The darkness to the north was suddenly split apart by a solid sheet of
flame. Dick by the light saw many men on horseback and others on foot,
bridle rein over arm. It was well for the seven hundred boys that they
had pressed themselves against the solid earth. A sheet of bullets swept
toward them. Most passed over their heads, but many struck upon bones
and flesh, and cries of pain rose from the lines of men lying along the
railroad track.
The seven hundred pulled trigger and fired at the flash. They fired
so well that Dick could hear Southern horses neighing with pain, and
struggling in the darkness. He felt sure that many men, too, had been
hit. At least no charge came. The seven hundred shouted with exultation
and, leaping to their feet, prepared to fire a second volley. But the
swift command of their officers quickly put them down again.
“Don't forget the other Confederate column to the south of us,”
whispered Whitley. “They did not fire at first for fear their bullets
would pass over our heads and strike their own comrades. For the same
reason they must have dropped back a little in order to avoid the fire
of their friends. Their volley will come from an angle about midway
between our left and rear.”
Just as he spoke the last words the rifles flashed at the surmised angle
and again the bullets beat among the young troops or swept over their
heads. A soldier was killed only a few feet from Dick. The boy picked up
his rifle and ammunition and began to fire whenever he saw the flash of
an opposing weapon. But the fire of both Confederate columns ceased in
a minute or two, and not a shot nor the sound of a single order came out
of the darkness. But Dick with his ear to the soft earth, could hear the
crush of hoofs in the mud, and with a peculiar ability to discern whence
sound came he knew that the force on the left and rear was crossing
the railroad track in order to join their comrades on the north. He
whispered his knowledge to Whitley, who whispered back:
“It's the natural thing for them to do. They could not afford to fight
on in the darkness with two separate forces. The two columns would soon
be firing into each other.”
Colonel Newcomb now gave an order for the men to rise and follow the
railroad track, but also to fire at the flash of the rifles whenever
a volley was poured upon them. He must not only beat off the Southern
attack, but also continue the journey to those points in the west where
they were needed so sorely. Some of his men had been killed, and he
was compelled to leave their bodies where they had fallen. Others were
wounded, but without exception they were helped along by their comrades.
Warner also had secured a rifle, with which he fired occasionally, but
he and Dick, despite the darkness, kept near to Colonel Newcomb in
order that they might deliver any orders that he should choose to give.
Sergeant Whitley was close to them. Dick presently heard the rush of
water.
“What is that?” he exclaimed.
“It's the little river that runs down the valley,” replied Warner.
“There's a slope here and it comes like a torrent. A bridge or rather
trestle is only a little further, and we've got to walk the ties, if we
reach the other side. They'll make their heaviest rush there, I suppose,
as beyond a doubt they are thoroughly acquainted with the ground.”
The Northern troops left the track which here ran along an embankment
several feet high, and took shelter on its southern side. They now had
an advantage for a while, as they fired from a breastwork upon their
foes, who were in the open. But the darkness, lit only by the flashes of
the rifles, kept the fire of both sides from being very destructive, the
bullets being sent mainly at random.
Dick dimly saw the trestle work ahead of them, and the roaring of the
little river increased. He did not know how deep the water was, but he
was sure that it could not be above his waist as it was a small stream.
An idea occurred to him and he promptly communicated it to Colonel
Newcomb.
“Suppose, sir,” he said, “that we ford the river just below the trestle.
It will deceive them and we'll be half way across before they suspect
the change.”
“A good plan, Mr. Mason,” said Colonel Newcomb. “We'll try it.”
Word was quickly passed along the line that they should turn to the left
as they approached the trestle, march swiftly down the slope, and dash
into the stream. As fast as they reached the other side of the ford the
men should form upon the bank there, and with their rifles cover the
passage of their comrades.
The skeleton work of the trestle now rose more clearly into view. The
rain had almost ceased and faint rays of moonlight showed through the
rifts where the clouds had broken apart. The boys distinctly heard the
gurgling rush of waters, and they also saw the clear, bluish surface of
the mountain stream. The same quickening of light disclosed the Southern
force on their right flank and rear, only four or five hundred yards
away. Dick's hasty glance backward lingered for a moment on a powerful
man on a white horse just in advance of the Southern column. He saw
this man raise his hand and then command the men to fire. He and twenty
others under the impulse of excitement shouted to the regiment to drop
down, and the Northern lads did so.
