SNOWBOUND
DOWN on the desert the earth was warm and brown, but when the train
had passed Grand Junction a few stray flakes were seen floating across
the cañon. At Montrose, where they picked up a helper for the hill,
the ground was covered with snow. Most of the passengers got out and
walked up and down the long wooden platform, for the air was cool and
bracing. It seemed that there must be some trouble up the line, for
the conductor of No. 8 was hurrying to and fro with his hands full of
orders that he appeared unable to fill. A couple of travelling men were
threatening to sue the company unless they reached Denver within the
next twenty-four hours; and other passengers were getting hungry. Jack
Bowen, of the Ouray branch, was lying luminously to a dignified New
Englander and his handsome daughter. Jack was the uniformed conductor
of the Ouray run, whose elocutionary accomplishments had made him
the envy of all the men on the mountain division of this mountainous
railroad. They had ploughed up a tribe of Indians coming down that
morning, Jack was saying, with his insinuating, half-embarrassed smile,
and the pilot of the locomotive had been red with the blood of the band.
“Look now, you can see the fireman cleaning it off,” he added, for
the old gentleman was going to smile. Sure enough they could see the
fireman with a piece of waste wiping the pilot of the Ouray engine.
“And did you leave them where they lay?”
“Sure,” said Jack; “couldn’t stop the most important run on the road
for a few miserable Ingins,--dead Ingins at that. ’Sides, if we stopped
we couldn’t get ’em.”
“Was the snow so very deep up there?”
“’Twant the snow,” said the conductor, smiling and consulting his big
gold watch.
“What was it, then?” asked the tourist, becoming more and more
interested.
“Well, it so happened that a band of wolves was at that moment passin’
down towards the Uncompahgre in search of food, an’ the moment they
got scent o’ blood they pounced upon the prey.”
The young lady caught her father’s arm and shuddered.
“If there is anything a wolf rolls as a sweet morsel under his tongue,”
said Jack, glancing at his watch again, “it’s Ingin fricassee, rare and
red.”
“Oh, papa!” said the young lady, “let’s go back to the sleeper.”
“You see,” resumed the conductor, “it didn’t matter much, for this
was a band of renegades--bad Ingins they are called,--who ought to
have been killed some time ago. Their leader, Cut-Your-Hair-Short,
was spotted by old Ouray, the chief, anyway. He wanted to marry
Cat-A-Sleepin’, Ouray’s daughter; the old man kicked, and what you
’s’pose this Ingin, Cut-Your-Hair-Short, did?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea,” said the bewildered New Englander.
“Well, sir, he goes up to the old chief’s hogan--”
“Bowen.”
“Excuse me,” said Jack, “till I explain the orders to this young
man. Yo’ see he’s new at the business, and I have to help him out
occasionally to see--”
“Bowen.”
This time the conductor of No. 8 spoke short and sharp, and Bowen went
to him.
“Now, look here, Jack,” began the conductor of the snow-bound train,
“if you don’t stop stuffing that old gentleman I swear I’ll report you
when I get to Salida.”
“Who’s stuffin’ ’im?”
“That’s all right, you lie to your own people--let my passengers alone.”
Jack went back to his prey.
“I hope,” said the gray-haired voyager, “that this young man will not
get us into any trouble.”
“Oh! not a bit of it, not a bit of it; I have explained everything
to him, and he won’t forget. Now, you’d never dream it,” he went on,
turning and walking beside the handsome woman, “but that young fellow
McGuire’s a nobleman.”
“You don’t tell me?”
“Yes, I do, an’ what’s more to the point, it’s true. Look at him. You
don’t suppose a young fellow like that would be in charge of a main
line express train ’less he had a pull.”
“A what?”
“’Less he cut ice elsewhere,” said the conductor. “I tell you that
comedian stands to win out a throne some day. His father was Irish, of
course, but his mother was French. She could chase herself right back
to the old rock and rye family, the Bourbins, I think they were called.
His grandfather lived with a man called Louie Sais on a ranch called
Ver Sigh, a little way out of Paris. The old man was a sort of a chum
of the Louis, called ‘The Gentleman of the Sleeping Car’ or something
like that,--he was a big hole at Ver Sigh, was this boy’s Grand Pare.”
