SNOQUALMIE PASS AND A BROKEN AXLE
Tisdale leaned forward in his seat in the observation car. His rugged
features worked a little, and his eyes had their far-sighted gaze. Scarred
buttes crowded the track; great firs, clinging with exposed roots to the
bluffs, leaned in menace, and above the timber belt granite pyramids and
fingers shone amethyst against the sky; then a giant door closed on this
vestibule of the Pass, and he was in an amphitheatre of lofty peaks. The
eastbound began to wind and lift like a leviathan seeking a way through.
It crept along a tilting shelf, rounded a sheer spur, and ran shrieking
over a succession of trestles, while the noise of the exhausts rang a
continuous challenge from shoulder and crag. Then suddenly a mighty summit
built like a pulpit of the gods closed behind, and a company of still
higher mountains encircled the gorge. Everywhere above the wooded slopes
towered castellated heights and spires.
Presently a near cliff came between him and the higher view and, with a
lift and drop of his square shoulders, he settled back in his chair. He
drew his hand across his eyes, the humorous lines deepened and, like one
admitting a weakness, he shook his head. It was always so; the sight of
any mountains, a patch of snow on a far blue ridge, set his pulses
singing; wakened the wanderlust for the big spaces in God's out-of-doors.
And this canyon of the Snoqualmie was old, familiar ground. He had served
his surveyor's apprenticeship on these western slopes of the Cascades. He
had triangulated most of these peaks, named some of them, and he had
carried a transit to these headwaters, following his axman often over a
new trail. Now, far, far down between the columns of hemlock and fir, he
caught glimpses of the State road on the opposite bank of the stream that,
like a lost river, went forever seeking a way out, and finally, for an
instant he saw a cabin set like a toy house at the wooden bridge where the
thoroughfare crossed. Then the eastbound, having made a great loop, found
another hidden gateway and moved up to the levels above Lake Keechelus.
The whistle signalled a mountain station, and Tisdale rose and went out to
the platform; when the trucks jolted to a standstill, he swung himself
down to the ground to enjoy a breath of the fine air.
The next moment he found himself almost upon a wrecked automobile. He saw
in a flash that the road, coming through a cut, crossed the railroad
track, and that in making a quick turn to avoid the end of the slowing
train, the chauffeur had forced the car into the bank. The machine was
still upright, but it listed forward on a broken axle. A young woman who
had kept her seat in the tonneau was nursing a painful wrist, while two
girls, who evidently had come through the accident unscathed, were trying
to help the only man of the party up from the ground. Tisdale bent to give
him the support of his shoulder, and, groaning, the stranger settled
against the side of his car and into a sitting position on the edge of the
floor, easing an injured leg. He had also received an ugly hurt above his
brows, which were heavy and black and met in an angle over a prominent
nose.
The lady in the tonneau and one of the girls had the same marked features
and the same brilliant dark eyes, though the retreating chin, which in the
man amounted to almost a blemish, in them was modified. But the last one
in the party, whom Tisdale had noticed first, was not like the rest. She
was not like any one in the world he had seen before. From the hem of her
light gray motoring coat to the crown of her big hat, she was a delight to
the eyes. The veil that tied the hat down framed a face full of a piquant
yet delicate charm. She was watching the man huddled against the machine,
and her mouth, parted a little, showed the upper lip short with the upward
curves of a bow. It was as though words were arrested, half spoken, and
her eyes, shadowy under curling dark lashes, held their expression,
uncertain whether to sparkle out or to cloud.
After a moment the man lifted his head and, meeting her look, smiled. "I'm
all right," he said, "only I've wrenched this knee; sprained it, I guess.
And my head feels like a drum."
"Oh, I am--glad"--her voice fluctuated softly, but the sparkle broke in
her eyes--"that it isn't worse. Would you like a glass of ice-water from
the train? A porter is coming and the conductor, too. I will ask for
anything."
He smiled again. "You'll get it, if you do. But what I want most just now
is a glass of that port. Elizabeth," and his glance moved to the other
girl, "where did you put that hamper?"