Most of the volley passed over their heads. Rising they sent back a
return discharge, and then the head of the columns rushed into the
stream. Dick felt swift water whirling about him and tugging at his
body, but it rose no higher than his waist, although foam and spray
were dashed into his face. He heard all around him the splashing of his
comrades, and their murmurs of satisfaction. They realized now that they
were not only able to retreat before a much superior force, but this
same stream, when crossed, would form a barrier behind which they could
fight two to one.
The Confederate leader, whoever he might be, and Dick had no doubt that
he was the redoubtable Turner Ashby, also appreciated the full facts and
he drove his whole force straight at the regiment. It was well for
the young troops that part of them were already across, and, under the
skillful leadership of Colonel Newcomb, Major Hertford, and three or
four old, regular army sergeants, of whom the best was Whitley, were
already forming in line of battle.
“Kneel,” shouted the colonel, “and fire over the heads of your comrades
at the enemy!”
The light was still growing brighter. The rain came only in slight
flurries. The clouds were trooping off toward the northeast, and the
moon was out. Dick clearly saw the black mass of the Southern horsemen
wheeling down upon them. At least three hundred of the regiment were now
upon the bank, and, with fairly steady aim, they poured a heavy volley
into the massed ranks of their foe. Dick saw horses fall while others
dashed away riderless. But the Southern line wavered only for a moment
and then came on again with many shouts. There were also dismounted
men on either flank who knelt and maintained a heavy fire upon the
defenders.
The lads in blue were suffering many wounds, but a line of trees
and underbrush on the western shore helped them. Lying there partly
protected they loaded and pulled trigger as fast as they could, while
the rest of their comrades emerged dripping from the stream to join
them. The Confederates, brave as they were, had no choice but to give
ground against such strong defense, and the miner colonel, despite his
reserve and his middle years, gave vent to his exultation.
“We can hold this line forever!” he exclaimed to his aides. “It's one
thing to charge us in the open, but it's quite another to get at us
across a deep and rushing stream. Major Hertford, take part of the men
to the other side of the railroad track and drive back any attempt at a
crossing there. Lieutenant Mason, you and Lieutenant Warner go ahead and
see what has become of the train. You can get back here in plenty time
for more fighting.”
Dick and Warner hurried forward, following the line of the railroad.
Their blood was up and they did not like to leave the defense of the
river, but orders must be obeyed. As they ran down the railroad track a
man came forward swinging a lantern, and they saw the tall gaunt figure
of Canby, the chief engineer. Behind him the train stretched away in the
darkness.
“I guess that our men have forded the river and are holding the bank,”
said Canby. “Do they need the train crew back there to help?”
He spoke with husky eagerness. Dick knew that he was longing to be in
the middle of the fight, but that his duty kept him with the train.
“No,” he replied. “The river bank, and the road along its shore give us
a great position for defense, and I know we can hold it. Colonel Newcomb
did not say so, but perhaps you'd better bring the train back nearer us.
It's not our object to stay in this valley and fight, but to go into the
west. Is all clear ahead?”
“No enemy is there. Some of the brakemen have gone on a mile or two and
they say the track hasn't been touched. You tell Colonel Newcomb that
I'm bringing the train right down to the battle line.”
Dick and Warner returned quickly to Colonel Newcomb, who appreciated
Canby's courage and presence of mind. As the train approached the four
cannon were unloaded from the trucks, and swept the further shore with
shell and shrapnel. After a scattered fire the Southern force withdrew
some distance, where it halted, apparently undecided. The clouds rolled
up again, the feeble moon disappeared, and the river sank into the dark.
“May I make a suggestion, Colonel Newcomb?” said Major Hertford.
“Certainly.”
“The enemy will probably seek an undefended ford much higher up, cross
under cover of the new darkness and attack us in heavy force on the
flank. Suppose we get aboard the train at once, cannon and all, and
leave them far behind.”
“Excellent. If the darkness covers their movements it also covers ours.
Load the train as fast as possible and see that no wounded are left
behind.”
He gave rapid orders to all his officers and aides, and in fifteen
minutes the troops were aboard the train again, the cannon were lifted
upon the trucks, Canby and his assistants had all steam up, and the
train with its usual rattle and roar resumed its flight into the west.
