The Rush of Doom
The gigantic mass of the Golden Horn was a deceptive monster. From
all quarters it formed an unerring guide to travellers on the trails.
Its towering peak when touched by the sun was the admiration of all
who beheld it. From a distance it often seemed like a fairy land,
especially when sun and wavering clouds became entangled in a mesh
of surpassing glory. But to veterans of the north, both Indians and
whites, it was a demon to be feared when the snows of numerous winter
storms lay thick upon its sides. Huge banks, steadily increasing,
would cling for weeks, and sometimes months, in deep crevices. When
at last the weight became so tremendous that the mass could hold no
longer, it would slip from its place with the roar of thunder, and
tear down the mountain side. At times it would start without any
apparent reason, even in the finest of weather, carrying destruction
to all before it. In former days the Indians looked upon the Golden
Horn as the special abode of the Great Spirit. When he smiled in the
glory of the sun-crowned summit they were happy, knowing that the god
was pleased. But when he raged in the furious tempests, and hurled
forth his avalanches of death-dealing snow, then he was angry, and
they offered to him gifts of meat, furs, and blankets. As a rule they
shunned in winter the mountain route between the Great River and The
Gap, preferring the longer way beyond the valley. But some hardy
souls, especially among the whites, made use of the dangerous trail,
and laughed at the fears of others.
The day of Marion’s confession in the little cabin the Golden Horn
never looked more beautiful or benign. It seemed to smile its
benediction on all sides, especially upon the lovers as they stood
before the cabin ready to depart for The Gap, whither they had decided
to go. All, excepting the sergeant, were rested, dinner had been eaten,
and the dogs harnessed, with Zell’s four added to the team. With Marion
on the sled surrounded by blankets, small bags of food, and a few
cooking utensils, the command “mush on” was given, the whip in North’s
hand snapped like a pistol shot, and they were off. How the dogs did
race over the snow. They seemed to be conscious of the burden they
bore, and the need for haste. Notwithstanding the sense of security
with the strong men following, Marion’s heart was heavy. She was ever
thinking of Zell, and her unbounded animation the day they had pulled
out from Big Chance. Where was the girl now? she wondered. Was she
lying somewhere upon the snow, silent in death? Perhaps she had fallen
among wolves, or worse still into the hands of Bill, the Slugger. The
sergeant had told her about that other camping-place he had found by
the side of the trail, which had not been there the evening she and
Zell passed that way. It could not have been made by her father, she
was certain, because his own little cabin was so near. No, some one
must have been following them, and had made off with the half-breed
girl.
North’s thoughts, too, were of a serious nature. He had many things
to think about since his conversation with Marion in the cabin. What
connection had her father with that murder? Why did he fear the Police
if he were innocent? But he had been fleeing from them for years, so it
seemed. And where was Bill, the Slugger? He strongly suspected him now
in connection with that murder. It was most likely that he would try to
escape by way of The Gap, for to try any other easterly route to reach
the outside in the winter time would be madness. It was important,
therefore, that he should reach The Gap ahead of the villain. And where
was the half-breed girl? He needed her, for she evidently knew a great
deal. Perhaps Bill would have her with him, and if so, he could take
both together. For the present he would abandon his pursuit of Hugo,
the trapper. He could get him later to tell what he knew after he had
rounded up Bill and the girl.
Steadily the dogs raced the low sun out of the heavens that short
winter afternoon. Twilight tarried for a space, and then night
enshrouded the land. And with the darkness came a halt, a camping-place
was selected, and preparations made for the night. Soon, in a snug
lean-to, Marion sat upon a robe spread over a bed of fir boughs. Rolfe
attended to the cooking of the supper, and ere long the appetizing odor
of frying moose-meat steak pervaded the air. He refused to allow Marion
to assist, contending that he was going to prove to her the falseness
of the sergeant’s charge.
“He says I can’t cook,” he remarked as he turned the meat in the
frying-pan. “But I’m going to let you judge for yourself, Miss
Brisbane. That will be the best answer I can make.”
“Oh, Tom is putting on his best frills now,” North retorted,
straightening himself from his work of building another lean-to on the
opposite side of the fire. “When he has a woman to cook for, he is
mighty particular.”
“It’s well that I am along, then,” Marion smilingly replied. “But you
don’t look starved,” she reminded, glancing admiringly at the stalwart,
handsome man before her.
When Rolfe had the meat browned to his satisfaction, the “sourdough”
potatoes fried, and the tea made, he called aloud, “Dinner all ready on
the dining-car. That’s what an Indian guide I once had always used to
say,” he explained. “If you can’t have certain things, it is often good
to imagine that you have them. That was the way with my Indian.”
After supper was over, the dogs were fed, and the constable gathered
a supply of wood for the night. Then around the bright fire the three
sat and talked for some time. It was not of the North they talked, but
of bygone days in their old homes. It was a comfort to turn for a time
from the cruel trail and the hardships of a desolate, snow-bound region
to other scenes, glorified and made beautiful by the sacred fire of
memory.
At length they slept, Marion in her little lean-to, and the men in the
other. Silence reigned over the land, broken only by the crackling of
the fire or the snapping of a frost-stung tree. The dogs made no sound
as they slept curled up close to the fire. Not a breath of wind stirred
the most sensitive topmost points of the firs and jack-pines. The sky
was cloudless, and the Northern Lights streamed and wavered in the
heavens. Above towered the Golden Horn, silent and unseen.