Elizabeth, followed by the porter, hurried around to the other side of the
automobile to find the basket, and Tisdale moved a few steps away, waiting
to see if he could be of further service.
A passenger with a camera and an alert, inquiring face had come down from
the day coach. He wound the film key and focussed for a closer exposure,
but no one noticed him. At that moment all interest centered on the man
who was hurt. "Well," said the conductor at last, having looked the group
and the situation over, "what's the trouble?"
"Looks like a broken axle, doesn't it? And possibly a broken leg." He
groaned and repeated aggressively: "A broken axle. With the worst of
Snoqualmie Pass before us, and not a garage or a repair shop within fifty
miles."
"You are in a fix, sure. But this train will take you through the Pass to
Ellensburg, and there ought to be a hospital and a garage there. Or--the
westbound passenger, due at this siding in seven minutes"--the conductor
looked at his watch--"could put you back in Seattle at eight-fifteen."
"Make it the westbound; no hospital for me. Telegraph for a drawing-room,
conductor, and notify this station agent to ship the machine on the same
train. And, Elizabeth," he paused to take the drinking-cup she had filled,
"you look up a telephone, or if there isn't a long distance, telegraph
James. Tell him to have a couple of doctors, Hillis and Norton, to meet
the eight-fifteen; and to bring the limousine down with plenty of pillows
and comforters." He drained the cup and dropped it into the open hamper.
"Now, porter," he added, "if you hurry up a cocktail, the right sort,
before that westbound gets here, it means a five to you."
As these various messengers scurried away, the girl who remained picked up
the cup and poured a draught of wine for the lady in the tonneau. "I am so
sorry, but it was the only way. Do you think it is a sprain?" she asked.
"Yes." The older woman took the cup in her left hand. She had a deep,
carrying voice, and she added, looking at the injured wrist: "It's
swelling frightfully, but it saved my face; I might have had just such a
hideous wound as Frederic's. Isn't it a relief to hear him talking so
rationally?"
The girl nodded. "He seems quite himself," she said gravely. But she
turned to cover the mirth in her eyes; it suffused her face, her whole
charming personality. Then suddenly, at the moment the flow was highest,
came the ebb. Her glance met Tisdale's clear, appraising look, and she
stood silent and aloof.
He looked away and, after a moment, seeing nothing further to do, started
back to his train. She turned to take the empty cup, and as she closed the
hamper the whistle of the westbound sounded through the gorge.
Tisdale walked on through the observation car to the rear platform and
stood looking absently off through an aisle of Alpine firs that, parklike,
bordered the track. It was a long time since the sight of a pretty woman
had so quickened his blood. He had believed that for him this sort of
thing was over, and he laughed at himself a little.
The westbound rumbled to a stop on the parallel track, he felt the trucks
under him start, and an unaccountable depression came over him; the next
moment he heard a soft voice directing the porter behind him, and as
unaccountably his heart rose. The girl came on through the open door and
stopped beside him, bracing herself with one hand on the railing, while
she waved her handkerchief to the group she had left. He caught a faint,
clean perfume suggesting violets, the wind lifted the end of her veil
across his shoulder, and something of her exhilaration was transmitted to
the currents in his veins. "Good-by, Elizabeth," she called. "Good-by.
Good-by."
Some trainmen were getting the injured man aboard the westbound passenger,
and the lady who had left the wrecked automobile to go with him sent back
a sonorous "Au revoir." But Elizabeth, who was hurrying down from the
station where she had accomplished her errand, turned in astonishment to
look after the speeding eastbound. Then a rocky knob closed all this from
sight.
The girl on the platform turned, and Tisdale moved a little to let her
pass. At the same time the lurching of the car, as it swung to the curve,
threw her against him. It all happened very quickly; he steadied her with
his arm, and she drew back in confusion; he raised his hand to his head
and, remembering he had left his hat in his seat, a flush shaded through
his tan. Then, "I beg your pardon," she said and hurried by him through
the door.
Tisdale stood smoothing his wind-ruffled hair and watching the receding
cliff. "Her eyes are hazel," he thought, "with turquoise lights. I never
heard of such a combination, but--it's fine."