Dick and Warner were in the first coach near Colonel Newcomb, ready for
any commands that he might give. Both had come through the defense of
the ford without injury, although a bullet had gone through Dick's coat
without touching the skin. Sergeant Whitley, too, was unharmed, but the
regiment had suffered. More than twenty dead were left in the valley for
the enemy to bury.
Despite all the commands and efforts of the officers there was much
excited talk in the train. Boys were binding up wounds of other boys and
were condoling with them. But on the whole they were exultant. Youth
did not realize the loss of those who had been with them so little.
Scattered exclamations came to Dick:
“We beat 'em off that time, an' we can do it again.”
“Lucky though we had that little river before us. Guess they'd have rode
us right down with their horses if it hadn't been for the stream an' its
banks.”
“Ouch, don't draw that bandage so tight on my arm. It ain't nothin' but
a flesh wound.”
“I hate a battle in the dark. Give me the good sunshine, where you can
see what's goin' on. My God, that you Bill! I'm tremendous glad to see
you! I thought you was lyin' still, back there in the grass!”
Dick said nothing. He was in a seat next to the window, and his face was
pressed against the rain-marked pane. The rifle that he had picked up
and used so well was still clutched, grimed with smoke, in his hands.
The train had not yet got up speed. He caught glimpses of the river
behind which they had fought, and which had served them so well as a
barrier. In fact, he knew that it had saved them. But they had beaten
off the enemy! The pulses in his temples still throbbed from exertion
and excitement, but his heart beat exultantly. The bitterness of Bull
Run was deep and it had lasted long, but here they were the victors.
The speed of the train increased and Dick knew that they were safe from
further attack. They were still running among mountains, clad heavily
in forest, but a meeting with a second Southern force was beyond
probability. The first had made a quick raid on information supplied by
spies in Washington, but it had failed and the way was now clear.
Ample food was served somewhat late to the whole regiment, the last
wounds were bound up, and Dick, having put aside the rifle, fell asleep
at last. His head lay against the window and he slept heavily all
through the night. Warner in the next seat slept in the same way. But
the wise old sergeant just across the aisle remained awake much longer.
He was summing up and he concluded that the seven hundred lads had done
well. They were raw, but they were being whipped into shape.
He smiled a little grimly as the unspoken words, “whipped into shape,”
rose to his lips. The veteran of many an Indian battle foresaw something
vastly greater than anything that had occurred on the plains. “Whipped
into shape!” Why, in the mighty war that was gathering along a front of
two thousand miles no soldier could escape being whipped into shape, or
being whipped out of it.
But the sergeant's own eyes closed after a while, and he, too, slept the
sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion. The train rumbled on, the
faithful Canby in the first engine aware of his great responsibility and
equal to it. Not a wink of sleep for him that night. The darkness had
lightened somewhat more. The black of the skies had turned to a dusky
blue, and the bolder stars were out. He could always see the shining
rails three or four hundred yards ahead, and he sent his train steadily
forward at full speed, winding among the gorges and rattling over the
trestles. The silent mountains gave back every sound in dying echoes,
but Canby paid no heed to them. His eyes were always on the track ahead,
and he, too, was exultant. He had brought the regiment through, and
while it was on the train his responsibility was not inferior to that of
Colonel Newcomb.
When Dick awoke, bright light was pouring in at the car windows, but the
car was cold and his body was stiff and sore. His military overcoat had
been thrown over him in the night and Warner had been covered in
the same way. They did not know that Sergeant Whitley had done that
thoughtful act.
Dick stretched himself and drew deep breaths. Warm youth soon sent the
blood flowing in a full tide through his veins, and the stiffness
and soreness departed. He saw through the window that they were still
running among the mountains, but they did not seem to be so high here
as they were at the river by which they had fought in the night. He knew
from his geography and his calculation of time that they must be far
into that part of Virginia which is now West Virginia.
There was no rain now, at least where the train was running, but the
sun had risen on a cold world. Far up on the higher peaks he saw a fine
white mist which he believed to be falling snow. Obviously it was winter
here and putting on the big military coat he drew it tightly about him.
Others in the coach were waking up and some of them, grown feverish
with their wounds, were moving restlessly on their seats, where they lay
protected by the blankets of their fellows.
Dick now and then saw a cabin nestling in the lee of a hill, with the
blue smoke rising from its chimney into the clear, wintry air, and
small and poor as they were they gave him a singular sense of peace and
comfort. His mind felt for a few moments a strong reaction from war and
its terrors, but the impulse and the strong purpose that bore him on
soon came back.
