Imagine a winding valley, sparsely wooded, deeply banked with snow; a
valley through which the gale sweeps with unchecked fury, whipping the
bare limbs of the trees, catching up the crest of one shifting drift
and sending it, a swirling mass of white, to build up another snowy
ridge, in its turn to be leveled by the caprice of the storm; a valley
bare of habitations, as lonely and deserted, apparently, as if it were
buried in the depths of a great forest. Such was the course along which
Sam and Tom Orkney fought their way. The cold was intense. The wind
cut like a knife. Its force was so great that, when the windings of
the valley forced them to face it, they could make progress but at a
snail’s pace.
By Sam’s reckoning they had made about a mile of their journey. How
long a time it had taken he did not know--an hour certainly, perhaps
much more. There had been frequent halts, both for consultation and
rest; for here and there thickets were obstacles to the advance, while
both boys felt the weakening effect of their fast. They were not
acutely hungry, but each was aware of a dully persistent sense of a
void beneath his belt.
Studying the storm, however, Sam had caught a gleam of encouragement.
Surely the clouds were riding higher, and were showing signs of
breaking. The wind was not increasing. It was unlike the rising and
falling squalls of the day before; for it was now a steady, hard blow.
This change, along with the drop in temperature, convinced him that Lon
had been right in assuming that the gale had hauled into the northwest,
with a promise of clearing, if not warmer, weather. Though the air was
full of flakes, caught up by the wind, the snowfall had almost ceased.
Sam put his mouth close to Orkney’s ear.
“Guess it’s blowing itself out!” he shouted.
Orkney nodded. “My notion, too. But it won’t quit for a while yet.”
“Sure! Nothing for us but to plug ahead.”
And they “plugged.” The slang fitted the case. Orkney’s foot caught
on a hidden root, and he pitched forward on hands and knees. The snow
yielded under his weight; an unsuspected bank revealed itself; and Tom,
the center of a small avalanche, slid a dozen yards toward the frozen
surface of the South Fork.
Sam, hurrying after him, helped him to regain his feet. “Thanks!” said
Orkney, and shook himself like a Newfoundland emerging from a swim.
In five minutes he had his chance to reciprocate. Sam caught a bad fall
over a boulder, barely hidden by a drift.
“Glory! That shook me up!” Sam confessed. “’Twouldn’t be a good thing
for a fellow to be out here alone and get hurt, eh?”
“No,” said Orkney.
“But, pulling together, we’ll pull through!” cried Sam, and clapped him
on the shoulder.
They went on, but only to share a mishap. The snow had bridged a brook
running down to the Fork; and the arch caved under them. Down they went
to their armpits in the snow. They scrambled out of the hole uninjured
but breathless.
“We--we’ll look out for those places,” Sam panted; but in spite
of their watchfulness he soon was caught in a worse trap. Another
gully--and deeper--lay beneath a smooth surface. Sam, being slightly
in the lead, vanished almost at the feet of the astonished Orkney, who
dropped to his knees, groped in what was like a white whirlpool, and
was lucky enough to lay hold of Sam’s collar. Then, by dint of much
tugging and hauling, aided from below by the victim of the accident, he
at last succeeded in rescuing his companion from the depths.
This time both boys were glad to lie on the drift for a time, while
they were regaining wind and strength. Sam was the first to speak.
“Good turn you did me then. Regular cavern down there. Rather think
there was water at the bottom of it.”
“Might be,” said Orkney. “Maybe rapids in the brook--they don’t freeze
up often.”
Sam gave his companion a friendly dig in the ribs.
“Guess that came near evening up a little thing I did for you
once--that pond business.”
“Nonsense!” said Orkney gruffly. “Come on! Let’s move!”
He got upon his feet, and Sam followed the example.
“Right! Mustn’t let ’em get tired waiting back at Calleck’s old house.
Wonder what they’re doing now.”
“Envying me the chance you gave me!” said Orkney sharply; and plowed
ahead without waiting for a reply.
Sam trudged after him. No doubt Orkney had spoken no more than the
truth. The members of the club, tarrying with Lon and Peter Groche,
would envy the adventurers. Some of them, Sam feared, might find it
hard to forgive the preference he had shown Orkney; but he did not
repent his choice. Physically, neither Poke nor the Shark was fit
for such a forced march; Step was not a powerful fellow; Herman Boyd
and the Trojan were sturdy chaps, with plenty of grit, but somewhat
dependent upon good leadership. Orkney, on the other hand, not only
had dogged resolution and persistence, but also worked well in “double
harness,” as Sam phrased it. He was as far from yielding too much
as from claiming too much. Though he might lack certain agreeable
qualities, he was showing sound mettle under strain.
If Sam did not regret his selection of a companion, still less did he
question the venture they were making. As he reasoned out the plight of
the party, there was more than the condition of Peter Groche to warrant
the expedition. As things were, two or three days might pass before
anybody realized that the club had gone astray in the woods. Mr. Kane
would suppose the boys had followed the tote road to Coreytown, and had
reached the village; while the people there had had no warning that the
party was on the way, and so would have no cause to send out searchers
for the wanderers.
“Clear case of having to help ourselves,” Sam reflected; and pressed on
determinedly.
But it was slow work, exhausting and taking toll of brain as well as
muscle. Sam was no longer reckoning time or distance. Sometimes he led;
sometimes Orkney. Often both halted, and, dropping in the snow, lay
there till one or the other staggered to his feet, and gave a hand to
his comrade.
