, until a strong wind began to raise and soon
one of those sudden storms so common to the region was coming in all
its fury. In a short while it became a raging blizzard. The snow
drifted in blinding swirls, so dense that the horse's head could not
be seen.
Carson had experienced the blizzard on the range and knew the only
safe course was to let the horse have the reins, and trust to its
animal instinct to find a shelter. He drew the robes securely about
Annie and endeavored to allay her fears, although conscious of the
peril they were in. The horse was plodding its way through the
snow-drifts and it was evident that the animal would soon become
exhausted. The blizzard might last all night, or it might continue for
three days. On those trackless wastes in such a storm death by
freezing was almost certain, unless they reached a place of shelter.
The hours dragged by. He kept up an incessant talking with Annie, lest
she should fall into the fatal sleep. The girl was quick to perceive
his tender care, and in full apprehension of their danger, felt a
growing confidence in the man beside her. She knew that he fully
realized their peril and admired him for his efforts to conceal his
fears from her.
It was growing darker and the horse was moving with feeble steps.
Carson was at the point of giving vent to his fears, when the animal
stopped. He left the sleigh, and upon going to the horse's head, found
they were beside a cabin. His heart gave a great leap of joy and he
called exultantly to Annie.
The cabin was deserted, but, praise Providence, it was shelter. The
door swung open on its hinges. There was a fireplace with some
half-burned logs in a heap of ashes. When Annie was securely inside,
he brought in the robes from the sleigh and next unhitched the horse
and brought the animal inside the cabin. This made Annie's heart leap
with joy; she had not considered how they would protect the horse, and
this humane act on the part of Carson gave her the most implicit
confidence in the man. There is nothing to fear from a man who is so
kind to animals, was her mental comment.
Soon there was a blazing fire on the hearth. Some poles were found by
the door. These Carson dug from the snow and brought inside. He had
no axe with which to cut them, and in the emergency, he laid the ends
together in the fire slantwise from the chimney, and as they burned
away, he shoved the logs forward. The wind screamed in wildest fury,
while the snow drifted in through the rough clapboard roof.
Until now no thought had been given to the lunch which Annie had
prepared for the trip. She brought it out from among the wraps and
when Carson gave the horse a buttered biscuit as his share of the
meal, she watched the act with a thrill of gladness. The blazing logs
gave warmth and light, and the man and woman sat and talked throughout
the long watches of the night, while the snow drifted and the wind
screamed and roared, making the loose clapboards of the roof creak and
groan.
There these two, thrown together by the reckless hand of fate, told
incidents of their lives and won the love and sympathy of each other.
A new song was born in Carson's breast. For a moment he seemed to
remember a former life; somewhere out in the wide, white waste and
hush of infinite space, where they had known each other and now their
souls imprisoned in forms of clay, they had met by chance and renewed
an old affinity.
As she told him the simple story of her life, he listened with
ever-increasing interest. An orphan at an early age, she had since
lived in the home of her Uncle Amos. Everything had gone well until
the last year, when her uncle brought Rayder to their home and
insisted that she should regard him as a suitor for her hand. Rayder,
old and grey, had dyed his whiskers and tried to appear boyish. His
intentions were well enough--he would give her all she would ask that
money could purchase--but she could not love the man and could never
think of becoming his wife. Amos, her uncle, was a man of avarice and
greed. He insisted that it was a duty she owed him for his fatherly
care in bringing her up. He dwelt on the advantages it would be to
him in his old age and that it would be only right for her to help him
in this way. He had appealed to her generous nature and sought to make
her believe this sacrifice on her part would be just and right. Amos'
wife had taken the same view of the matter and urged that the wedding
should be at an early date. Annie, alone in the world, had no one to
whom she could go for counsel. Some of the coarse women of the mining
camp who came to their home thought her the most fortunate of girls to
have a suitor as rich as Rayder, and ridiculed the idea of her
refusing to accept the greatest opportunity of her life. Some of their
husbands were rough, uncouth men, who cared nothing for the luxuries
of a home, spent most of their money and time drinking and gambling at
the Lone Tree, and they gauged conditions as they were with
themselves. They were honest-hearted women of the frontier who
believed they were doing the girl a kindness. It was not through
bravery that she was cool and collected, yesterday, in the presence
of death from the lions, she told him, but because she had almost made
up her mind that she did not care. Death had lost its terrors in the
contemplation of impending fate.
He did not tell her of the burden of his heart. He did not feel that
he dared to ask for sympathy. At that hour he would have given ten
years of his life to undo his marriage with Mary Greenwater by the
ancient custom of the Swiftest Horse. He knew the Indian woman and
knew that she intended to kill him and yet he felt helpless,
powerless. He did tell the girl beside him that he, too, was alone in
the world and hoped to merit the love of a good woman and that his
every act in life should go to prove his sincerity. And so, amid the
wild scenes of the night, they talked.
At noon the following day, the storm abated and when the flurries of
snow had ceased they saw the town of Del Norte well down on the
plain.
Annie was received at the home of her friends with delight and when
she told them of her recent adventures, they gave expression to
heartfelt joy for Annie's safety, and called Carson a hero.
Carson did not leave Del Norte for six weeks. Meanwhile, Annie visited
her friends. When the two were not together in the cozy parlor at
Annie's host's, Carson kept close in his room at the hotel. He wanted
to delay the meeting with Mary Greenwater as long as possible. If she
was only a man,--ah, that would be different! It would then be knife
to knife, or bullet to bullet--he would not shrink. But she was a
woman, an educated Indian woman upon whom society had some claim, and
she had some claim upon it.
Annie promised to become his wife and it was arranged that she should
return to her uncle's home, and as soon as he could arrange his
affairs at the mine they would go to an eastern state. He first
intended, however, to make a clean breast of the Mary Greenwater
affair, and trust his fate to her love for him.
When he reached the foot of the Sangre de Christo range, through the
great depths of snow, he saw the fearful havoc of the snow slide and
noted the slanting position of the edgewise cliff. Thinking it was of
but recent occurrence, he hurried to Saguache and gave the alarm that
two of his companions were buried beneath the mountain of snow.
In no place in the world does an appeal for help meet with a quicker
response than among the pioneers of the west. The news flew over the
town like wildfire that two miners were imprisoned in a snow slide. A
relief party was organized at once and Carson led them to the base of
the range.
Mary Greenwater saw Carson organizing the relief, she stood within a
few feet of him unobserved, and could have shot him, but she knew
better than shoot a man in the act of aiding the distressed. The crowd
would hang her, woman or no woman, and she knew it. Some other time
than this--she would wait.