The train rushed through a pass and entered a sheltered valley a mile or
two wide and eight or ten miles long. A large creek ran through it, and
the train stopped at a village on its banks. The whole population of the
village and all the farmers of the valley were there to meet them. It
was a Union valley and by some system of mountain telegraphy, although
there were no telegraph wires, news of the battle at the ford had
preceded the train.
“Come, lads,” said Colonel Newcomb to his staff. “Out with you! We're
among friends here!”
Dick and Warner were glad enough to leave the train. The air, cold as it
was, was like the breath of heaven on their faces, and the cheers of
the people were like the trump of fame in their ears. Pretty girls with
their faces in red hoods or red comforters were there with food and
smoking coffee. Medicines for the wounded, as much as the village could
supply, had been brought to the train, and places were already made for
those hurt too badly to go on with the expedition.
The whole cheerful scene, with its life and movement, the sight of new
faces and the sound of many voices, had a wonderful effect upon young
Dick Mason. He had a marvellously sensitive temperament, a direct
inheritance from his famous border ancestor, Paul Cotter. Things were
always vivid to him. Either they glowed with color, or they were hueless
and dead. This morning the long strain of the night and its battle was
relaxed completely. The grass in the valley was brown with frost, and
the trees were shorn of their leaves by the winter winds, but to Dick
it was the finest village that he had ever seen, and these were the
friendliest people in the world.
He drank a cup of hot coffee handed to him by the stalwart wife of a
farmer, and then, when she insisted, drank another.
“You're young to be fightin',” she said sympathetically.
“We all are,” said Dick with a glance at the regiment, “but however
we may fight you'll never find anybody attacking a breakfast with more
valor and spirit than we do.”
She looked at the long line of lads, drinking coffee and eating ham,
bacon, eggs, and hot biscuits, and smiled.
“I reckon you tell the truth, young feller,” she said, “but it's good to
see 'em go at it.”
She passed on to help others, and Dick, summoned by Colonel Newcomb,
went into a little railroad and telegraph station. The telegraph wires
had been cut behind them, but ten miles across the mountains the spur of
another railroad touched a valley. The second railroad looped toward
the north, and it was absolutely sure that it was beyond the reach
of Southern raiders. Colonel Newcomb wished to send a message to the
Secretary of War and the President, telling of the night's events and
his triumphant passage through the ordeal. These circumstances might
make them wish to change his orders, and at any rate the commander of
the regiment wished to be sure of what he was doing.
“You're a Kentuckian and a good horseman,” said Colonel Newcomb to Dick.
“The villagers have sent me a trusty man, one Bill Petty, as a guide.
Take Sergeant Whitley and you three go to the station. I've already
written my dispatches, and I put them in your care. Have them sent at
once, and if necessary wait four hours for an answer. If it comes, ride
back as fast as you can. The horses are ready and I rely upon you.”
“Thank you, sir, I'll do my best,” said Dick, who deeply appreciated the
colonel's confidence. He wasted no time in words, but went at once to
Sergeant Whitley, who was ready in five minutes. Warner, who heard of
the mission, was disappointed because he was not going too. But he was
philosophical.
“I've made a close calculation,” he said, “and I have demonstrated to
my own satisfaction that our opportunities are sixty per cent energy and
ability, twenty per cent manners, and twenty per cent chance. In this
case chance, which made the Colonel better acquainted with you than
with me, was in your favor. We won't discuss the other eighty per cent,
because this twenty is enough. Besides it looks pretty cold on the
mountains, and its fine here in the village. But luck with you, Dick.”
He gave his comrade's hand a strong grasp and walked away toward the
little square of the village, where the troops were encamped for the
present. Dick sprang upon a horse which Bill Petty was holding for him.
Whitley was already up, and the three rode swiftly toward a blue line
which marked a cleft between two ridges. Dick first observed their
guide. Bill Petty was a short but very stout man, clad in a suit of
home-made blue jeans, the trousers of which were thrust into high
boots with red tops. A heavy shawl of dark red was wrapped around his
shoulders, and beneath his broad-brimmed hat a red woolen comforter
covered his ears, cheeks, and chin. His thick hair and a thick beard
clothing his entire face were a flaming red. The whole effect of the man
was somewhat startling, but when he saw Dick looking at him in curiosity
his mouth opened wide in a grin of extreme good nature.
