BLACK DEVIL PASS
"They can stand the curse of being women, but they're revolting against
men's being stupid."
_--The Mormon's Wife_.
Douglas spurred Tom relentlessly until the snow was belly-deep and both
animals began to fight obstinately to turn back. Douglas dismounted and
fastened the horses to a scrub cedar. Then he wallowed forward afoot to
break trail. The wind increased constantly with the elevation, but even
higher than its eerie note sounded the wild call of a solitary coyote.
Douglas heard the call but remotely. His mind was fastened on Judith
fighting as he was fighting. He beat trail until his lungs protested,
then he brought the horses forward, halted, and beat trail again. His
nose was bleeding slightly when he at last won to the crest of the first
shoulder.
This was blown clear of snow and he mounted and rode well up on the
second shoulder before the horses again balked. Lost Chief Range now had
dropped so that dimly beyond he could glimpse the Indian peaks. The
strange peaks to the right were subsiding to be dwarfed by still other
peaks against which the stars floated, pendulous and brilliant. And
still Black Devil's top was invisible beyond the terraced ridge that
opposed the little cavalcade.
When, after infinite effort, Douglas surmounted the third shoulder, he
paused, appalled by the loneliness and danger of the position. The ridge
had narrowed until its top offered barely a foothold, with sides
dropping to unthinkable depths. The snow had blown clear and the wind
was almost insupportable. A cedar stood before them like a sentinal
guarding the eternal loneliness beyond. Tom made for this as if it were
his last hope. As the horses brought up in the shelter of the tree,
Douglas gave a hoarse cry of relief and dismounted. Some charred sticks
and the remains of a cottontail had not yet blown away. Douglas examined
the traces of the hasty camp, then chuckled.
"Safe so far! Some girl, my Judith!"
Then his jaw stiffened and he set the horses to the last shoulder below
the Pass. Groaning, trembling, bloody flanks heaving, fighting
constantly to turn, Tom, when Douglas sought to force him through the
drift that topped the shoulder, deliberately lay down. Douglas freed
himself from the stirrups and jerked the horse to his feet.
"I wouldn't own an ornery, unwilling brute like you, for a ranch!" he
panted. "Do you think I'm enjoying this, that we are a bunch of dudes on
a summer outing? I'll get angry at you in a moment, fellow!"
The pack-horse had embraced the opportunity to fall asleep. Tom,
violently affronted by Doug's tirade, did his not inconsiderable best to
kick his mate. Then he snapped at Douglas, who promptly cuffed him on
the nose. Tom reared, fell, and began to roll down the terrible slope.
The pack-horse did not waken nor stir. Doug flung himself after Tom.
Slipping, falling, rolling, he finally caught the reins, and though Tom
dragged him fifty yards on downward, he at last braced his spurs against
a boulder, the reins held and Tom brought up, trembling and coughing.
And now horse and man could only stand for a long time struggling for
breath. When his numbing hands gave warning that his rest period must
cease, Douglas, with the reins caught over his elbow, began a fight back
to the crest of the ridge, a fight to which the previous portion of the
trip had been as nothing. When they reached the led horse, still
sleeping with his nose between his fore legs, there was no more fight
left in Tom, and Douglas dropped into the snow to rest.
The moon was setting when he led his little train through the gigantic
drift to the long slope which lifted to the Pass. There was no snow
here. The slope, as far as Doug could discern in the failing light, was
a glare of rough ice. Over this he dared not urge the horses until
daylight. He looked at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock. He
fastened the horses to the only cedar in sight, then stood in the wind
debating with himself.
He was very much exhausted and the rare air and the intense cold were
giving him no chance to recoup. This was no place to make camp. The tiny
cedar offered neither shelter from the wind nor an adequate amount of
fuel. And up here, in this hostile loneliness, his anxiety over Judith
returned threefold. Strong as she was, clever as she was, she was as
open to accidents as he. Supposing her horses had slipped on this ice
and had gone over the black edge! Douglas dropped to his hands and knees
and crept out upon the glassy surface. A hundred yards of this and he
brought to pause before a giant boulder beside which grew several dwarf
cedars. He drew his ax from its sheath and after long effort with his
stiffened fingers, he got the green wood to burning. Dawn, about seven,
found him napping against the warm face of the rock. He brought the
horses up to the camp, fed them and himself, and as the sun shot over
the Indian Range, then prepared to lead the horses onward.
The crest of Black Devil now lifted immediately above him. Just below
the crest, a ledge broad enough for a pack team led straight into the
blue of the sky. To the right the dark wall of the crest. To the left a
sheer drop where the canyon between Lost Chief Range and Black Devil
yawned hideously. This ledge, this narrow, painful crossing, made the
Pass.
