IN THE BLIZZARD
There was no cessation, no abatement. Across a thousand miles of plain
the ice-laden wind swept down upon them with the relentless fury of a
hurricane, driving the snow crystals into their faces, buffeting them
mercilessly, numbing their bodies, and blinding their eyes. In that
awful grip they looked upon Death, but struggled on, as real men must
until they fall. Breathing was agony; every step became a torture;
fingers grasping the horses' bits grew stiff and deadened by frost;
they reeled like drunken men, sightless in the mad swirl, deafened by
the pounding of the blast against their ears. All consciousness left
them; only dumb instinct kept them battling for life, staggering
forward, foot by foot, odd phantasies of imagination beginning to
beckon. In their weakness, delirium gripped their half-mad brains,
yielding new strength to fight the snow fiend. Aching in every joint,
trembling from fatigue, they dare not rest an instant. The wind,
veering more to the east, lashed their faces like a whip. They
crouched behind the horses to keep out of the sting of it, crunching
the snow, now in deep drifts, under their half-frozen feet.
Wade, a young fellow not overly strong, fell twice. They placed him in
the centre, with Carroll bringing up the rear. Again he went down,
face buried in the snow, crying like a babe. Desperately the others
lashed him into his saddle, binding a blanket about him, and went
grimly staggering on, his limp figure rocking above them. Hour
succeeded hour in ceaseless struggle; no one knew where they were, only
the leader staggered on, his eyes upon the compass. Wasson and Hamlin
took their turns tramping a trail, the snow often to their knees. They
had stopped speaking, stopped thinking even. All their movements
became automatic, instinctive, the result of iron discipline. They
realized the only hope--attainment of the Cimarron bluffs. There was
no shelter there in the open, to either man or horse; the sole choice
left was to struggle on, or lie down and die. The last was likely to
be the end of it, but while a drop of blood ran red and warm in their
veins they would keep their feet and fight.
Carroll's horse stumbled and rolled, catching the numbed trooper under
his weight. The jerk on the lariat flung Wade out of the saddle,
dangling head downward. With stiffened fingers, scarcely comprehending
what they were about, the Sergeant and Wasson came to the rescue,
helped the frightened horse struggle to its feet, and, totally blinded
by the fury of the storm which now beat fairly in their eyes, grasped
the dangling body, swaying back and forth as the startled animal
plunged in terror. It was a corpse they gripped, already stiff with
cold, the eyes wide-open and staring. Carroll, bruised and limping,
came to their help, groaning with pain, and the three men together
managed to lift the dead weight to the horse's back, and to bind it
safely with the turn of a rope. Then, breathless from exhaustion,
crouching behind the animals, bunched helplessly together, the howl of
the wind like the scream of lost souls, the three men looked into each
other's faces.
"I reckon Jim died without ever knowin' it," said the scout, breaking
again the film of ice over his eyes, and thrashing his arms. "I allers
heard tell it was an easy way o' goin'. Looks to me he was better off
than we are just now. Hurt much, Carroll?"
"Crunched my leg mighty bad; can't bear no weight on it. 'T was darn
near froze stiff before; thet 's why I could n't get out o' the way
quick."
"Sure; well, ye 'll have ter ride, then. We 'll take the blanket off
Jim; he won't need it no more. 'Brick' an' I kin hoof it yet
awhile--hey, 'Brick'?"
Hamlin lifted his head from the shelter of his horse's mane.
"I reckon I can make my feet move," he asserted doubtfully, "but they
don't feel as though there was any life left in them." He stamped on
the snow. "How long do these blizzards generally last, Sam?"
"Blow themselves out in about three days."
"Three days? God! We can never live it out here."
His eyes ranged over the dim outline of Wade stretched across the
saddle, powdered with snow, rested an instant upon Carroll who had sunk
back upon the ground, nursing his injured limb, and then sought the
face of Wasson.
"What the hell can we do?"
"Go on; thet's all of it; go on till we drop, lad. Come, 'Brick,' my
boy," and the scout gripped the Sergeant's shoulder, "you 're not the
kind to lie down. We 've been in worse boxes than this and pulled out.
It 's up to you and me to make good. Let's crunch some hard-tack and
go on, afore the whole three of us freeze stiff."
The Sergeant thrust out his hand.
"That isn't what's taken the nerve out of me, Sam," he said soberly.
"It's thinking of the girl out in all this with those devils."
"Likely as not she ain't," returned the other, tramping the snow under
his feet. "I 've been thinkin' 'bout thet too. Thet outfit must hev
had six hours the start o' us, didn't they?"
Hamlin nodded.
"Well, then, they could n't a ben far from the Cimarron when the storm
come. They 'd be safe enough under the bluffs; have wood fer a fire,
and lay thar mighty comfortable. That's whar them bucks are, all
right. Why, damn it, man, we 've got to get through. 'T ain't just
our fool lives that's at stake. Brace up!"
"How far have we come?"
"A good ten miles, an' the compass has kep' us straight."
