Bill Bronson had no realization of the full might of the stream until he
felt it around his body. The waters were fed from the snowfields on the
dark peaks, and every nerve in his system seemed to snap and break in
the first shock of immersion. But he quickly rallied, battling the
stream with mighty strokes.
He knew that if the rescue were accomplished, it would have to be soon.
The torrent grew ever wilder as it sped down the canyon: no human being
could live in the great, black whirlpool at its mouth. Besides, the
cold would claim him soon. Just a few little instants of struggle, and
then exhaustion, if indeed the icy waters did not paralyze his muscles.
He swam with his eyes open, full in the current, and with a really
incredible speed. And by the mercy of the forest gods almost at once he
caught a glimpse of Virginia's dark tresses in the water.
She was ten feet to one side, toward the Gray Lake shore of the river,
and several feet in front. The man seemed simply to leap through the
water. And in an instant more his arm went about her.
"Give yourself to the current," he shouted. "And hang on to me."
He knew this river. They were just entering upon a stretch of water
dreaded of old by the rivermen that had sometimes plied down the stream
in their fur-laden canoes,--a place of jagged rocks and crags and
bowlders that were all but submerged by the waters. To be hurled
against their sharp edges meant death, certain and speedily. He knew
that his mortal strength couldn't avail against them. But by yielding
to the current he thought that he might swing between them into the open
waters below. His arm tightened about the girl's form.
He had not come an instant too soon. Already she had given up. A fair
swimmer, she had been powerless in the rapids. She had not dreamed but
that the trail of her life was at an end. She was cold and afraid and
alone, and she had been ready to yield. But the sight of the guide's
strong body beside her had thrilled her with renewed hope.
Even in the shadow of death she was aware of the strong wrench of his
muscles as he swam, the saving might of his powerful frame. She knew
that he was not afraid for himself, but only for her. Even death, with
all its shadow and mystery, had not broken his spirit or bowed his head:
he faced it as he faced the wilderness and the whole dreadful battle of
life,--strongly, quietly, with never-faltering courage. And the girl
found herself partaking of his own strength.
Up to now she had not entered into comradeship with this man. But had
held herself on a different plane. But he was a comrade now; no matter
the outcome, even if they should find the inhospitable Death at the end
of their trial, this relationship could never be destroyed. They fought
the same fight, in the same shadow. Now she would not have to enter the
dark gates of Eternity alone and afraid. Here was a comrade; she knew
the truth at the first touch of his arm. He could buoy up her spirit
with his own.
"If I let go of you, can you hang on to my shoulder?" he asked her.
"Yes----"
He tried to look into her face, to see if she spoke the truth. But the
shadows were almost impenetrable now, and the air was choked with
falling snow.
"Then put your hand on my shoulder. I can't make progress the way I'm
holding you now. I'll try to work in to the nearest shore."
She seized his shoulder, but nearly lost her grasp in a channel of swift
water. Her fingers locked in the cloth of his shirt. And he began, a
little at a time, to cross the sixty feet of wild water between them and
the shore.
He had never been put to a greater test. Every ounce of his strength
was needed. The tendency of the stream was to carry him into the center
of the current, he was heavily clothed and shod, and the girl,
exhausted, was scarcely able to give aid at all. More than once he felt
himself weakening. Once a sharp pain, keen as a knife wound, smote his
thigh, and he was shaken with despair at the thought that swimmer's
cramps--dreaded by all men who know the water--were about to put an
end to the struggle. In the icy depths his bodily heat was flowing from
him in a frightfully rapid stream.
Closer and closer he swam, and at last only thirty feet of fast, deep
water stretched between. But it seemed wholly impossible to make this
last stretch. The sharp pain stabbed him again, and it seemed to him
that his right leg only half responded to the command of his nerves. In
a moment more they would be flung again into the cascades.
"I'm afraid I can't make it," he said, too softly for Virginia to hear.
He wrenched once more toward the shore.
But the river gods were merciful, after all. A jack pine had fallen on
the shore, struck down by a dead tree that had fallen beyond, and its
green spire, still clothed with needles, lay half-submerged, forty feet
out into the stream. Bill's arm encountered it, then snatched at it in
a final, spasmodic impulse of his muscles. And his grip held fast.
For an instant they were tossed like straws in the water, but gradually
he strengthened his grip. He caught a branch with his free hand, then
slowly pulled up on it. "Hang on," he breathed. "Only a moment more."
He drew himself and the girl up on the slender trunk, then crawled along
it toward the shore. Now they were half out of the water. And in a
moment later they both felt the river bottom against their knees.
He drew her to the bank, staggered and fell, and for a moment both of
them lay lifeless to the soft caress of the snow. But Bill did not dare
lose consciousness. He was fully aware that the fight was only half
won. And despair swept the girl when her clear thought returned to tell
her they had emerged upon the opposite shore from the party, and that
they were drenched through and lost in the night and storm,--endless,
weary paces from warmth and shelter.
