THE PASSAGE OF THE MOUNTAINS
Kermode had been gone a fortnight when Prescott reached the camp and
heard from Ferguson and others of his latest exploit. He smiled as he
listened to their stories, but that he should find people willing to talk
about the man did not surprise him. Kermode was not likely to pass
unnoticed: his talents were of a kind that seized attention. Where he
went there was laughter and sometimes strife; he had a trick of winning
warm attachment, and even where his departure was not regretted he was
remembered.
Ferguson insisted on taking Prescott in, for his comrade's sake, and late
one evening he sat talking with him beside the stove. His house was
rudely put together, shingle-roofed and walled with shiplap boards that
gave out strong resinous odors. The joints were not tight and stinging
draughts crept in. Deep snow lay about the camp and the frost was keen.
"I can't venture to predict Kermode's movements," said the clergyman. "It
was his intention to make for a camp half-way to the coast, but he may
change his mind long before he gets there."
"Yes," Prescott replied; "that's the kind of man he is."
Ferguson smiled.
"You and Kermode strike me as differing in many ways; yet you seem
strongly attached to him."
"That's true," Prescott assented. "I can't see that I owe him anything,
and he once led me into a piece of foolishness that nobody but himself
could have thought of. I knew the thing was crazy, but I did it when he
urged me, and I've regretted it ever since. Still, when I meet the fellow
I expect I shan't have a word of blame for him."
"He's a man I had a strong liking for, though on many matters our points
of view were opposite. However, I dare say it's something to be thankful
for that we're not all made alike."
"Kermode's unique," Prescott explained. "I'm of the plodding kind and I
find that consequences catch me up. Kermode's different: he plunges into
recklessness and the penalty falls on somebody else."
"You don't mean by his connivance?"
"Never! It's the last thing I meant. Kermode never shirks. Bring a thing
home to him and he'll face it, but somehow he generally escapes. There's
the matter I mentioned--he and I played a fool trick, and while he
rambles about the country, flinging a foreman down an embankment,
assisting a lady in distress, posing as a temperance reformer, in his
usual inconsequent way, I'm deep in trouble, and so are other people who
don't deserve it. So far I've always reached the scene of his latest
exploit soon after he had left; but the man must be found."
Ferguson laughed.
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Follow him to the Pacific, if necessary. As the country isn't opened up,
he can't get off the line."
"I'm afraid you're going to have a very rough journey. The track's
surveyed and blazed; they're working at it in sections, but there are big
gaps where nothing has been done yet, and they have been withdrawing a
large number of men. Crossing the mountains is a tough proposition in the
winter."
"Kermode didn't seem afraid of it."
"He started two weeks ago, when there had been less snow. You'll find it
difficult to get through the passes now."
"Anyway," declared Prescott, "I have to get through."
Ferguson pondered the simple answer. It was, he thought, typical of the
man, and the contrast between him and his friend became more forcible.
Kermode exercised a curious charm. His gay, careless nature made him
excellent company, and he had a strain of somewhat eccentric genius; but
he was irresponsible and erratic, one could not depend on him. The
Canadian was of different temperament: slower, less subject to impulse,
but more stubborn and more consistent. When dealing with him one would
know what to expect. He would reason out a purpose and then unwaveringly
adhere to it.
"Well," the clergyman said, "you may have to cross a big province; and
though it's warmer as you get down to the coast, the weather's often
nearly arctic among the ranges, while it's only here and there that
you'll have a chance to find shelter. It's a trip that's not to be
undertaken rashly. You'll need a fur coat, among other things, and I
think I can get you one. You had better take a couple of days' rest so as
to start fresh. And now it's time for bed."
