THE ICY HILL
Two days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon,
going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with such
stubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when the
following morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth;
the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that night
under the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result,
Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, with
cutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.
Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth that
morning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistling
cheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alert
for some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from its
swaddling clothes.
His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group of
what Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys in
town were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Their
ages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, and they were clad in a
collection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that would
have made a ragman frown.
"Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appeared
to be the leader. "How did you break your sled?"
"I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And my
name isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White."
"Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take a
look at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over the
runner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmith
shop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coasting
party till to-morrow."
"Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toe
of his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let's
nail on a brace and try it."
"Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfire
told him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began to
understand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathize
with them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, Jimmie
White," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?"
"Sure!"
"Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and--"
"--and what?"
"And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called,
as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the door
again."
"No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequate
to such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister."
"What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.
Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up sat
Peter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too like
Peter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showed
above the snug fur lap-robe.
"Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take my
friends coasting."
"Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of little
boys.
"Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"
They were. They said so emphatically and loudly.
"You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted with
them, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other.
Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse for
the Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat,
sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill with
us, Peter?"
"I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a tree
and tucked the fur cover more snugly about his little brother. "Say,
I--I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me."
"Come ahead!"
By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost before
it had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scrambling
aboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and the
others piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.
A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the big
sled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot.
The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness;
so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of an
angle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemed
even steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly.
"Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder.
"I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far from
convincing.
Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail.
Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when the
bob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout grunted
audibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again,
swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have given
anything in the world to have recalled that sound.
They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others,
pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin.
"I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a long
sweep."
"And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrett
scornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn't
run more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willing
to take a chance. You Scouts--" But he thought better of it, and left
the accusation unsaid.
During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top,
when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forward
position.
"Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn this
side of the railroad track, where the road branches?"
"Of course."
"Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see,
the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then around
a corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It's
dangerous."
"I can turn this side of the track," said Bonfire doggedly.
"All right," decided Barrett. "I'm ready."
So, it seemed, were the raggedy-taggedy youngsters. Bonfire braced his
feet on the crossbar and gripped the steering lines. Another left-over
boy, not the same one this time, pushed them off.
"Clear!" he shouted the warning down the road after them. "Clear for
coasters!"
Halfway down the slide, round the first bend, the long bobsled spun
into a straightaway that was partially blocked. A heavy wagon on
runners seemed to occupy the entire road. Bonfire saw it instantly.
There was a chance--just a bare, scant chance--that he might steer by
on the right, grazing the ponderous wagon. But there would be only a
foot or two to spare, and at the terrific speed they were traveling a
collision might mean serious accident.
His quick eye told him something else, too. On either side of the
road, the snow was banked high in great cushions. He made his decision
instantly. Jerking desperately on one line, he steered the bob off its
course and into the drift, turning it completely over and spilling its
human load into the soft mattress of snow.
Nobody was hurt in the least. The little fellows picked themselves up,
righted the long sled, and dragged it back into the road. Two or three
of them stared solemnly at Bonfire, but only Jimmie White ventured any
comment.
"A good steerer could have slipped past that wagon, I guess," he said
slowly. "Your--friend here could."
Bonfire shut his lips tightly. What was the use? Perhaps, after all, he
had been too cautious. It didn't matter much now, one way or the other,
for he knew very well what Peter Barrett was thinking of him.
They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the very
crest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie White
uttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointed
a trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum as
the first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled.
Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering,
the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the groove
worn by the coasters.
For a long moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment.
Then, all at once, three of them spoke.
"He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," said
Bonfire, with queer huskiness, "and--"
"--and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocks
there--"
"Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It--Cree,
it's my kid brother!"
It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that.
Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds were
being lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who had
spoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.
Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted it
clear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flung
himself and sled headlong upon the slide.
Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzily
from the running start, sped along side by side, with Peter Barrett's
on the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree's
on the left. Far ahead now--hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire--the
runaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way down
Old Forty Five.
Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little Jimmie
White dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic efforts
to keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in the
chase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked them
together.
At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turn
at a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on one
runner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. It
seemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. With
a welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When they
straightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.
The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder.
Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it was
clear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its white
surface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forget
the danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coast
every shred of his skill.
He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the wind
friction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift the
course by digging a toe into the trail would mean a tiny loss of
speed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holding
ruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered to
each trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thought
of his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, when
recklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneer
at the way he steered.
But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. He
had hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past the
rock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there was
still a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. He
might catch it yet; might--no, must!
Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snow
pelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemed
to leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them;
then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularly
dangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten half
from his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled a
little, but his fingers did not relax.
He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued and
pursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a little
more time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, were
a little farther away!
Mingled with the _scratch-scratch_ of the iron-shod runners came
another sound,--loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was.
Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then,
like a flash, came the explanation.
It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroad
track. If the child on the sled crashed into it--
In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from the
surface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcing
himself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back on
the trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.
He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freight
train was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track.
And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine would
reach it together.
"I must catch it before it gets to the track!" he told himself. "I
must!"
The ice-drive filled his mouth as he spoke, half choking him. Already
his eyes were encrusted with a film of frozen sleet, and objects ahead
were blurring into an indistinct white mass. For the first time, too,
he began to realize the doubt that he might reach the child in time.
A cowardly desire to swerve into the snow-bank at one side, as he had
done with the bob, fought for a place in his mind. He knew now that he
could never pull up even before they reached the railroad track.
But he fought back the temptation. "'A Scout,'" he told himself, "'is
brave. A Scout is brave. A Scout is brave.'"
Another sound dinned into his ears. It swept back from the frozen trail
ahead of him, and presently he came to know that it was the frightened
cry of the child on the other sled. So near it sounded that he could
not believe the distance between them was more than the reach of his
arm. But it was. When he lifted his head, he saw that a full ten feet
still separated them.
The sled ahead was already taking the slight rise to the railroad
track. It would clear the onrushing engine by a few precious feet.
But in another second or two, the path of the coasting slide would be
effectually blocked by the train. This child would cross in time; he
himself had no such margin of safety. In all probability, he would
strike the very prong of the cow-catcher.
"Too late!" he moaned. "I can't do it!" Then, abruptly, his mind jerked
back to what lay beyond: to the turn they had told him about, and the
creek below, and the rocks. Resolutely, he held his sled to the course.
As he swept upon the upgrade to the track, he heard from behind Peter
Barrett's shout.
"_Don't!_" it rang out. "Don't try it! You can't--"
The whole world seemed to roar at him. There was the clang of a bell,
the hoarse whistle of the engine, the hiss of steam, the rasp of brakes
hard-set. To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster of
iron and steel, with a sharp-pointed triangle skimming low to destroy
him.
[Illustration: To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster
of iron and steel. _Page 135._]
He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steel
rail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the second
click of the far rail--waited--waited--waited. Would it never come?
Then--_snap!_--he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadow
darkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster of
iron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He was
over safely.
A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was some
obstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forced
loss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be calling
to him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dully
why he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sled
with Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at his
very side.
He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed his
fingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.
The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug his
left toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, till
the double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led.
But there was no room to spare. Before they were around, they had
climbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment on
its brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.
Afterward--some minutes afterward--when the locked sleds had ground to
a standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and little
Jimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot of
Old Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the snowy ground,
with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, but
Bonfire was too exhausted to speak.
"I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There was
honest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"
It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I--I did a lot of thinking back
there," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I--I
guess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thought
you were--well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people.
But this morning--" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top of
the hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind,
and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off--Do
you know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly.
I--Well, it--it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as they
turned toward his little brother.
"Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."