They drew in closer together, and munched a hard cracker apiece,
occasionally exchanging a muttered word or two, thrashing their limbs
about to keep up circulation, and dampening their lips with snow. They
were but dim, spectral shapes in the darkness, the air filled with
crystal pellets, swept about by a merciless wind, the horses standing
tails to the storm and heads drooping. In spite of the light
refraction of the snow the eyes could scarcely see two yards away
through the smother. Above, about, the ceaseless wind howled, its icy
breath chilling to the bone. Carroll clambered stiffly into his
saddle, crying and swearing from weakness and pain. The others,
stumbling about in the deep snow, which had drifted around them during
the brief halt, stripped the blanket from Wade's dead body, and tucked
it in about Carroll as best they could.
"Now keep kicking and thrashing around, George," ordered the Sergeant
sternly. "For God's sake, don't go to sleep, or you 'll be where Jim
is. We 'll haul you out of this, old man. Sam, you take the rear, and
hit Carroll a whack every few minutes; I'll break trail. Forward! now."
They plunged into it, ploughing a way through the drifts, the reluctant
horses dragging back at first, and drifting before the fierce sweep of
the wind, in spite of every effort at guidance. It was an awful
journey, every step torture, but Hamlin bent to it, clinging grimly to
the bit of his animal, his other arm protecting his eyes from the sting
of the wind. Behind, Wasson wielded a quirt, careless whether its lash
struck the horse's flank or Carroll. And across a thousand miles of
snow-covered plain, the storm howled down upon them in redoubled fury,
blinding their eyes, making them stagger helplessly before its blasts.
They were still moving, now like snails, when the pale sickly dawn
came, revealing inch by inch the dread desolation, stretching white and
ghastly in a slowly widening circle. The exhausted, struggling men,
more nearly dead than alive from their ceaseless toil, had to break the
film of ice from their eyes to perceive their surroundings. Even then
they saw nothing but the bare, snow-draped plain, the air full of
swirling flakes. There was nothing to guide them, no mark of
identification; merely lorn barrenness in the midst of which they
wandered, dragging their half-frozen horses. The dead body of Wade had
stiffened into grotesque shape, head and feet dangling, shrouded in
clinging snow, Carroll had fallen forward across his saddle pommel,
too weak to sit erect, but held by the taut blanket, and gripping his
horse's ice-covered mane. Wasson was ahead now, doggedly crunching a
path with his feet, and Hamlin staggered along behind.
Suddenly some awakened instinct in the numbed brain of the scout told
him of a change in their surroundings. He felt rather than saw the
difference. They had crossed the sand belt, and the contour of the
prairie was rising. Then the Cimarron was near! Even as the
conviction took shape, the ghostly outline of a small elevation loomed
through the murk. He stared at it scarce believing, imagining a
delusion, and then sent his cracked voice back in a shout on the wind.
"We 're thar, 'Brick'! My God, lad, here 's the Cimarron!"
He wheeled about, shading his mouth, so as to make the words carry
through the storm.
"Do you hear? We're within a half mile o' the river. Stir Carroll up!
Beat the life inter him! There 's shelter and fire comin'!"
As though startled by some electric shock, Hamlin sprang forward, his
limbs strengthening in response to fresh hope, ploughed through the
snow to Carroll's side, and shook and slapped the fellow into
semi-consciousness.
"We 're at the river, George!" he cried, jerking up the dangling head.
"Wake up, man! Wake up! Do you hear? We 'll have a fire in ten
minutes!"
The man made a desperate effort, bracing his hands on the horse's neck
and staring at his tormentor with dull, unseeing eyes.
"Oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and went down again.
Hamlin struck him twice, his chilled hand tingling to the blow, but the
inert figure never moved.
"No use, Sam. We 've got to get on, and thaw him out. Get up there,
you pony!"
The ghostly shape of the hill was to their right, and they circled its
base almost waist-deep in drift. This brought the wind directly into
their faces, and the horses balked, dragging back and compelling both
men to beat them into submission. Wasson was jerking at the bit, his
back turned so that he could see nothing ahead, but Hamlin, lashing the
rear animal with his quirt, still faced the mound, a mere dim shadow
through the mists of snow. He saw the flash of yellow flame that
leaped from its summit, heard the sharp report of a gun, and saw Wasson
crumble up, and go down, still clinging to his horse's rein. It came
so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that the single living man left scarcely
realized what had happened. Yet dazed as he was, some swift impulse
flung him, headlong, into the snow behind his pony, and even as he
fell, his numbed fingers gripped for the revolver at his hip. The
hidden marksman shot twice, evidently discerning only dim outlines at
which to aim; the red flame of discharge cut the gloom like a knife.
One ball hurtled past Hamlin's head; the other found billet in Wade's
horse, and the stricken creature toppled over, bearing its dead burden
with him. The Sergeant ripped off his glove, found the trigger with
his half-frozen fingers, and fired twice. Then, with an oath, he
leaped madly to his feet, and dashed straight at the silent hill.