Prescott spent the next day with him and left the camp at daybreak on the
second morning. He wore a long coat, from which the fur had peeled in
patches, and carried a heavy pack besides a small ax. His boots were
dilapidated, but he had been unable to replace them. There was sharp
frost and when he boarded a construction train he looked back at the camp
with keen regret; he shrank from the grim wilds ahead. A haze of smoke
hung over the clustering shacks, lights still blinked among them, and
already the nipping air was filled with sounds of activity. Then the
locomotive shrieked and he turned his face toward the lonely white hills
as the cars moved forward with a jerk. It was bitterly cold, though he
lay down out of the wind behind the load of rails, where hot cinders
rattled about him and now and then stung his face.
At noon the train stopped. Alighting with cramped limbs, Prescott saw
that the rails went no farther. A few shacks stood forlornly upon the
hillside, a frozen river wound like a white riband through the gorge
beneath, and ahead lay a sharply rising waste of rock and snow. His path
led across it, and after a word or two with the men on the line he began
his journey, breaking through the thin, frozen crust. The sounds behind
him grew fainter and ceased; the trail of dingy smoke which had followed
him melted away, and he was alone in the wilderness. His course was
marked, however, by a pile of stones here, a blazed tree there, and he
plodded on all day. When night came he found a hollow free from snow
beneath a clump of juniper, and lay awake, shivering under his blankets.
White peaks and snow-fields were wrapped in deathly silence: there was
not even the howl of a prowling wolf or the splash of falling water.
Rising at dawn, almost too cold to move, he could find no dry wood to
make a fire and had serious trouble in getting on his frozen boots; and
after a hurried meal he set out again. It was some time before he felt
moderately warm, but with a short rest at noon, he held on until evening
was near, when he camped in a deep rift among the rocks filled with small
firs. Here he found dry branches, and made his supper, sitting between a
sheltering stone and a welcome fire. Soon afterward, he lay down and
slept until the piercing cold awakened him near dawn. The fire had burned
out to a few red embers; he had some trouble in stirring it into life,
and it was bright daylight when he resumed his journey.
He was too tired and generally too cold to retain any clear impression of
the next few days' march. There were ranks of peaks above, glittering at
times against an intensely blue sky, but more often veiled in leaden
cloud, while rolling vapor hid their lower slopes. He skirted tremendous
gorges, looked up great hollows filled with climbing trees, followed
winding valleys, and at length limped into sight of a lonely camp at the
foot of a crag. The light was fading when he reached it, though a lurid
sunset glowed behind the black firs on the crest of a ridge, and the
place had a desolate look. Most of the shacks were empty, there were
rings of branches with a litter of old cans about them where tents had
been pitched, but a few toiling figures were scattered about a strip of
track. It was comforting to see them, but Prescott was too jaded to
notice what they were doing.
Entering a shanty, roughly built of ties and galvanized iron, he found a
stove burning, and a Chinaman who told him that supper would be ready
soon. After a while the men came in and, asking very few questions, gave
him a share of their meal; then he was shown a rude bed of fir branches
and swamp hay and told he could sleep there. Prescott lay down and
lighted his pipe and then looked about for a while. The place was dimly
lighted and filled with rank tobacco smoke, through which he saw the
blurred figures of his new companions. Some of them were playing cards
under a lamp, some were disputing in harsh voices, and now and then there
was a burst of laughter. Once or twice a man went out and an icy draught
swept through the shed, but except for that it was delightfully warm.
Soon Prescott's pipe dropped from his hand and, failing in a drowsy
attempt to find it, he went to sleep.
At breakfast the next morning he learned that a man answering Kermode's
description had spent a night there eight or nine days ago. That showed
that he was gaining, and he forced his pace all day. At sunset he made a
fire beside a frozen lake, and after three or four days of arduous toil
reached another camp. From the few men remaining there he learned that
Kermode had left the spot a week earlier with a companion whose work had
been interfered with by the frost. It was understood that they intended
to examine a mineral vein the railroad hand had discovered in a valley
some distance off, and when Prescott had ascertained where it lay he set
off on their trail. The camp was well supplied with provisions and he
bought a quantity.
