A NEW CAMP
THE disappearance of the snow-shoes, instead of proving to Ross that he
had been hoaxed, at first, only deepened his bewilderment. Finally,
the idea found lodgment in his brain that Miller's partner had wandered
off in the storm delirious, and Miller, having found him gone, had
followed, forgetting Ross. The boy was too confused to weigh the
probabilities of such forgetfulness, especially in view of the missing
snow-shoes. Therefore, the moment the idea occurred to him he acted
on it, hurrying out into the storm with the intention of going to
Miller's assistance.
But, without snow-shoes, he found himself helpless. He had not gone a
dozen yards from the door before he sank half-way to his waist in the
snow. Scrambling hastily back again, he ran around the cabin where the
snow was not so deep, and struggled up the mountainside.
"Miller!" he shouted desperately. "Miller, where are you?"
Here and there among the trees he plunged frantically until the fear that
he could not find his way to the shack drove him back.
He filled the stove with wood, snuffed the candle mechanically, and
looked about him. Then for the first time he realized that there was
but one bunk.
"If two men lived here, there would be two bunks," he said slowly;
and then came the conviction that Miller had decoyed him here and
deserted him, taking the snow-shoes along. But Ross's brain was too
numb to pursue the thought. Exhausted by his long tramp and by his
fruitless battle with the snow, he filled the stove with chunks, closed
the draughts, and, without stopping to blow out the candle, rolled
into the bunk, and was asleep before he had pulled all the blankets
over him.
When he awoke, the shack was filled with a light, which, although
exceedingly dim, was unmistakably daylight. Outside, the snow was piled
to the top of the window. The candle was burned out and the fire low.
Ross crawled out stiffly, every muscle aching and sore. Filling the
stove, he looked at his watch. Twelve o'clock! He had slept away the
morning.
Outside the blizzard raged in unabated fury, but so sheltered was the
shack by scrub hemlocks and banks of snow roof-high, that but little wind
found its way through the mud-chinked log walls.
Standing over the fire, Ross looked at the dark outlines of the one bunk,
and considered his situation. His heart sank when he thought of the miles
which Miller and he had put between themselves and Meadow Creek Valley.
And who was Miller?
Ross's suspicions, of course, had fastened to the McKenzies. But why
had they considered it necessary to have him marooned so far from Meadow
Creek? How did they know that the dynamite had been found? When they left
Meadow Creek----
"Oh!" cried Ross aloud at this point. He brought the stove poker down
vigorously on top of the stove. "That blast under Soapweed Ledge! I
wanted 'em to hear it--guess they didn't fail!" Ruefully he turned
from the stove. He was certainly paying for his little triumph.
But who was Miller?
The lack of wood in the cabin soon turned his attention from the
answer to the necessity for immediate action. He found a large wooden
snow-shovel behind the stove; and, opening the door cautiously in
order to prevent a mass of snow from following it, he cleared away a
space in front of the door and the two windows, and shoveled his way to
the wood-pile.
It was not until he was struggling around the corner of the shack with
an armful of wood that he realized that his weakness and tremors were
due not only to anxiety, but to hunger; and with that realization came
a fear which nearly induced another panic. Was there food in the cabin?
So great had been his absorption that he had not noticed the contents of
the shack beyond those things which he had required for immediate use.
Throwing the armful of wood down beside the stove, he proceeded to
make a hurried search, the results of which quieted his fears. The
cabin was as well stocked with provisions as Weimer's. A portion of
these supplies, the canned milk, vegetables, and fruits, he found in
boxes beneath the bunk. Sacks of flour and meal were suspended from
the roof logs to protect them from the "pack" rats. Having investigated
these provisions, Ross opened a second door at the back of the shack,
supposing it led out-of-doors. But he was agreeably surprised to find
it led to a little lean-to of logs, where were suspended a large ham,
strips of bacon, jerked meat, and quantities of fresh venison all frozen.