Before the thought had gone fully home she saw that Bill was on his
feet. The twilight had all but yielded to the darkness, yet she saw
that he still stood straight and strong. It was not that he had already
recovered from the desperate battle in the river. Strong as he was, for
himself he had only one desire--to lie still and rest and let the
terrible cold take its toll. But he was the guide, the forester, and
the girl's life was in his care.
"Get off your clothes," he commanded. "All of them--the darkness
hides you--and I'll wring 'em out. If I don't you can't live to get
to the cabin. Your stockings first."
The thought of disobedience did not even come to her. He was fighting
for her life; no other issue remained.
"Rub your skin all over with your hands," he went on, "and keep moving.
Above all things keep the blood going in your veins. Rub as hard as you
can--I can't make a fire here--with no ax--in the snow."
Already she had tossed him her drenched stockings, and he was wringing
them in his strong hands. She rubbed her legs dry with her palms, and
put the stockings back on. Then she drew off her coats and outing suit,
and he wrung them as dry as he could. Then quickly she dressed again.
"Now--fast as you can walk toward the cabin."
He was not sure that he could find it in the darkness. He hoped to
encounter the moose trail where it left the ford; beyond that he had to
rely on his woodsman's instincts. He was soaked through and exhausted
and he knew from the strange numbness of his body that he was slowly
being chilled to death. It was a test of his own might and endurance
against the cruel elements and a power beyond mere physical strength
came to his aid.
They forced their way through the evergreen thickets of the river bank,
walking up the stream toward the ford. He broke through the brushy
barriers with the might of his body; he made a trail for her in the
snow. The darkness deepened around them. The snow fell ever heavier,
and the winds soughed in the tree tops.
After the first half-mile all consciousness of effort was gone from the
girl. She seemed to move from a will beyond her own, one step after
another over that terrible trail. She lost all sense of time, almost of
identity. Strange figures, only for such eyes as might see in the
darkness, they fought their way on through the drifts.
But they conquered at last. Partly by the feel of the snow under his
feet, partly by his woodsman's instincts, but mostly because the forest
gods were merciful, Bill kept to the moose trail that led from the ford
to the cabin. And the man was swaying, drunkenly, when he reached the
door.
His cold hands could scarcely draw out the rusted file that acted as a
brace for the chain. Yet his voice was quiet and steady when he spoke.
"There are blankets in there, plenty of 'em," he told her. "It's
my main supply cabin. Spread some of them out and take off your
clothes--all of 'em--and get between them. I'll build a fire as fast
as I can."
She turned to obey. She heard him take down an ax that had been left
hanging on the cabin walls and heard his step in the snow as he began to
cut into kindling some of the pieces of cordwood that were heaped
outside the door. She undressed quickly, then lay shivering between the
warm, heavy blankets.
In a moment the man faltered in, his arms heavy with wood. She heard
him fumbling back of the little stove, then a match gleamed in the
gloom. She had never seen such a face as this before her now. Its
lines were deep and incredibly dark: utter fatigue was inscribed upon
the drawn features and in the dark, dull eyes. She was suddenly shaken
with horror at the thought that perhaps she was looking upon the first
shadow of death itself.
He had cut the kindling with his knife, inserted the candle end, and a
little blaze danced up. She watched him feed the fire with strange,
heavy motions. He took a pan down from the wall, then went out into the
darkness.
Haunted by fears, it seemed to her she waited endless hours for him to
return again. When he came the pan was filled with water from a little
stream that flowed behind the cabin. He put it on the stove to heat.
She dozed off, then wakened to find him sitting on the edge of her bed,
holding a cup of some steaming liquid. Vaguely she noticed that he had
taken off his wet clothes and had put on a worn overcoat that had been
hanging back of the stove, wrapping two thick blankets over this. He
put his left arm behind her and lifted her up, then fed her spoonfuls of
the hot liquid. She didn't know what it was, other than it contained
whisky.
"Take some of it yourself," she told him at last.
He shook his head and smiled,--a wistful yet manly smile that almost
brought tears to her eyes. That smile was the last thing that she
remembered. The warm, kindly liquor stole through her veins, and she
dropped into heavy slumber.
* * * * *
In the stress of that first hour after the disaster of the river,
Lounsbury and Vosper had a chance to test the steel of which they were
made. This was the time for inner strength, and courage, and beyond all
things else, for self-discipline. But only the forest creatures, such
little folk as watch with beady eyes from the coverts all the drama of
the wilderness, beheld how they stood that test.
For the first few seconds Lounsbury sat upon his horse and simply stared
in mute horror. Then he half-climbed, half-fell from the saddle, and
followed by Vosper, started running down the river bank. Immediately he
lost sight of Virginia and Bill. Almost at once thereafter the cold and
the darkness got into his spirit and appalled him.
"They're lost, they're lost," he cried. "There's not a chance on earth
to get 'em out."