He felt more cheerful now. It looked as if the end of his long search
were near, since there was every reason to believe he would join the men
before they could test the claim. On the second day he laboriously
ascended a steep slope leading out of a valley he had followed, a broken
line of footprints running upward in front of him. This seemed to
indicate that the great ridge ahead could be crossed, though when he
glanced at the ramparts of dark rock the task looked insuperable.
Prescott knew nothing of mountaineering, but he judged that Kermode's
companion must be accustomed to the ranges.
The slope grew sharper, there seemed to be an unbroken wall of rock
ahead; but, climbing higher, Prescott saw a small smooth track running up
the barrier. It was obviously a gully filled with snow and its steepness
suggested that the ascent of it might prove beyond his powers; but the
footprints led on to where it began. After following them to the spot,
Prescott sat down on a stone to gather breath. He looked upward with a
sinking heart. The hollow was deep and narrow--a cleft in the vast ridge
of rock, which was glazed with ice. In places it looked precipitous, but
there seemed to be no way of working round the flank of the mountain.
Then Prescott noticed that the snow was pitted with small holes, about
two feet apart, from which he concluded that the prospectors had carried
a grubhoe, a tool resembling a mountaineer's ice-ax. He might get up by
using these footholds.
Before starting he carefully adjusted his pack, and slung the ax where it
seemed least likely to do him an injury. Then he found that by laying his
mittened hands in the holes above he could steady himself while he found
a fresh support for his feet, and for a while he made progress, though
the labor of carrying up his load became intense. Coming to a fang of
rock which offered a precarious seat, he stopped and wondered how he was
to get up the rest of the way. It seemed a vast distance to the top, and
he was already distressed by a form of exertion to which he was
unaccustomed. Bright sunshine rested on the jagged ridge above, but the
gully lay in shadow; and, growing cold, the man went on again. The next
few minutes passed uneventfully, except that he made a dangerous slip;
and then a stone rushed past him and he heard a sharp crash below. This
was a risk he had not counted on. Looking up anxiously, he saw some snow
coming down. There was not much of it, but it was traveling ominously
fast and he was right in its path. He dared not leave the steps to seek
the shelter of the rocks. Driving in his feet to secure a better hold; he
waited, wondering whether he would be swept away and hurled down to the
bottom with broken bones.
The sliding snow was close upon him; he saw that it was spinning and of a
flat round shape, not a ball as he had expected, and then, while he dug
in his hands and stiffened every muscle to resist the shock, he received
a heavy blow on his lowered shoulder and a wet mass was flung violently
into his face. He held on, however, and without looking around, heard the
snow rush on down the gully beneath him. After he had climbed a few
yards, it seemed possible to reach a projecting spur of rock, and when he
had carefully kicked out a hold for one foot he made the attempt. He had
scarcely reached the shelter of the rock when there was a sharp crash
above and a great stone leaped by.
Prescott found that he could maintain his position fairly comfortably and
he lighted his pipe and sat still to rest and consider, while the
downward rush of another stone gave him food for thought. He believed he
was half-way up, and after the exertions he had made, it was unthinkable
that he should go back and seek another route; besides, he doubted
whether he could get down without slipping. It seemed quite as perilous
to go on, until he reasoned from the state of the snow, which was not
deeply scored, that the stones did not come down continuously. Perhaps
the warmth of the sun, helped by a soft chinook wind that had set in had
loosened them; but the light was fading off part of the ridge and if he
waited a while, the discharge might cease. The trouble was that he was
getting very cold. He smoked another pipe, and as he heard no further
crashes, he cautiously ventured out and regained the deepest part of the
gully. His joints ached, his muscles felt sore, but there was a break in
the rocks some distance higher up and he determined to climb to it.
The effort was severe, but he reached the spot, breathless, and carefully
looked about. The sunshine had now vanished from the crest of the rocks
and he supposed the stones would soon freeze fast again, but there would
be only another hour or two of daylight and he must gain a place of
safety before it grew dark. An incautious movement would precipitate him
from his insecure refuge and he could not contemplate his remaining there
through the night. Then he grew angry with Kermode.