The door protected these from the heat inside the shack, while the
logs, unchinked, gave protection from timber wolves and coyotes, but
not from the snow, which had sifted in over everything.
Ross at once set about getting breakfast. He found every necessary
cooking utensil at hand. The cabin was--as such cabins go--completely
furnished and, it appeared, must have been inhabited not long ago by a
stout man; for in a box at the head of the bunk he found some clothing
much too large for him or for the man who had brought him there.
"But," he thought, as he sat down to venison steak and flapjacks,
"whoever owns the cabin, Miller must have gone from here to Meadow Creek,
because there was a fire here last night when I came in; and it was
a fire fixed to keep some hours, too."
As he finished eating, his eyes fell on the game pouch still bulging
beside the door. He had not looked inside. With a piece of steak balanced
on his fork he crossed the floor. Then:
"Books!" he cried aloud. "_My_ books!"
The fork fell from his hand. He dropped to his knees and emptied the
pouch. Besides the appliances which he had given to Miller to carry
there were all his books, the medical text-books which he had left in
the emergency chest in Weimer's shack. He could scarcely believe his
eyes. He sat back on his heels, and stared.
"Weston!" he finally shouted. "Miller is Weston!"
Suddenly rising, his eyes narrowed and his lips compressed, he kicked
the game pouch across the floor in a gust of anger caused by an
illumination of certain circumstances which explained the events of the
previous day.
"I'm slow," he muttered between clinched teeth. "Any one can get the
better of me."
He recalled Weston's imitation of different people the night he and
Waymart had come to Weimer's together and Sandy's displeasure at
the exhibition. Sitting down in an armchair beside the table--the only
chair in the shack--he followed his chain of evidence link by link. The
conversation which he had overheard between Waymart and Sandy the night
of the latter's return from Cody was fully explained--the some one whose
assistance they might need in Meadow Creek Valley, but who would not
come unless some one else had left.
"Weston would not come with Leslie there for fear he'd be recognized,"
thought Ross. "Therefore, Sandy took steps to remove Leslie and--yes--in
spite of the mess I made of it, I blocked the game!"
Then, despite his anxiety, Ross grinned. Of course the McKenzies had
not expected Leslie to return any more than they had expected the
dynamite to be found. But after hearing his signal of discovery they
had sent Weston, the skilful impersonator, to maroon him here--where?
Ross dropped forward his head on the table and groaned.
"They brought me here to get rid of me entirely," he finished; "and I
came voluntarily!"
Presently he picked up the pouch, intending to hang it on a nail in the
logs beside the door. It was not quite empty; and, lifting the flap he
looked in. At the bottom lay a few wads of newspaper. Ross concluded
that the pouch had been stuffed with these when Weston came to Weimer's.
Then, when he went back after the books, he had thrown out the paper,
the presence of which had prevented his companion from noticing much
difference in the pouch after the books were put into it. Ross picked
up one of the pieces, and glanced at it listlessly. It was a page of the
Cody "Gazette." He dropped it back into the pouch.
"I wonder what he told Uncle Jake and Leslie when he got the books,"
thought Ross, hanging up the bag.
Leslie was the only comfort the situation held for him, and this merely
came from the knowledge that Weimer was not alone. For, of course, Weston
having seen the boy in Meadow Creek would return and block the work
somehow, probably steal the dynamite again, and convey it farther than
the tool house.
Here Ross started up in a sort of frenzy, and, putting on his top-coat
and cap, rushed out-of-doors. He would find a way out. There must be a
way, for Miller had gone back--Ross felt sure he had returned--and if
Miller had he could! He would save the claims yet. The first plunge into
the snow, waist-deep now, with the whip-lash of the blizzard in his face,
brought him to his senses.
"This is folly," he thought as he dropped once more into the chair beside
the table, "when I have no idea where I am."