The branches tripped him and he fell sprawling in the snow. He got up
and hastened on. Vosper, his thews turning to mushroom stalks within
him, could only follow, swearing hoarsely. At each break of the trees
they would clamber down to the water's edge and look over the tumultuous
wastes, and each time the twilight was deeper, the snow flurries
heavier. And soon they came to a steep bank which they could not
descend.
"It's a death trip. I knew it was a death trip," Lounsbury moaned.
"And what's the use of going farther. They haven't a chance on earth."
They did, however, push on a short distance down the river. Lounsbury
was of the opinion it was very far indeed. In reality it was not two
hundred yards in all. And they halted once more to stare with
frightened eyes at the stream.
"It ain't the first this river's taken," Vosper told him. "And they
never even found their bodies."
"And we won't find these, now," Lounsbury replied. They waited a little
while in silence, trying to pierce the shadows. "What do you suppose
we'd better do?" he questioned.
"I don't know. What can we do?"
"There's no chance of saving them. They're gone already. No swimmer
could live in that stream. Why did we ever come--it was a wild-goose
chase at best. If they did get out they'd be lost--and couldn't find
their way. It seems to me the wisest thing for us to do is to go
back--and build a big fire--so they can find their way in if they did
get out."
It was a worthy suggestion! The voice of cowardice that had been
speaking in Lounsbury's craven soul had found expression in words at
last. He was frightened by the storm and the darkness, and he was cold
and tired, and a beacon light for the two wanderers in the storm was
only a subterfuge whereby he might justify their return to camp. The
understrapper understood, but he didn't disagree. They were two of a
kind.
It was not that they did not know their rightful course. Both were
fully aware that such a fire as they could build could only gleam a few
yards through the heavy spruce thicket. They knew that braver men would
keep watch over that dreadful river for half the night at least, calling
and searching, ready to give aid in the feeble hope that the two
exhausted swimmers might come ashore.
"Sure thing," Vosper agreed. "It'll be hard to make a good fire in the
snow, and we can't build one at all if them pack horses has got away by
now."
"You mean--we'd die?" Lounsbury's eyes protruded.
"The ax is in the pack. We wouldn't have a chance."
Lounsbury turned abruptly, scarcely able to refrain from running. The
pack horses, however, hadn't left their tracks. And now the brave
Mulvaney had gained the shore and was standing motionless, gazing out
over the troubled waters. No man might guess the substance of his
thoughts. He scarcely glanced at the two men.
They unpacked the animals, and by scraping off the snow and by the aid
of the keen ax and a candle-stub soon lighted a fire. To satisfy the
feeble voice of his conscience Lounsbury himself cut wood to make it
blaze high. They made their coffee and cooked an abundant meal.
They stretched the tent in the evergreen thicket, and after supper they
sat in its mouth in the glow of the fire. Its crackle drowned out the
voices of the wilderness about them,--such accusations as the Red Gods
pour out upon the unworthy. And for all their shelter they were
wretched and terrified, crushed by the might of the wilderness about
them,--futile things that were the scorn of even the beasts.
"Of course we'll never find the bodies," Lounsbury suggested at last.
"No chance, that I can see. The winter's come to stay. We won't be
able to get any men from Bradleyburg to help us look for 'em. They
couldn't get through the snow."
"You think--" Lounsbury's voice wavered, "you think--we can get back
all right ourselves?"
"Sure. That is, if we start first thing to-morrow. There's a clear
trail through the snow most of the way--our own trail, comin' out.
But it will be hard goin' and not safe to wait."
"Then I suppose--the horses will be sent down below, because of the
snow. That's another reason why they can't even search for the bodies."
"Yes. Of course they may float down to the Yuga and be seen somewhere
by the Indians. But not much chance."
They lighted their pipes, and the horror of the tragedy began slowly to
pass from them. The blinding snow and the cold and their own discomfort
occupied all their thoughts. There was only one ray of light,--that
in the morning they could turn back out of the terrible wilderness, down
toward the cities of men.
They didn't try to sleep. The snow and the cold and the shrieking wind
made rest an impossibility. They did doze, however, between times that
they rose to cut more fuel for the fire. The hours seemed endless.
Darkness still lay over the river when they went again to their toil.
Lounsbury, himself offered to cook breakfast and tried to convince
himself the act entitled him to praise. In reality, he was only
impatient to hasten their departure. Vosper packed the hungry horses,
slyly depositing portions of their supplies and equipment in the
evergreen thickets to lighten his own work. He further lightened the
packs by putting a load on Mulvaney. And they climbed down to the
water's edge to glance once more at the turbulent stream.
"No use of waiting any more," Lounsbury said at last.
"Of course not. Get on your horse." Then they rode away, these
two worthy men, back toward the settlements. Some of the pack
horses--particularly the yellow Baldy and his kind--moved eagerly when
they saw that their masters had changed directions. But Vosper had to
urge Mulvaney on with oaths and blows.