“Allabo a-r-d,” said McGuire in the middle of his career. The old
gentleman bowed stiffly to Bowen, the young lady smiled sweetly, and
stepped into the Pullman.
When McGuire came through the car taking up tickets after leaving
Montrose, he found Miss Landon alone. She lifted her eyes,--sunny
eyes, they were, that seemed to mock him and the blinding storm
through which they were now rolling away up the long, even grade that
made a mighty approach to the mountain. She held her glance upon his
burning face for the briefest space, but when he passed on he could
still feel the warmth of her eyes, like the waves of lingering sunshine
through which you pass when you are walking in a summer twilight.
When he had finished his work the conductor returned to the
smoking-room of the sleeper, but found after a moment’s stay that the
air was vile, the place stuffy, and he went forward to the day coach.
As he passed through the forward sleeper he noticed that Miss Landon
was still alone. She had her back to him, but as he came up the aisle
the swing of the car on a short curve caused him to steady himself upon
the end of her section. At the same moment and for the same reason she
put an ungloved hand out to clasp the edge of the narrow seat, and
it fell, soft as a snowflake, warm as a sunbeam, and soundless as a
shadow, upon the hand of McGuire.
To be sure she did not leave it there long, but she had to press the
hand of the conductor to steady herself in the car that was now rolling
like a stage-coach on the Rainbow Route. She drew her hand away, and
went red to the tips of her shell-like ears; but she did not look back
to see whose hand she had caressed. Looking into the narrow mirror at
her side, McGuire saw her confusion and hurried past, and she wondered
whether it was his hand that she had touched. She rather hoped that it
might be so!
Up in the forward car the two travelling men, the editor of the Ouray
Solid Muldoon, and a cowboy from the Uncompahgre, were playing poker.
Now McGuire knew that this was against the rules of the road, but he
was slow to make protest under the circumstances. He was reasonably
sure that they would all come back to Montrose, for the snow was
growing deeper and deeper with each passing mile-post. He would have
these men on his hands overnight, and so would avoid friction. He stood
with his back to the door for a moment listening to the talk of the
travelling men, the cowboy, and the editor.
“Why, I know ’im like a book,” Muldoon was saying. “Name’s Landon, Ole
Joe Landon of Gloucester, made his money on codfish: ante up there,
Patsy.”
“It’s his do,” said Patsy.
“Come to the centre there, ole brandin’ iron,” said the editor to the
cattleman, and the latter dropped a cartridge among the coin and other
equivalent upon the impoverished poker table.
Time had been when McGuire could linger and laugh for hours where these
rollicking voyagers played and told stories, but now their talk seemed
absolutely silly, not to say vulgar, and he turned away.
“After all,” mused McGuire, “there’s not such a gulf between us. She’s
a rich merchant’s daughter, I’m a poor conductor. She must ever remain
a merchant’s daughter with no show for promotion. I’m due to be a
superintendent, a general manager, and, possibly, the president of a
railroad. And then--if she is still a merchant’s daughter! well, it’s a
long, long road, but by the god o’ the wind, I’ll make the effort. If I
fail, very well, I shall be better for having tried.”
Seating himself in a quiet corner, McGuire began to count upon the
fingers of his left hand the men who had begun far below where he now
stood and worked up to positions of trust. First he counted presidents
only. There were Manvill, Moffett, Newell, Blackstone, Clark of the U.
P., Clark of the M. & O., Towne, Hughitt, and Van Horne. When he began
on the general managers he had to go to the other hand, and when he
came to count the self-made superintendents, beginning loyally with
“the old man” of the mountain division, he ran out of fingers and took
heart. And what a prize to work for, and she was rich. Incidentally she
was an angel.
He could not tell why he did so, but he now went back through the car,
and as he was passing the old merchant’s section the head engine, which
was wearing a pilot plough, screamed for brakes, and the train came to
a dead stop.
“Anything wrong?” asked the traveller.
“Oh! no,” said McGuire cheerfully, “just a little skiff o’ snow.”
Now, he had made up his mind not to look into the eyes of the girl
again, but when she leaned over and asked, with just the sweetest,
distressing little scare in her voice, if there were any wolves about,
he had to look.
“No,” he said, “there are no wolves in these mountains to speak of,”
and he smiled a smile that was almost sad.