Douglas drew his ax and prepared to roughen a trail over the ice for the
horses. But to his unspeakable delight, he had not gone far when he
discovered that another ax and other horses had gone over the ice before
him. He was grinning cheerfully as he sheathed his ax and took Tom's
reins in hand.
It was noon when he reached the Pass. Sheer red walls to the right,
rising to the hovering top of Black Devil. Still the sickening canyon
depths to the left. To the south, myriad peaks, a whole world of peaks,
snow-covered, serene. Far, far below, a blurred green valley, with a
tiny white spot in its center. Johnson's Basin. The slope south from the
Pass was very steep and deep with snow, but Douglas saw Judith's trail
zig-zagging to a low shoulder round which it disappeared.
He fed the horses, ate some biscuits and bacon, both frozen, and started
downward. Shortly snow began to fall, but he had no difficulty in
following trail until mid-afternoon. Then he paused on the low shoulder.
There were scrub pines in which Judith had made a camp. The snow had
thickened until Doug could see scarcely ten feet ahead. He was utterly
weary and very cold. He knew that he ought to go into camp for the night
but he could not. He tied the horses beneath the trees, a grateful,
windless haven to the poor brutes, and went slowly on to reconnoiter.
Judith's tracks continued abruptly down the slope. Douglas followed for
a few feet, then stopped. A horse had fallen here and rolled down the
steep left wall. He dropped to his knees and followed the wide,
snow-packed trail. He had not far to go. From the snow drifted over a
rock protruded a horse's hoof. Doug swept the body free of snow. It was
old Buster, with his right fore leg broken and a bullet wound in his
head. Hot tears scalded Doug's wind-tortured eyes. After a moment of
search for further details of the catastrophe, he crawled up the wall
again and, after a frantic hunt, found a blurred single horse trail
leading on from the spot whence Buster had slipped. He went back for his
own horses, mounted Tom and pushed on downward.
But he could not continue long. It was soon dusk and he dared not risk
losing Judith's tracks. When he came upon the next cedar clump, clinging
precariously to the mountainside, he dismounted. Under the shelter of
the trees, he fastened the horses. He trampled the snow for his
fire-place and chopped a night's supply of wood. After he had eaten a
hot supper, he wrapped himself in his blankets and huddled over the
fire, consumed by anxiety.
The wind rushed by the cedars without pause. The hard, dry pellets of
snow rattled on the trees. The horses, their chins hung with icicles,
stood with bowed heads, motionless.
All of Doug's life passed in review before his sleepless eyes. He could
not recall when he had not been shaping his days around Judith. Even
when as children they had lived the snarling life of young pups, she had
been the center of his universe. He wondered if love came to many men as
it had come to him. He had not observed it in any other man in Lost
Chief. Perhaps Peter had cared so. Perhaps in the outside world it was
not infrequent. But whether it was a common sort of love or not, he
could not picture himself without Judith in his life. If he should find
her dead, farther down on this ghastly mountainside, he knew that the
light and warmth within him would go out and that he never would finish
the journey.
One by one he went over the steps of the past year that had culminated
in this trip over Black Devil Pass. He realized that every step had been
the result of his own years of mental conflict. Yet he could not see how
he could have failed to take each step as he had taken it. His mind
mysteriously refused to present an alternative. And, thinking thus, he
was conscious of a sense of spiritual helplessness as if he were being
borne on and on by forces quite beyond his control. And there came to
him a sudden and shattering conviction that this terrible night of
loneliness had been inevitable since the day of his birth. Call it Fate,
he told himself, call it Destiny, call it what we might, something
stronger than his own will had shaped his days toward this awful
expedition. Awful, he thought, not from the physical aspect--he had
endured as much in other ways--as from the quality of the events that
had brought the expedition about. It was all wrong that Judith should
have been in the state of mind that made it possible for her to put
herself to such a wild flight. Revolt, the Mormon's wife had said it
was. Revolt against what? Surely against something stupendous,
something that a man was powerless to help her to free herself from or
to bear.
Ah, Judith! Judith! Judith all fire, all wistfulness, all strength and
beauty! What was he, after all, to hope to claim her, or even having won
her, how was he to keep her? How was he to keep within his ken that
restless, soaring spirit? What could he give her that would satisfy, and
hold her? For the first time in many years, Douglas could have wept;
wept for very sadness that Judith should be so lonely and so wistful.
How long he sat shivering with his burning eyes on the fire, Douglas did
not know. He was roused by a faint cry above the wind. At first he
thought it was a coyote. But when it repeated, he started to his feet
and concentrated in an agony of attention on the sound. Once more it
came, longdrawn, troubled, the howl of a dog. Doug dropped the blankets
and strode from the shelter of the trees to deliver a long coo-ee. The
wind was against him. There was no response.
He hurriedly dragged his entire supply of firewood before the shelter
and set it to blazing. Then he plunged on foot downward through the
wind-swept, snow-driven darkness.