A little later, when he went in to take his seat, he found her in the
chair across the aisle. The train was skirting the bluffs of Keechelus
then, and she had taken off her coat and hat and sat watching the
unfolding lake. His side glance swept her slender, gray-clad figure to the
toe of one trim shoe, braced lightly on her footstool, and returned to her
face. In profile it was a new delight. One caught the upward curl of her
black lashes; the suggestion of a fault in the tip of her high, yet
delicately chiseled nose; the piquant curve of her short upper lip; the
full contour of the lifted chin. Her hair, roughened some, was soft and
fine and black with bluish tones.
The temptation to watch her was very great, and Tisdale squared his
shoulders resolutely and swung his chair more towards his own window,
which did not afford a view of the lake. He wanted to see this new
railroad route through the Cascades. This Pass of Snoqualmie had always
been his choice of a transcontinental line. And he was approaching new
territory; he never had pushed down the eastern side from the divide. He
had chosen this roundabout way purposely, with thirty miles of horseback
at the end, when the Great Northern would have put him directly into the
Wenatchee Valley and within a few miles of that tract of Weatherbee's he
was going to see.
There were few travelers in the observation car, and for a while nothing
broke the silence but the clamp and rush of the wheels on the down-grade,
then the man with a camera entered and came down the aisle as far as the
new passenger's chair. "I hope you'll excuse me," he said, "I'm Daniels,
representing the _Seattle Press_, and I thought you would like to see this
story go in straight."
Tisdale swung his chair a little towards the open rear door, so that he
was able to watch without seeming to see the progress of the comedy. He
was quick enough to catch the sweeping look she gave the intruder, aloof
yet fearless, as though she saw him across an invisible barrier. "You mean
you are a reporter," she asked quietly, "and are writing an account of the
accident for your newspaper?"
"Yes." Daniels dropped his cap into the next chair and seated himself
airily on the arm. The camera swung by a carrying strap from his shoulder,
and he opened a notebook, which he supported on his knee while he felt in
his pocket for a pencil. "Of course I recognized young Morganstein;
everybody knows him and that chocolate car; he's been run in so often for
speeding about town. And I suppose he was touring through Snoqualmie Pass
to the races at North Yakima fair. There should be some horses there worth
going to see."
"We meant to spend a day or two at the fair," she admitted, "but we
expected to motor on, exploring a little in the neighborhood."
"I see. Up the valley to have a look at the big irrigation dam the
Government is putting in and maybe on to see the great Tieton bore. That
would have been a fine trip; sorry you missed it." Daniels paused to place
several dots and hooks on his page. "I recognized Miss Morganstein, too,"
he went on, "though she was too busy to notice me. I met her when I was
taking my course in journalism at the State University; danced with her at
the Junior Prom. And the other lady, whose wrist was sprained, must have
been her sister, Mrs. Feversham. I was detailed to interview the new
Alaska delegate when he passed through Seattle, and I understood his wife
was to join him later. She was stopping over for a visit, and the society
editor called my attention to a mighty good picture of her in last
Sunday's issue. Do you know?--" he paused, looking into the girl's face
with a curious scrutiny, "there was another fine reproduction on that page
that you might have posed for. The lady served tea or punch or did
something at the same affair. But I can't remember her name--I've tried
ever since we left that station--though seems to me it was a married one."
"I remember the picture you mean; I remember. And I was there. It was a
bridge-luncheon at the Country Club in honor of Mrs. Feversham. And she--
the lady you were reminded of--won the prize. So you think I resemble that
photograph?" She tipped her head back a little, holding his glance with
her half-veiled eyes. "What an imagination!"
"Of course if you did pose for that picture, it doesn't do you half
justice; I admit that. But"--regarding her with a wavering doubt--"I guess
I've been jumping at conclusions again. They call me the 'Novelist' at the
office." He paused, laughing off a momentary embarrassment. "That's why I
didn't want to depend on getting your name from the society editor."