“Nor Indians?” said the sweet voice, a trifle clearer.
“Nor Indians,” said McGuire, shaking his head.
“They’re dreadful on the Ouray branch.”
“Which, the wolves or the Indians?”
“Both,” she replied. “A gentleman told us, there where we stopped
so long, that they killed ever so many Indians coming down this
morning. Mr. Bowen, I think they called him; he seemed to be one of
the officials of the road, so I’m sure he would not say anything to
frighten people if it were not true.”
McGuire was boiling. He might have been tempted to introduce Mr. Bowen
then and there, but at that moment the head brakeman came back to say
that they were stuck fast in a drift a hundred yards from the little
telegraph office at the foot of Cerro Hill.
For nearly an hour they bucked and backed and bucked again, but it
was of no use. The snow was growing deeper with each passing moment.
Presently it stopped snowing and began to blow, and McGuire asked for
orders to back down to Montrose again, but the despatcher would not let
him go.
Denver was hammering Salida, Salida was swearing at Gunnison, and
Gunnison was burning the company wire over Cerro Hill, telling McGuire
to get out.
Finally the trainmaster lost his head, McGuire lost his temper, wrote
his resignation and handed it to the operator, but fortunately the
wires were down by this time, and the message couldn’t go.
The section gang having cleared the siding, the train was now pulled in
off the main line.
Being assured that there were no wolves nor Indians on the right of
way, Miss Landon came out with her father to see the sights. It was
growing dark at the end of a short December day, and what with the
flying snow and the screams and snorts of the engines that had been
uncoupled and were now hammering away at the deep drifts, the merchant
and his daughter were unable to hear the whistle of a snow-plough that
was at that moment falling down from Cerro summit.
McGuire heard the whistle, backed his buckers on to the siding, and,
looking up, saw Miss Landon and her father standing on the edge of a
thorough cut that had drifted almost full of snow. Appreciating at a
glance the danger they were in, the conductor ran up the track and
tried to call to the old gentleman to stand back, but the snow was deep
and held him, the storm muffled his voice, and the wind carried his cry
away across the hills and lost it among the shrouded cedars.
The big engine, and the snow-plough, under the snow, made little more
noise than a ship would make running under water, and it was not until
the plough was upon them that the two travellers at the top of the cut
saw or heard it. The great machine, which was rounding a slight curve,
seemed to be driving straight for them. The girl turned to try to
escape, and there before her, not two cars away, she saw what seemed to
be a huge black bear, climbing up the bank toward her. At that moment
she stepped over the edge, and went rolling down to the bottom of the
cut, for the newly drifted snow was soft and light.
It would have been a relief to Miss Landon to have been able to faint,
but she did not. She had no sooner reached the outer rail than the big
plough picked her up and hurled her, unhurt, almost out of the right
of way. She grew dizzy with the sensation of falling, but was able to
feel that she was coming down on the soft snow, and that she was still
unhurt. Between her going up and coming down she managed to breathe a
grateful prayer, so rapidly does the human mind work at the edge of the
future.
After what appeared to her a very long time, she came down in a deep
drift with her eyes full of snow. She felt soft arms about her waist,
and opened her eyes. “Help! help!” she screamed, for the arms were the
arms of the big black bear. Now the bear stood up and carried her away.
She fainted.
* * * * *
When the sun went down the wind went with it. The moon came up from
beyond Ouray and showed the still, cold world sleeping in her robe of
white. The smooth, high mountains, twenty, fifty, and even a hundred
miles away, looked like polished piles of marble, gleaming in the
moonlight. Miss Landon was lying on a couch in the drawing-room of a
sleeper. Her father was seated opposite her, and when the conductor
looked in to see if anything was wanted, the merchant asked him to sit
down. The excitement through which he had passed made the old gentleman
feel lonely, away out there in the wilds of a trackless waste. Possibly
the stories that Bowen had told him added to his uneasiness. He wanted
to smoke. All the other ladies, not having staterooms, had gone to the
hotel for the night. Miss Landon was nervous and he did not like her to
be alone, so now, making excuse, he went to the smoking-room.
