It was snowing, and snowing hard. Moreover, it had been snowing all
night, and all the afternoon before. The wind rioted furiously over
the broad Missouri plains, alternately building up huge castles of
snow and throwing them down again like a fretful child; overtaking the
belated teamster on his homeward journey, clutching him with its icy
hand, and leaving him buried in a tomb more spotless than the fairest
marble; howling, shrieking, racing madly to and fro, never out of
breath, always the same tireless, pitiless, awful power. Rocks,
fields, sometimes even forests were blotted out of the landscape. A
mere hyphen upon the broad, white page, lay the Western-bound train.
The fires in the locomotives (there were two of them), had been
suffered to go out, and the great creatures waited silently together,
left alone in the storm, while the snow drifted higher and higher upon
their patient backs.
When Bob had waked that morning to find the tempest more furious than
ever and the train stuck fast in a huge snow-bank, his first thought
was of dismay at the possible detention in the narrow limits of the
Pullman, which seemed much colder than it had before; his next was to
wonder how the change of fortune would affect Gertrude Raymond. Of
course he had long ago become acquainted with the brown traveling suit
and fur collar. Of course there had been numberless little services
for him to perform for her and the old gentleman, who had indeed
proved to be her father. Bob had already begun to dread the end of the
journey. He had gone to his berth the night before, wishing that San
Francisco were ten days from Boston, instead of six. Providence having
taken him at his word, and indicated that the journey would be of at
least that duration, if not more, he was disposed, like no few of his
fellow-mortals, to grumble.
Once more he became misanthropic. “There’s Miss Raymond, now,” he
growled to himself, knocking his head savagely against the upper berth
in his attempt to look out through the frosty pane, “sitting over
across the aisle day after day with her kid gloves, and all that. Nice
enough, of course,” recalling one or two spirited conversations where
hours had slipped by like minutes, “but confoundedly useless, like the
rest of ’em. If she were like mother, now, there’d be no trouble.
She’d take care of herself. But as it is, the whole car will be turned
upside down for her to-day, for fear she’ll freeze, or starve, or
spoil her complexion, or something.”
Here Bob turned an extremely cold shoulder on the window, and having
performed a sort of horizontal toilet, emerged from his berth, his
hair on end, and his face expressive of utter defiance to the world in
general, and contempt of fashionable young ladies in particular.
At that moment Miss Raymond appeared in the aisle, sweet and rosy as a
June morning, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling with fun.
“Good-morning, Mr. Estabrook,” she said demurely, settling the fur
collar about her neck.
Bob endeavored to look dignified, and was conscious of failure.
“Good-mo-morning,” he replied with some stiffness, and a shiver which
took him by surprise. It _was_ cold, jumping out of that warm berth.
“I understand we must stay--but don’t let me detain you,” she added
with a sly glance at his hair.
Bob turned and marched off solemnly to the masculine end of the car,
washed in ice-water, completed his toilet, and came back refreshed.
Breakfast was formally served as usual, and then a council of war was
held. Conductor, engineers and brakemen being consulted, and
inventories taken, it was found that while food was abundant, the
stock of wood in the bins would not last till noon. There were twelve
railroad men and thirty-five passengers on board, some twenty of the
latter being immigrants in a second-class behind the two Pullmans.
The little company gathered in the snow-bound car looked blankly at
each other, some of them instinctively drawing their wraps more
tightly about their shoulders, as if they already felt the approaching
chill.
It was miles to the nearest station in either direction. Above, below,
on all sides, was the white blur of tumultuous, wind-lashed snow.
The silence was broken pleasantly. Once more Bob felt the power of
those clear, sweet tones.
“The men must make up a party to hunt for wood,” she said. “While
you’re gone, we women will do what we can for those who are left.”
The necessity for immediate action was evident, and without further
words the council broke up, to obey her suggestion.
A dozen men, looking like amateur Esquimaux, and floundering up to
their armpits at the first step, started off through the drifts. One
of the train-men, who knew the line of the road thoroughly, was sure
they must be near a certain clump of trees where plenty of wood could
be obtained. Taking the precaution to move in single line, one of the
engineers, a broad-shouldered six-footer, leading the way, and
steering by compass, they were soon out of sight. As they struck off
at right angles to the track, Bob thought he recognized a face pressed
close to the pane and watching them anxiously; but he could not be
sure.
Two hours later the men appeared once more, some staggering under huge
logs, some with axes, some with bundles of lighter boughs for
kindling. In another five minutes smoke was going up cheerily from the
whole line of cars; for the trees had proved to be less than a quarter
of a mile distant, and the supply would be plentiful before night.
When Bob Estabrook stamped into his own car, hugging up a big armful
of wood, he was a different looking fellow from the trim young lawyer
who was wont to stand before the jury seats in the Boston Court House.
He had on a pair of immense blue yarn mittens, loaned by a kindly
brakeman, his face was scratched with refractory twigs, his eyebrows
were frosted, his mustache an icy caret, two fingertips frozen, and
with all this, he looked and felt more manly than ever before in his
life.
His eye roved through the length of the car as it had that first night
in the depot. She was not there. He was as anxious as a boy for her
praise.
“Guess I’ll take it into the next car,” he said apologetically to the
nearest passenger; “there’s more coming, just behind.”
She was not in the second Pullman. Of course she wasn’t in the
baggage-car. Was it possible--? He entered the third and last car,
recoiling just a bit at the odor of crowded and unclean poverty which
met him at the door.
Sure enough, there she sat--his idle, fashionable type of
inutility--with one frowsy child upon the seat beside her, two very
rumpled-looking boys in front, and in her arms a baby with terra-cotta
hair. Somehow, the baby’s hair against the fur collar didn’t look so
badly as you would expect, either. She seemed to be singing it to
sleep, and kept on with her soft crooning as she glanced up over its
tangled red locks at snowy Bob and his armful of wood, with a look in
her eyes that would have sent him cheerfully to Alaska for more, had
there been need.