“I guess you think I'm right red,” he said. “Well, I am, an' as you see
I always dress to suit my complexion. Guess I'll warm up the road some
on a winter day like this.”
“Would you mind my callin' you Red Blaze?” asked Sergeant Whitley
gravely.
“Not-a-tall! Not-a-tall! I'd like it. I guess it's sorter pictorial an'
'maginative like them knights of old who had fancy names 'cordin' to
their qualities. People 'round here are pretty plain, an' they've never
called me nothin' but Bill. Red Blaze she is.”
“An' Blaze for short. Well, then, Blaze, what kind of a road is that
we're goin' to ride on?”
“Depends on the kind of weather in which you ask the question. As it's
the fust edge of winter here in the mountains, though it ain't quite
come in the lowlands, an' as it's rained a lot in the last week, I
reckon you'll find it bad. Mebbe our hosses will go down in the road
to thar knees, but I guess they won't sink up to thar bodies. They may
stumble an' throw us, but as we'll hit in soft mud it ain't likely to
hurt us. It may rain hard, 'cause I see clouds heapin' up thar in the
west. An' if it rains the cold may then freeze a skim of ice over the
road, on which we could slip an' break our necks, hosses an' all. Then
thar are some cliffs close to the road. If we was to slip on that thar
skim of ice which we've reckoned might come, then mebbe we'd go over one
of them cliffs and drop down a hundred feet or so right swift. If it was
soft mud down below we might not get hurt mortal. But it ain't soft
mud. We'd hit right in the middle of sharp, hard rocks. An' if a gang
of rebel sharpshooters has wandered up here they may see us an' chase us
'way off into the mountains, where we'd break our necks fallin' off the
ridges or freeze to death or starve to death.”
Whitley stared at him.
“Blaze,” he exclaimed, “what kind of a man are you anyway?”
“Me? I'm the happiest man in the valley. When people are low down they
come an' talk to me to get cheered up. I always lay the worst before you
first an' then shove it out of the way. None of them things that I was
conjurin' up is goin' to happen. I was just tellin' you of the things
you was goin' to escape, and now you'll feel good, knowin' what dangers
you have passed before they happened.”
Dick laughed. He liked this intensely red man with his round face and
twinkling eyes. He saw, too, that the mountaineer was a fine horseman,
and as he carried a long slender-barreled rifle over his shoulder, while
a double-barreled pistol was thrust in his belt, it was likely that he
would prove a formidable enemy to any who sought to stop him.
“Perhaps your way is wise,” said the boy. “You begin with the bad
and end with the good. What is the name of this place to which we are
going?”
“Hubbard. There was a pioneer who fit the Injuns in here in early
times. I never heard that he got much, 'cept a town named after him. But
Hubbard is a right peart little place, with a bank, two stores, three
churches, an' nigh on to two hundred people. Are you wrapped up well,
Mr. Mason, 'cause it's goin' to be cold on the mountains?”
Dick wore heavy boots, and a long, heavy military coat which fell below
his knees and which also had a high collar protecting his ears. He
was provided also with heavy buckskin gloves. The sergeant was clad
similarly.
“I think I'm clothed against any amount of cold,” he replied.
“Well, you need to be,” said Petty, “'cause the pass through which we're
goin' is at least fifteen hundred feet above Townsville--that's our
village--an' I reckon it's just 'bout as high over Hubbard. Them fifteen
hundred feet make a pow'ful difference in climate, as you'll soon find
out. It's not only colder thar, but the winds are always blowin' hard
through the pass. Jest look back at Townsville. Ain't she fine an' neat
down thar in the valley, beside that clear creek which higher up in the
mountains is full of the juiciest an' sweetest trout that man ever stuck
a tooth into.”
Dick saw that Petty was talkative, but he did not mind. In fact, both
he and Whitley liked the man's joyous and unbroken run of chatter. He
turned in his saddle and looked back, following the stout man's pointing
finger. Townsville, though but a little mountain town built mainly of
logs, was indeed a jewel, softened and with a silver sheen thrown over
it by the mountain air which was misty that morning. He dimly saw the
long black line of the train standing on the track, and here and there
warm rings of smoke rose from the chimneys and floated up into the
heavens, where they were lost.
He thought he could detect little figures moving beside the train and
he knew that they must be those of his comrades. He felt for a moment
a sense of loneliness. He had not known these lads long, but the battle
had bound them firmly together. They had been comrades in danger and
that made them comrades as long as they lived.