The Ouray train had been unable to reach its destination and had also
backed down to Montrose again. McGuire had given Bowen orders to keep
out of his train, and Jack was hurt. He had secured a guitar, a man who
could play it, some railway employees who thought they could sing, and
just as the old gentleman was entering the smoking-room, Jack and his
mirth-makers paused beneath Miss Landon’s window. Jack had instructed
them to sing “Patsy Git Up From the Fire,” and to begin with the chorus.
The heart of the handsome conductor beat wildly when he found himself
alone with the charming girl. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, for
the excitement of the afternoon had left her feverish. Her deep blue
eyes shed a softer light as she lounged upon the little divan amid the
Pullman pillows.
Realizing that her duty was now that of hostess in her own
drawing-room, Miss Landon was about to break the embarrassing silence
that was filling the place, but at that moment Camdel, the red-haired
soprano, touched the guitar and opened up with a mirth-provoking Irish
accent:--
“Arrah, Patsy! git up f’om th’ fire,
An’ guv th’ mon a sate;
Can’t ye see that it’s Misther McGuire,
Come a courtin’ yer sisther Kate?”
By the time the singers had concluded the chorus McGuire was on his
feet, his face changing from red to white.
“Sit down,” said Miss Landon, blushing, but smiling in spite of
herself. “I did not know you had a bard among you capable of making
songs upon occasion,” she added; “please don’t disturb them.”
McGuire threw himself upon the seat and bit his lip. If only he could
get hold of Jack Bowen he’d break his long back.
After what seemed an age to McGuire the song ceased.
“I think that is perfectly wonderful,” said Miss Landon
enthusiastically, “and how nicely the singing sounds out there in the
clear, cold night. They must have made that song since we came back
from the hills; and the music, where did they get the tune? Did that
funny Mr. Bowen make that too?”
“That man couldn’t make a mud pie; he can’t whistle a tune; he can’t
even tell the truth,” said the conductor of No. 8, indignantly.
“Oh, Mr. McGuire,” said the young lady, with a pretty show of surprise.
“Well, it’s true. I’m ashamed to say so, but it’s true; you must not
believe a word he says.”
“Not one word?”
“Never. I don’t see how he made his wife believe he loved her.”
“Is he married, then?”
“Oh, yes. He’s as gentle as a nun and as harmless as a child, only
don’t believe him. He lies just for the love of it, and never to injure
any one. He ought to leave the road and devote himself to literature;
he likes romancing. He calls his harmless bits of fiction ‘Novels Out
of Print.’”
“He certainly has a ready and vivid imagination.”
Miss Landon sighed lightly. McGuire was handsome, and he had held her
in his arms.
“Please take off that horrid woolly coat,” said Miss Landon, with a
little shudder.
McGuire, blushing, removed his bearskin overcoat that he had put on up
in the hills that afternoon.
“I presume papa has thanked you for rescuing me so heroically,” she
said, looking at him.
“He has, but it was not necessary.”
“But it is right, and I must thank you also.”
“Then, if you thank me, I am glad, for you did not seem to appreciate
my efforts at the moment.”
“Who could? I was scared out of my wits; I took you for a horrid bear,
and that was the first time I ever fainted in all my life; and that’s
more than some of your Western girls can say, who are so sensible,
self-possessed, and brave.”
“I thought,” said McGuire, smiling back at the young lady, “it might be
because we had not been properly introduced. You have doubtless heard
of the Boston girl who was drowning, but refused to be rescued upon
that ground?”
“I have not heard it, and I should not believe it if I had. Boston
girls are as sensible as Denver girls or San Francisco girls. I don’t
know that we have been introduced yet,” she added, with a little toss
of her head, and her words went straight to the heart of McGuire.
He felt that he ought to go, and yet he knew that her father had
left her in his care, and that he would be expected to remain in the
drawing-room until the merchant had finished his cigar. To add to his
confusion she let her window shade fly up, and, apparently ignoring his
presence, was looking out upon the cold, shrouded world, that seemed
so wild and wide.
“Ah!” said the old gentleman, entering the room, “I feel better now;
first good smoke I’ve had since dinner.”
When McGuire arose and took up his greatcoat, Miss Landon stood up and
returned his good night.
“Good night,” said the merchant, and immediately, as if they had been
waiting for time; the mirth-makers upon the platform sang:
“Good night, ladies, good night, ladies,
Sweet dreams, ladies--we’re going to leave you now.”