They still kept to the valley, but by degrees were drawing away
from the stream and climbing the right bank on a long diagonal.
This resulted not so much from intention as from various obstacles
encountered along the lower slope. The higher ground seemed to be
clearer, the drifts not so deep. Once they came to a long stretch,
where the gale had almost swept away the snow. Here they made easier
progress, though it was far from rapid. In spite of their exertions the
cold had laid numbing hold upon them, and their limbs were heavy as
lead.
It had come to be a question of endurance, of tenacity as well as
courage.
Their danger was great. In their plight they had to fight a constant
temptation to pause over-long in the partly sheltered hollows among the
drifts. There was another temptation to close their eyes and burrow
deeper in the snow; but always one or the other roused to the fatal
peril of yielding. Now it was Sam, and again it was Orkney, who shook
off the numbing spell of the storm, and dragged the other from his
resting place in the snow.
There could be no turning back. Each understood that they must push on
at all hazards.
Both Orkney and Sam had heard tales of lives lost in the great blizzard
of 1888, and other tales of men perishing in storms by no means so
furious or prolonged as that famous tempest. Hardly a winter passed
without claiming its victims even in the thickly settled region about
Plainville; and though these unfortunates for the most part were thinly
clad, poorly nourished tramps or human derelicts, there were not
lacking instances of able-bodied men losing their way and succumbing to
exposure. And here was a storm, not quite equaling the great blizzard,
perhaps, yet accompanied by quite as bitter cold.
So, at least, the boys were misled by no false estimate of their
desperate straits. Dulled though their senses might be, they did not
lose grasp of the truth that they must struggle on and on, so long as
strength remained to put one foot before the other.
Yet, though they but vaguely perceived it, a slight change for the
better was taking place in the weather.
Overhead there were rifts in the clouds. To the northwest a patch of
pale blue sky showed for a moment; was lost; reappeared, and grew in
size. But the gale still blew strongly, if not with quite its earlier
savage fury; and there was no rise in temperature.
They toiled on doggedly. Still veering slightly to the right, they came
closer and closer to the summit of the ridge. Finally they gained it.
Beyond was a broader valley.
Sam clutched Orkney’s arm.
“Look!” he gasped. “Yonder--a house! See it? Not a mile away!”
“There’s another--nearer--lower down!” cried Tom.
Sam gazed hungrily in the direction in which the other pointed.
“I see it! We can make it! Hur-hurrah!”
“Hur-hurrah!” echoed Orkney; but he caught at Sam’s arm, as Sam had
caught at his. For a moment they clung to each other, swaying with
weakness, dazed a little, it may be, by the sudden brightening of their
hopes.
“Let--let’s rest a bit,” said Sam unsteadily. “Then--then we’ll go
ahead. Noth-nothing can stop us now!”
“Not when we can see smoke whipping from that chimney!”
“Sure! Smoke means fire--and people--and everything!”
“And almost within arm’s reach!”
In fact, the house with the smoking chimney was a weary distance from
them; but unexpected help was nearer at hand. For, while they still
stood gazing into the broad valley, a curious procession emerged from a
clump of woods at the bottom of the hill. It was a long line of yoked
oxen, pair following pair through the snow, while about them floundered
shouting men, urging them on with whip and goad.
Sam’s voice rose in an exultant cry. “See that! Whole neighborhood
turned out to break roads! Come on, Tom; come on!”
But Orkney, clutching his arm the tighter, held him back.
“Wait a minute! I’ve got to tell you something. I want to tell it
now--while we’re alone.”
“Oh! another time----”
“There’ll be no other time as good,” Tom insisted. “Look here, Parker!
I’ve never hit it off with you, with your crowd. We’ve jarred each
other. You didn’t like me; I didn’t like you. But now I’ve seen your
bunch in trouble, and I’ve seen how you stick together through thick
and thin. And your fellows have been fair to me.... I’ve never had a
crowd like that. I didn’t believe there could be such a crowd.... No;
don’t try to pull away! You’ve got to hear me! I started back with
you, because that seemed to be the sensible thing to do. I expected
the fellows would roast me, snub me, rub it in that I’d been a fool
to bolt. I meant to stand it and say nothing; but back in Plainville
I’d get even, fast enough.... Well, if I kept quiet, I saw things. It
just forced itself on me, after a while, that maybe I hadn’t got along
with you because I didn’t know how to get along with anybody.... I
heard what you said about your mistakes and the crowd’s mistakes, and I
understood. Bother all that, though! I know I’ve made enough mistakes
of my own.... Hold on! There’s one thing more, and it’s the biggest
thing of all--to me. Every one of your fellows wanted to come with you
on this trip, but you chose me. It was the biggest thing you could
have done for me. It squared the account--and more.... And that’s all
I’ve got to tell you, except that the slate’s clean, so far as I am
concerned; and that I won’t worry you or your crowd. I’m going back to
Plainville, and I’m going to take my medicine. And I reckon you won’t
hear me whine.”
Sam, genuinely embarrassed yet honestly pleased and relieved, tried to
escape the restraining hand.
“You--you bet I won’t, Tom!” he said awkwardly but kindly. “No danger
of that! You’ve proved the stuff that’s in you--the gang knows it as
well as I do. And--and after this day--I don’t believe you’ll find
things in Plainville so hard, after all.”
Then he freed himself, and started down the hill. The men in the road
caught sight of the figures on the ridge, and raised a welcoming hail.