It was a terrible journey. He slipped and fell so often and so far that
when the light behind him dwindled to a faint point, he dared continue
no farther. Standing waist-deep in snow, he whistled and called. But the
cyclone wind drove the sound back into his teeth. Sick at soul, he
prepared to turn back. He beat his arms across his chest, stamped his
feet, slipped, and once more rolled downward. He brought up with a crash
in a cedar clump. A dog barked and threw himself against Doug with a
snarl that changed at once to a whine of joy.
"Wolf Cub! Wolf Cub! Where is she?"
He grasped the dog's collar. It was very dark beneath the trees. Wolf
Cub led him forward for a few feet. He stumbled over a soft, huddled
form. He rolled to his knees and pulled a blanket aside. Judith!--her
head pillowed on her knees.
"Judith! Judith!" No reply. Doug put the blanket over her again and,
with hands like frozen clods, jerked out his sheath ax and with infinite
difficulty lopped off a cedar bough and got a fire to going. Sifting
snow pellets, and the little wild mare's beautiful anxious eyes and
drifted forelock, then that form beneath the blanket. Douglas heaped the
fire high, then hurled the blanket away.
"Judith! Judith! Judith!" Sobbing, he crouched beside her, gathered her
in his arms, laid her cold face in his breast, tried to enwrap her body
with his.
"Judith! Judith!"
Wolf Cub whined in eager circles. Douglas laid his cheek against her
lips. A faint warmth. He shook her, frantically, and beat her hands with
his. Then he rose and balanced her on her feet. She hung limply in his
arms. He huddled her before the fire again and forced some whiskey down
her throat. He manipulated her inert body until when he lifted her again
onto her feet she was able to stand. Still half in his arms. Then he
forced her to stumble back and forth beside the fire.
"Judith! Judith! Judith!"
"It's you, Doug!" weakly and with bewildered eyes.
"O Jude, how could you! How could you!"
"Poor Buster--dead!" muttered Judith.
"I know! I found him. You must keep going, Judith. Lean on me but keep
going."
But circulation was returning to her strong young body. Shortly she was
able to stand alone and to ask Doug where he had come from.
"My camp is up the mountain a ways. Why didn't you have a fire?"
"Lost my pack when I lost Buster. Lost my match-safe when I fell with
the little wild mare this afternoon."
"I'm going to take you back up to my camp, Judith."
"I don't think I can make it, Doug. It would have to be a foot climb."
"You must make it. There is nothing at all here to keep us both from
freezing to death. We'll start now, while I can still see the fire I
left up there."
"I can't, Doug! You bring your camp down here."
"This is no shelter at all. I'm in the big cedars above here. You've got
to have some hot food right off. We will leave the little wild mare here
until morning."
With Wolf Cub hanging to their heels, they started the upward climb.
Judith gave to the last ounce of her depleted strength. They reached the
still glowing ashes of Doug's fire on their hands and knees, and lay
beside it till the warning chill brought Douglas to his feet. He chopped
more wood, rekindled the fire in the center of the camp, and established
Judith beside it on some blankets. Then he prepared some coffee and
bacon for her. She ate ravenously. Douglas watched her with satisfaction
radiating from every line of his snow-burned face.
"Are you warm now, Jude?" he asked her when she had begun on her second
cup of coffee.
"Well, not exactly warm, but I sure am thawing!"
"As soon as you are warm, I'll let you sleep. That's right, let old Wolf
Cub snuggle up against you. He's better than a hot-water bottle. Are you
surprised to see me, Judith?"
She looked up at him through weary eyes that still held the old
unquenchable fires in their depths.
"I didn't know. If you had gone off on a long hunt for the sky pilot,
you wouldn't have heard yet that I was gone. Did you find him?"
"I never even got to look for him. I was down at Inez' trying to sweat
some truth out of Scott when your mother came in with word you were
gone. Peter and I started after you at once."
"Peter! Where is he?"
"Jude, let's keep our stories until morning. Things look different,
then. And you are all in."
"So are you!"
"I'm not as bad off as you. Let me tuck you up, dear. When you've had a
sleep, you can give me my turn."
Too done up to protest, Judith allowed Douglas to wrap her in blankets
and, with the Wolf Cub snuggled against her back, she dropped into
slumber. Douglas set himself to the task of keeping the fire going. The
snow ceased at midnight and the cold grew more intense. Douglas chopped
wood or walked up and down before the fire to fight off the snow stupor
which constantly menaced him. When the lethargy was too heavy to be
controlled by exercise alone, he stooped over Judith and, lifting the
corner of the blanket which covered her face, he would gaze at her with
such joy and thankfulness as he never before had experienced. Whatever
the future might bring forth, he had her safe and warm for to-night. And
he wished that he believed in a God that he might thank Him!