"We'll never make it!"
The first snow came, a barrage of wind-driven pellets that stung her
face and left her gasping. The day turned to twilight, and when she
raised her head she could see only a few feet on either side. Just ahead
of her, Ellis was a snow-shrouded figure. Time became meaningless,
measureless. They moved on and on for how many minutes or hours she
could not tell. The fury of the wind increased and breathing became more
difficult. Barbara wanted to cry out and knew that she must not. The
cold touched her body and seemed to penetrate her very bones. She was
aware of Ellis shouting, and it seemed that he shouted from a very long
way off.
"Give me your reins!"
Without question she put the reins in his outstretched hand and clung to
the saddle horn. The horses were walking now, fighting the storm.
Barbara knew a stabbing panic. Was this the end? Would this be the end
of her life, before she had fully lived? The cold numbed her, so that
there was no longer much feeling in her hands and face. She almost
slipped from the saddle. Then she was aware of Ellis shouting again, and
she saw him standing beside her.
"Get off!" he repeated.
She slipped into his arms and felt them close about her. He carried her.
She still heard the wind but it did not blast her nor was snow falling
on her, and she knew they had found shelter. Dimly she saw the doorway
through which they had entered, and felt herself being very gently set
down. Ellis's shout rang very loudly because he had not remembered that
there was no longer need to shout.
"Can you stand up?"
"Yes!"
She stood on shaky knees while Ellis brought both horses in and closed
the door. It was very black now, but when Ellis struck a match she saw
that they were in some kind of cabin with a big pile of buffalo robes in
the center. The match flickered out. She heard him fumbling in the
darkness. Then his arms were around her again and his voice was very
gentle:
"We're all right now."
"Wh--where are we?"
"In one of Jim's storage shacks. Come on."
She let him guide her, and tried with her numb fingers to help him when
he begun removing her snow-crusted outer clothing. He struck another
match so he could see her shoes, unlaced them, took them off, and eased
her down on a pile of buffalo robes he had arranged. He covered her with
more robes, but she lay shivering and it seemed that she would never be
warm again. The cabin lighted as he struck still another match, led the
horses to the opposite wall and tied them to a pile of buffalo robes.
She shivered and said fretfully, between stiff lips,
"I'm cold."
Then he was beside her under the robes, giving to her chilled body the
warmth of his own. Gratefully she snuggled very close, while the horses
stamped inside and the wind screamed outside. Ellis put both arms around
her. Sleep claimed Barbara.
When she awakened, it was still black night inside the cabin and the
wind still screamed outside. Barbara felt warm, snug, comfortable. She
put out an exploring hand to touch Ellis, and he responded instantly,
taking her whole hand and wrist into his warm, sensitive fingers.
"Are you awake, Barbara?"
"Ellis," she whispered. "You saved our lives."
He pressed her hand gently and held it undemandingly in his own. "I've
been lying here thinking," he said. "When we were out in the storm, I
wasn't sure we could reach this cabin. Suppose we hadn't come through? I
was lying here trying to figure out what was the thing I would most
regret. Know what I decided?"
"What?" Sleepily content, she awaited his answer. How strange--or
perhaps it wasn't so strange--that in this barren cabin, in utter
darkness and isolation, when they had narrowly escaped death, that Ellis
should be able to talk to her so openly, so easily, more easily than at
any time since she had met him. "What would you most regret, Ellis?"
"I would regret that I had not known you longer, had more time with
you. I would regret that I hadn't told you more about myself, even the
bad things. I want to tell you everything about myself, Barbara. Whether
you say yes or no to me later on, I want it to be on the basis of all
the truth. May I tell you about--about before I came to Snedeker's?"
"Please," she whispered.
He told her, then, about his gentle laughing mother, and his loving but
unreliable father who had made too much money gambling and had lived too
fast and died too young. And he told her about his Uncle George who had
not only stolen most of the family property but had tried to rule Ellis
with an iron rod, had disrupted all his plans and made a fool of him
before his friends, and who had ended up by receiving a punch in the jaw
from his outraged nephew. He told her of his one good year at college,
of his falling in love with Mary Harkness and his following her across
the country. He told her of his moodiness (which she already knew) and
of his quick temper (which she already knew) and he told her that he was
ashamed of his temper and that he recognized that it was a remnant of
his childhood, and that most of the time it was unjustified, and that he
couldn't promise to get rid of it immediately but that he would keep on
trying until he did. He spared himself nothing, and only by reading
between the lines was she able to see a young man buffeted and lonely,
but eager for friendship and love, with a wealth of devotion to offer, a
true humility and a burning desire for truth and honesty above all
things.