"I am glad you did not. It would have been very annoying, I'm sure--to the
lady. I suppose," she went on slowly, while the glamour grew in her eyes,
"I suppose nothing could induce you to keep this story out of the
_Press_."
He pursed his lips and shook his head decidedly. "I don't see how I can.
I'd do 'most anything to oblige you, but this is the biggest scoop I ever
fell into. The fellows detailed by the other papers to report the fair
went straight through by way of the Northern Pacific. I was the only
reporter at the wreck."
"I understand, but," her voice fluctuated softly, "I dislike publicity so
intensely. Of course it's different with Mrs. Feversham. She is accustomed
to newspaper notice; her husband and brother are so completely in the
public eye. But since you must use the story, couldn't you suppress my
name?"
"Oh, but how could I? The whole story hinges on you. You were driving the
machine. I saw you from the train window as you came through the cut. You
handled the gear like an imported chauffeur, but it was steep there on the
approach, and the car began to skid. I saw in a flash what was going to
happen; it made me limp as a rag. But there was a chance,--the merest
hairbreadth, and you took it." He waited a moment, then said, smiling:
"That was a picture worth snapping, but I was too batty to think of it in
time. You see," he went on seriously, "the leading character in this story
is you. And it means a lot to me. I was going to be fired; honest I was.
The old man told me he wasn't looking for any _Treasure Island_ genius;
what his paper needed was plain facts. Then his big heart got the upper
hand, and he called me back. 'Jimmie,' he said, 'there's good stuff in
you, and I am going to give you one more trial. Go over to North Yakima
and tell us about the fair. Take the new Milwaukee line as far as
Ellensburg and pick up something about the automobile road through
Snoqualmie Pass. But remember, cut out the fiction; keep to facts!'"
"I understand," she repeated gravely, "I understand. The accident came
opportunely. It was life and color to your setting and demonstrates the
need of a better road. The most I can hope is that you will not exaggerate
or--or put us in a ridiculous light."
"I swear to that." He settled his notebook again on his knee and lifted
his pencil. "Nothing sensational," he added, "nothing annoying; now please
give me your name."
"Well, then, write Miss Armitage."
"Miss Armitage. Thank you. Miss Armitage of?"
"San Francisco."
"Of San Francisco; and visiting the Morgansteins, of course. But going on
now alone to meet the friends who are expecting you--am I right?--at North
Yakima."
There was a brief silence, and she moved a little in her chair. "Where I
am going now," she said, and looked at him once more across the invisible
barrier, "is another story."
"I beg your pardon." Daniels laughed and, rising from his perch on the
chair arm, put his notebook in his pocket. "And I'm awfully grateful. If
ever I can be of service to you, I hope you'll let me know." He started up
the car, then paused to say over his shoulder: "The light for photography
was fine; the old man will double column every illustration."
"Illustrations?" She started up in dismay. "Oh, no. Please--I couldn't
endure--"
But Jimmie Daniels, with the camera swinging to his quick step, hurried on
to the vestibule.
She settled back in her seat, and for a moment her consternation grew;
then the humor of the situation must have dawned on her, for suddenly the
sparkles danced in her eyes. Her glance met Tisdale's briefly and,
suppress it as he tried, his own smile broke at the corners of his mouth.
He rose and walked out again to the platform.
This was the rarest woman on earth. She was able to appreciate a joke at
her own expense. Clearly she had finessed, then, in the instant she had
been sure of the game, she had met and accepted defeat with a smile. But
he would like to discipline that fellow Daniels;--here he frowned--those
films should be destroyed. Still, the boy would hardly give them up
peaceably and to take them otherwise would not spare her the publicity she
so desired to avoid; such a scene must simply furnish fresh material, a
new chapter to the story. After all, not one newspaper cut in a hundred
could be recognized. It was certain she was in no need of a champion; he
never had seen a woman so well equipped, so sure of herself and her
weapons, and yet so altogether feminine. If Foster had but known _her_.