But, even if he did know, his snow-shoes were gone; and without them he
could not safely venture--nor with them, either, he decided, recalling
with a sick shudder the snow-filled ravines against which Miller had
warned him--_Miller_, indeed!
His bitterness came back with a rush. After all he had done for Weston
this was the final reward. Weston had shaved his beard, recolored his
hair and the fringe of whiskers left beneath his chin, covered his deep
brown eyes with goggles, and brought his benefactor of Dry Creek here to
spend months in this deadly loneliness! That was the thanks he gave "Doc
Tenderfoot" for saving his life.
That night the storm ceased and a warm wind arose. The next morning
Ross again shoveled out the doorway, window, and wood-pile. The sky was
clear, but the sun did not swing over the towering peak which rose
almost perpendicular, opposite the cabin, until ten o'clock. But, when
it did show its face, it looked down on a bewildering mass of snow.
Ross gazed longingly down the canon, which wound like a serpent between
the overhanging mountains. Down there not half a mile away a ledge
ran diagonally across the face of a cliff; and Ross felt impelled to
go to the foot of that cliff, and find out whether or not the rope
still dangled from its summit. But well he knew that even so short a
journey would be impossible without the aid of snow-shoes. However,
if the warm wind continued and the sky remained unclouded, perhaps in a
day or two there would be a crust on the snow of sufficient strength to
bear his weight. Then he would investigate.
Meanwhile he tried to force himself calmly to the business of living
and planning. He was there. So far as he could see there was no escape.
He would make the best and the most of the months of his banishment.
When he arrived at this conclusion, he found himself relenting a trifle
toward Weston on account of the books. It had been no light load to pack
across the mountains on a tramp which had lasted many hours.
"Perhaps Weston has a piece of heart, after all," Ross mused the
following morning, "but so thoroughly is he under Sandy's control
that he dare not show it."
Before him on the table lay Piersol's "Histology," although he was
totally unable to focus his scattered thoughts on the contents. He was
anxiously watching the weather. The warm wind had continued, but the
sky was lowering. Another storm was brewing. Finally Ross left Piersol
and going to the door, looked out anxiously over the canon.
"The snow is settling finely," he decided, "and if the cold comes before
the storm the crust will hold me up."
He went back to the armchair and began drumming nervously on the arms. He
wondered how it had chanced to be packed so far over the narrow trails.
A chair, a "store chair," that is, was an uncommon sight among the
mountains. From which point had it been brought, Cody or Red Lodge? The
latter, he knew, was more than one hundred miles from the Shoshones,
while Cody was but eighty.
However, nearness depended not so much on miles as on accessibility, and
for the thousandth time Ross wondered where he was.
He could not reason from the memory of the tortuous windings of that
stormy afternoon's journey, with no view of the sun's face to guide
him; but his strong impression was that he was many miles northwest of
Meadow Creek, with at least three chains of peaks between him and Weimer.
Then he fell to wondering again about the shack. Did it belong to one
of the McKenzie relatives? Who had given it over to his use for the
winter? He suspected that, while the furnishings and the clothing had
been left there by the owner, the McKenzies had planned for his winter's
residence, and had partially, at least, stocked his larder, as the owner
would not be likely to desert such a supply of meat, especially the
fresh venison. Perhaps the venison was due to Weston's forethought.
Ross liked to think that Weston had done all that he dared do for the
comfort of "Doc Tenderfoot."
"He's a bigger man," mused "Doc"; "and yet he seems more than half
afraid of Sandy. Wonder what the trouble is."
That night the wind changed, the temperature dropped, and the next
morning snow began to fall, lightly, however. Again and again Ross
went out for trial trips on the fast freezing crust, but not until
afternoon did he venture on the journey to the cliff.
The shack stood among the trees on the mountainside about ten feet above
the level of the canon. Taking with him a long pole with a sharpened
end, which he found in the shack, Ross slid from tree to tree until he
gained the level of the canon. Then, hugging the foot of the mountain
closely, that he might judge of the lay of the land by the trees, and so
avoid the dreaded creeks and gorges, he turned down the canon toward
the cliff.