As the night wore on, the fire died down, until only a few glowing
ashes remained. Sergeant North stirred in his sleep and drew his
blanket closer around his body. Then he woke with a start, and sat bolt
upright. What was that peculiar sound away to the left? He listened
with straining ears, and in an instant he understood its meaning. It
was a snow-slide, sweeping down upon them with a roar of thunder! With
a yell that brought Rolfe to his feet, startled and dazed, North leaped
across the dying embers, caught Marion in his arms, sprang back again,
and staggered with his burden out upon the trail. No time had he to
explain to the frightened woman the meaning of his strange action, for
the roar of the onrushing avalanche was becoming louder every instant.
He could hear the great trees above him crashing before the weight of
the mighty demon. Could he escape with his precious burden? On and on
he sped, a wild desperation adding strength to his efforts. Then in
a twinkling he was hurled off his feet, and engulfed in a blinding,
smothering mass of whirling snow. Away he was carried, clutching
frantically the form in his arms. He was helpless to raise a hand of
defense. He felt like a man carried onward by a mighty current, now
sucking him down, then whirling him to the surface. The weight pressing
upon him was terrible. It was crushing the life out of him. At times he
could not breathe, and his brain reeled in his mad tumultuous rush. But
still he clutched Marion’s body, fearful lest she should be torn from
his arms. Then he felt a sudden freedom. The pressing weight relaxed,
and the invigorating air filled his lungs. One more blinding swish and
swirl, and he was hurled into something soft, where he lay half-dazed
and panting.
A low moan aroused him, and with an effort he struggled to his knees,
and groped around. His hands touched Marion’s body. He had not lost
her, but what had happened to her during that wild catapulting down the
hillside? Perhaps she was badly injured. Weak though he was, he caught
her in his arms, and lifted her partly from the snow which entangled
her.
“Marion! Marion! are you hurt?” he asked.
Receiving no reply, a great fear swept over him. Was she dead! He put
his ear close to her face and listened. She was breathing, but so low
that he could hardly detect it. Then he straightened up, and looked
anxiously around. What was he to do? How far had they been swept in
the wild rush? The moon had already risen, so he could dimly see the
great scar left by the snow-slide. It had plowed its way down through
the forest, and broken trees lined the path the monster had taken. He
shuddered as he thought of their narrow escape. But where was Rolfe?
Had he been carried down to destruction? The idea was terrible. But
he had no time now to spend upon vain lamentations. Marion needed
assistance, and at once. It was no use, he well knew, to go back to
the trail. Their camp had gone, so he might as well stay where he was.
Looking around, he saw several dead trees. From these he broke off a
number of dry branches, and brushing away the snow from the roots of a
big fir, he lighted a fire. Scraping back more snow, he cut some boughs
with his big pocket-knife, and then spread them near the cheerful
blaze. Here he carried Marion and laid her tenderly down. He could
see her face plainly now, and it was very white. How still she was!
Again he stooped and listened. Then he kissed her, calling to her, and
begging her to speak to him.
In a few minutes he had his reward, for with a weary sigh, Marion
opened her eyes and looked absently into his face.
“Marion! Marion!” he cried. “Don’t you know me? It is your own John.
Speak to me, and tell me if you are hurt.”
Slowly the girl’s senses returned. Seeing who it was bending over her,
a slight smile overspread her face, and her lips moved, although she
uttered no sound.
Leaving her, North piled more sticks upon the fire. He next cut down an
extra supply of boughs, with which he fashioned a cozy little lean-to
about his loved one. For a while she paid no heed to what he was doing.
Her eyes, however, followed his movements, and at last she called
faintly to him. With a bound the sergeant was at her side, kneeling
upon the robe and bending tenderly over her.
“Where am I?” Marion asked.
“Right here with me,” North replied. “You are safe.”
“What happened, John? I thought the world had come to an end.”
“It was a snow-slide. But we were wonderfully delivered, just how I do
not know now. Are you hurt, dear?”
“No, I guess not. I am only very weak. But where is the constable?”
Then seeing the anxious expression which swept over the sergeant’s
face, she quickly continued: “Oh, I know. He was carried away. Isn’t it
terrible!”
“It certainly is, Marion. I am afraid the poor fellow was swept down
in that wild rush. It was almost a miracle that we escaped as we did.
Another second and it would have been too late.”
For a few heart-beats there was silence, their minds filled with such
thoughts which only come to people who have stood face to face with
death.
“What are we to do, John?” Marion at length asked. “I suppose the dogs
were lost, too, as well as the camping outfit.”
“Everything is gone, no doubt,” was the quiet reply. “In all my
experience on the trails I have never run up against anything like
this. Snow-slides are common on the mountain side, but hitherto I have
always managed to escape them.”
“And to think that I should be with you, John, to add to your trouble.”
“Don’t, don’t say that, darling,” North pleaded, as he kissed her upon
the lips, and was pleased to see the color flood her cheeks. “You will
be a help to me instead of a hindrance. We shall get out of this, all
right.”
Notwithstanding the sergeant’s words of encouragement, he fully
realised the seriousness of their situation. Twenty miles from The
Gap, with no food and no dogs, and with a woman unaccustomed to the
trail made their plight appalling. How helpless they were, mere pigmies
in that vast wilderness of forest, snow, and stinging cold. Then, in
addition to all these, should a storm sweep upon them, their case would
be hopeless.