How different was this blurted, forthright account from the smooth,
polished presentation of a Hugo Gearey!
He had stopped talking and now they lay quietly, looking up into the
darkness. He had confided all of himself, placed all of his faith in her
understanding. And even now he asked nothing, made no demands. Ellis
Garner was an amazing young man. She felt that there was much, much more
to know about him, but everything that she already knew she could
respect. She turned to him.
In the darkness, their arms found each other and their lips met. This,
Barbara thought, was a dream come true. This was what she thought of
when she thought of marriage.
Thus, out of the storm, was born their love.
* * * * *
After Barbara and Ellis left, Joe went back to his woodcutting. He
worked steadily, almost savagely, but for the first time in days there
was no joy in labor. Joe felled and trimmed another tree and immediately
attacked the next one. He shook his head doggedly, knowing that he
missed Barbara and Ellis but not wanting to admit it to himself. He
looked anxiously up when the wind shifted from north to east but he did
not recognize the meaning behind its shift. He was uneasy about the
clouds. He decided that Barbara and Ellis must be in Laramie. At the
same time, he knew that he was merely trying to reassure himself about
some peril that he sensed but could not see. They couldn't be in Laramie
by this time even if they'd galloped all the way.
Shortly before noon, the wind began to scream and Joe knew. Mounting the
mare mule, he held his ax very tightly and drove both mules at a dead
run all the way back to the cabin. But before he got there, the snow
started.
It fell in grotesque, distorted curtains that were bent and twisted by
the howling wind. Joe stabled the mules and fought his way out of the
stable toward the store. Flying snow plastered his clothing, and he was
a white wraith when he reached the door. Joe entered.
"Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we get down the Trail?"
"No, man! We'd be lost in the snow afore we went twicet and arrer shot."
"But those kids--"
"Don't bust a button," Snedeker advised. "That Ellis Garner, he's
nobody's fool. He'll know what to do."
"I'm going anyhow!"
Snedeker walked to the rifle rack, took a rifle from it and grasped its
muzzle with both hands. "Try it an' I'll lay you out with this."
"We can't get through?"
"We can't, an' you got the rest of your family to think about."
"I--"
"Stop fussin'. Even the sojers that went down a while back haven't
showed up. They had to den in the snow. No sense throwin' your life
away. When the snow stops, I'll go with you. Now git to your cabin an'
act like you had some sense."
Joe stumbled through the wind-driven snow and only dimly could he even
see the cabin. He opened the door and needed all his strength to close
it against the wind. Though it lacked hours until nightfall, Emma had
lighted a lantern and her face was white in its flow.
"Joe, the youngsters--"
"They had horses. They'll be in Laramie by this time."
He spoke what he hoped was the truth and knew was not. Emma knew it too
but she said nothing. Joe removed his snow-plastered hat and coat and
walked to a window. He couldn't even see trees that grew no more than
sixty feet away. Joe clenched his fists so hard that nails bit into
palms, and his throat was very dry. No human being could fight such a
storm, and if Ellis and Barbara were not in Laramie....
Tad sat on the floor, busily carving wooden knives for Alfred and
Carlyle. Little Joe watched soberly, but when he reached for Tad's
knife, Tad drew it away.
Tad said with unaccustomed gentleness, "No, you might cut yourself." He
said casually, "Ma, the storm seems to be lettin' up. Bobby an' Ellis
will be all right."
Holding baby Emma on her lap, knowing that Tad wanted to reassure her,
Emma said wanly, "Yes, dear."
The afternoon was endless, but the night was worse. Joe forced food into
his month and swallowed. But it was tasteless fare; he had ears only for
the wind that blasted the cabin and thoughts for nothing except Barbara
and Ellis. That night he lay beside Emma, listening while the storm
raged. He could not sleep and he knew that Emma was wakeful too. The
night was a week long, and Joe started at an alien sound. He sat up in
the darkness. Then,
"Joe?" It was Snedeker.
"Yes?"
"Come on. We kin go now."
Joe slipped out of bed and dressed, and Emma stood beside him. She
brought his hat and coat, and her eyes held the prayer that she had
whispered all night. Joe pressed her hand, and when he opened the door
he saw that the snow had stopped. A gray ghost in the darkness, Snedeker
stood on snowshoes. There were two more pairs strapped to his back and
another leaning against the cabin.
He knelt to lace Joe's snowshoes, and swung down the Trail. Joe followed
awkwardly; he had never worn snowshoes and he found them hard to wear.
Snedeker dropped back beside him.
"Don't fight 'em," he advised. "Walk on 'em. You'll get the hang of it."