It was difficult walking, the crust being smooth and slippery. Several
times one foot broke through, and each time Ross's heart seemed to
rise in his throat when he considered that he was walking on a body of
snow deeper than he was high. The canon had no distinguishing features.
It might have been any one of a dozen located among the Shoshones, and
all of them unfamiliar to the young man lost in their midst. On either
side, the mountains, dreary and lonely and lifeless, arose precipitately.
It was windless in the canon, but on top of the mountains a white, cold
cloud of snow played perpetually.
But Ross's eyes were eagerly searching the mountain at the left for
the cliff; and presently he recognized it despite the curtain of snow
drifting across its face. There it was, stretching up until his neck
ached in the effort to scan the top, where in an unbroken line along
the edge hung a great body of snow, the undisturbed accumulations of the
last blizzard. The steep side of the cliff, however, was bare, and Ross
failed to discover a rope dangling over its surface.
[Illustration: THE SNOW HID IT FROM VIEW]
He thought he had not expected to see it there, and so could not account
for the sinking of his heart when he found it gone. For a few moments he
stood looking down the canon hemmed in by its great mountain barriers.
He fully realized the fact that he was a prisoner within those barriers,
perfectly helpless until released by the brief summer.
With bent head he turned his back to the cliff and cautiously retraced
his steps while a wildly whirling "squall" suddenly caught him in its
clutches. He had gone but a short distance before a sound in the rear
caused him to wheel about and listen sharply. Only a smother of snow,
swirling up the canon, met his eyes and a blast of the rising wind his
ears. Hesitating, he struggled back a few steps and turned his face
up toward the cliff. The snow hid it from view. He stood listening
again, and, presently, the sound, above him and a little in advance,
again mingled with the roar of the wind. Ross broke into a run, panting
through the storm, breaking through the crust, struggling to his feet
and tumbling on again. It was certainly the call of a human voice,
although no words were distinguishable because of the noise of the wind.
Ross, obsessed by one idea, raised his voice: "Miller--Weston!" he yelled
frantically. "I'm here--below here! Where are you?"
But the wind swooped down on him, seized his words and bore them down
the canon. Then it suddenly died away, and again the snow fell quietly,
mistily, and Ross, looking up, saw, as in a nightmare, a rope dangling
across the face of the cliff. In bewildered joyousness he pressed his
hand against his eyes and looked again.
"It's there!" he cried, "but it certainly wasn't ten minutes ago.
That's the queerest--I know I saw straight before----"
He opened his lips to call again, but the call was checked by the
discovery of a man half-way down the cliff, creeping along on what
looked to be a thread of snow fastened diagonally across the dark
surface of the rock, but which Ross at once recognized as the narrow
ledge he himself had trod only three days before. Slowly the figure
was progressing, its feet kicking away the snow lodged on the ledge, its
hands clinging to the bare face of the cliff. Then, faintly into the lull
of the storm a nervous voice floated down to Ross from the thread-like
path.
"I'm almost down, I guess, Miller. Hope I can get to the cabin before
another squall strikes us."
Then, from the top of the cliff, the barely distinguishable words
behind the veil of falling snow, "All right. Remember you'll find Doc
not half a mile straight ahead. The cabin's on the right, as I've
told ye. It's above a bunch of seven spruces. Ye won't need yer
snow-shoes--crust'll hold down there."
Ross waited to hear no more. "Leslie!" he yelled joyously. "Ho, Leslie!
I'm down here. Come on! Hurray for that rope again!"
But even as the hurray ascended the side of the cliff, so did the rope.
Snakily, jerkily, the knotted end traveled upward until it disappeared
in the cloud of snow that hid the mountain tops.
From this cloud came a faint and far-away voice: "Good luck t' ye! Tell
Doc ye're in the same boat as he is. He'll savvy!"