It was difficult to believe this was the easiest way into the valley
where the railroad man had made his discovery; the latter, being used to
the ranges, had, no doubt, taken it to shorten the distance, and Kermode
should have objected. Kermode, however, never paused to think; he
cheerfully plunged into the first folly that appealed to him and left
other people to bear the consequences. Then, having rested, Prescott saw
that there were weak points in this reasoning, since the man he was
following must have climbed the slope, and, what was more, that his
irritation led to no result. He could consider such matters when he had
reached the summit, and in order to do so, he must get on at once.
No more stones came down, but after Prescott had gone some distance a
fresh difficulty confronted him. The gully was getting steeper, and the
holes had disappeared; he supposed that the snow had softened in the
sunshine earlier in the day and slipping down had filled up the recesses.
He had, however, discovered that one could kick through the hard crust
and make a hole to stand in, provided it were done carefully, and he went
up by this means, wondering whether his boots would hold out until he
reached the top, and stopping every few yards for breath. It was
exhausting work after a long march and he was heavily loaded, but it
could not be shirked, and he crawled up, watching the distance shorten
foot by foot. Once a step broke away and he slid back a yard before he
brought up with hands buried deep in the snow and the perspiration
streaming from him in his terror. Still, he was slowly mounting; and at
last, worn out and breathless, he reached the narrow ridge of crag and
looked down with keen relief or a long slope to a valley filled with
forest.
In front there was a glorious vista of peaks that shone in the evening
light, but Prescott was in no mood to think of them. He must get down to
the trees, where he could camp in comfort, before darkness fell. Rising
after a few minutes' rest, he made the descent and, as dusk crept round
him, lighted his fire among the sheltering trunks.
The next day he followed the valley through thick timber and withered
underbrush which tore his clothes and delayed his march. There were
fallen trunks with spreading branches to be scrambled over, and tangles
of thorny canes, but he was cheered by signs that somebody had passed on
ahead of him not long before. Later, the forest died out and the bottom
of the hollow was strewn with sharp-edged stones, which threatened to
tear his worn boots from his feet, and which added seriously to his toil.
It was, however, impossible that the prospectors had climbed the crags
that hemmed him in, and believing they could not be far in front of him,
he held on until late in the afternoon.
At length he came to a wider stretch, out of which a ravine that looked
accessible led, but he gave little thought to it. There were a few small
trees about and one of them had recently been felled. He could see the
white chips and the place where a fire had burned. A meat-can lay near-by
and when Prescott picked it up he found the few fragments adhering to it
quite fresh. The men he sought had camped there, but he began to grow
anxious, for he could see no signs of them. Laying down his load, he made
a hasty examination of the locality and found a spot where the face of a
crag was marked by a streak of different material. It was rent in one
place, heavy fragments were scattered about, and Prescott saw that they
had been blown out with giant-powder.
For a few minutes he eagerly proceeded with his search, but he could find
no blankets or provision cache, and when he saw footprints leading toward
the ravine the truth dawned on him. The prospectors had left the spot and
were not coming back; once more he had arrived too late. It was a cruel
disappointment and he sat down in black dejection, looking heavily about.
The high summits were wrapped in leaden cloud, the lower rocks towered
above him, rugged and forbidding, and a mournful wind wailed through the
gorge.
With an effort he forced himself to think. He had provisions for only a
day or two; one of the prospectors was obviously an expert mountaineer,
which led Prescott to believe that they would travel faster than he was
capable of doing. It would be the height of rashness to push on farther
into the wilds without a guide, and the first fall of snow would blot out
any trail the others might have left. Reason warned him that he must turn
back; but it was unthinkable that he should descend the gully. He
determined to climb the ravine on the morrow.
Growing cold, he fell to work with the ax, and soon had a fire burning in
a hollow among the rocks.