Instantly, in sharp contrast to this delightful stranger, rose the woman
of his imagination; the idle spendthrift who had cast her spell over
level-headed Foster; who had wrecked David Weatherbee; and his face
hardened. A personal interview, he told himself presently, would be worse
than useless. There was no way to reach a woman like her; she was past
appeal. But he would take that tract of desert off her hands at her price,
and perhaps, while the money lasted, she would let Foster alone.
The train had left Lake Keechelus and was racing easily down the banks of
the Yakima. He was entering the country he had desired to see, and soon
his interest wakened. He seated himself to watch the heights that seemed
to move in quick succession like the endlessly closing gates of the Pass.
The track still ran shelf-wise along precipitous knobs and ridges;
sometimes it bored through. The forests of fir and hemlock were replaced
by thinning groves of pine; then appeared the first bare, sage-mottled
dune. The trucks rumbled over a bit of trestle, and for an instant he saw
the intake of an irrigating canal, and finally, after a last tunnel, the
eastbound steamed out of the canyon into a broad, mountain-locked plateau.
Everywhere, watered by the brimming ditch, stretched fields of vivid
alfalfa or ripe grain. Where the harvesting was over, herds of fine horses
and cattle or great flocks of sheep were turned in to browse on the
stubble. At rare intervals a sage-grown breadth of unreclaimed land, like
a ragged blemish, divided these farms. Then, when the arid slopes began to
crowd again, the train whistled Ellensburg on the lower rim of the plain.
Tisdale left his seat to lean over the railing and look ahead. He was in
time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Jimmie Daniels as he hurried out of
the telegraph office and sprang on the step of a starting bus. It was here
the young newspaper man was to transfer to the Northern Pacific, and
doubtless the girl too was changing trains. The Milwaukee, beyond
Ellensburg, passed through new, unbroken country for many miles; the
stations were all in embryo, and even though she may not have resumed her
journey at the Pass with the intention of stopping off at the fair, the
same bus was probably taking her over to the old, main traveled route down
the Yakima to the Columbia.
Again that unaccountable depression came over him. He tried to throw it
off, laughing at himself a little and lighting a cigar. This pretty woman
had happened in his path like a flower; she had pleased his eyes for a few
hours and was gone. But what possible difference could her coming and
going make to him?
The train started, and he settled back in his seat. The fertile fields
were left behind, then presently the eastbound steamed through a gap in a
sun-baked ridge and entered a great arid level. Sage-brush stretched
limitless, and the dull green of each bush, powdered with dust, made a
grayer blotch on the pale shifting soil, that every chance zephyr lifted
in swirls and scattered like ashes. Sometimes a whiter patch showed where
alkali streaked through. It was like coming into an old, worn-out world.
The sun burned pitilessly, and when finally the train had crossed this
plain and began to wind through lofty dunes, the heat pent between the
slopes became stifling. The rear platform was growing intolerable, and he
knew his station could not be far off. He rose to go in, but the eastbound
suddenly plunged into the coolness of a tunnel, and he waited while it
bored through to daylight and moved on along a shelf overlooking a dry
run. Then, as he turned to the open door, he saw the girl had not taken
the Northern Pacific at Ellensburg. She was still there in the observation
car.
Her eyes were closed, and he noticed as he went forward that her breast
rose and fell gently; the shorter, loose hair formed damp, cool little
rings on her forehead and about her ears. She was sleeping in her chair.
But a turn in the track brought the sun streaming through her window; the
polished ceiling reflected the glare, and he stopped to reach carefully
and draw the blind. A moment later the whistle shrieked, and the conductor
called his station. He hurried on up the aisle and, finding his satchel in
the vestibule, stood waiting until the car jolted to a stop, then swung
himself off. But the porter followed with a suitcase and placed his stool,
and the next instant the girl appeared. She carried her hat in her hands,
her coat was tucked under her arm, and as she stepped down beside Tisdale,
the bell began to ring, the porter sprang aboard, and the train went
speeding ahead.
The station was only a telegraph office, flanked by a water-tank on a
siding. There was no waiting hotel bus, no cab, no vehicle of any kind.
The small building rose like an islet out of a gray sea. Far off through
billowing swells one other islet appeared, but these two passengers the
eastbound had left were like a man and woman marooned.