“Greatest town in the world,” said Petty, waving toward it a huge hand,
encased in a thick yarn glove. “I've traveled from it as much as fifty
miles in every direction, north, south, east, an' west, an' I ain't
never seed its match. I reckon I'm somethin' of a traveler, but every
time I come back to Townsville, I think all the more of it, seein' how
much better it is than anything else.”
Dick glanced at the mountaineer, and saw that there could be no doubt of
his sincerity.
“You're a lucky man, Mr. Petty,” he said, “to live in the finest place
in the world.”
“Yes, if I don't get drug off to the war. I'm not hankerin' for fightin'
an' I don't know much what the war's about though I'm for the Union,
fust to last, an' that's the way most of the people 'bout here feel.
Turn your heads ag'in, friends, an' take another look at Townsville.”
Dick and Whitley glanced back and saw only the blank gray wall of the
mountain. Petty laughed. He was the finest laugher that Dick had ever
heard. The laugh did not merely come from the mouth, it was also exuded,
pouring out through every pore. It was rolling, unctuous, and so strong
that Petty not only shook with it, but his horse seemed to shake also.
It was mellow, too, with an organ note that comes of a mighty lung and
throat, and of pure air breathed all the year around.
“Thought I'd git the joke on you,” he said, when he stopped laughing.
“The road's been slantin' into the mountains, without you knowin' it,
and Townsville is cut off by the cliffs. You'll find it gettin' wilder
now 'till we start down the slope on the other side. Lucky our hosses
are strong, 'cause the mud is deeper than I thought it would be.”
It was not really a road that they were following, merely a path, and
the going was painful. Under Petty's instructions they stopped their
mounts now and then for a rest, and a mile further on they began to feel
a rising wind.
“It's the wind that I told you of,” said Petty. “It's sucked through six
or seven miles of pass, an' it will blow straight in our faces all the
way. As we'll be goin' up for a long distance you'll find it growin'
colder, too. But you've got to remember that after you pass them cold
winds an' go down the slope you'll strike another warm little valley,
the one in which Hubbard is layin' so neat an' so snug.”
Dick had already noticed the increasing coldness and so had the
sergeant. Whitley, from his long experience on the plains, had the
keenest kind of an eye for climatic changes. He noticed with some
apprehension that the higher peaks were clothed in thick, cold fog, but
he said nothing to the brave boy whom he had grown to love like a son.
But both he and Dick drew their heavy coats closer and were thankful for
the buckskin gloves, without which their hands would have stiffened on
the reins.
Now they rode in silence with their heads bent well forward, because
the wind was becoming fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaks the fogs were
growing thicker and darker and after a while the sharp edge of the wind
was wet with rain. It stung their faces, and they drew their hat brims
lower and their coat collars higher to protect themselves from such a
cutting blast.
“Told you we might have trouble,” called Petty, cheerfully, “but if
you ride right on through trouble you'll leave trouble behind. Nor this
ain't nothin' either to what we kin expect before we git to the top of
the pass. Cur'us what a pow'ful lot human bein's kin stand when they
make up their minds to it.”
“Are the horses well shod?” asked Whitley.
“Best shod in the world, 'cause I done it myself. That's my trade,
blacksmith, an' I'm a good one if I do say it. I heard before we started
that you had been a soldier in the west. I s'pose that you had to look
mighty close to your hosses then. A man couldn't afford to be ridin'
a hoss made lame by bad shoein' when ten thousand yellin' Sioux or
Blackfeet was after him.”
“No, you couldn't,” replied the sergeant. “Out there you had to watch
every detail. That's one of the things that fightin' Indians taught.
You had to be watchin' all the time an' I reckon the trainin' will be
of value in this war. Are we mighty near to the top of the pass, Mr.
Petty?”
“Got two or three miles yet. The slope is steeper on the other side. We
rise a lot more before we hit the top.”
The wind grew stronger with every rod they ascended, and the horses
began to pant with their severe exertions. At Petty's suggestion the
three riders dismounted and walked for a while, leading their horses.
The rain turned to a fine hail and stung their faces. Had it not
been for his two good comrades Dick would have found his situation
inexpressibly lonely and dreary. The heavy fog now enveloped all the
peaks and ridges and filled every valley and chasm. He could see only
fifteen or twenty yards ahead along the muddy path, and the fine hail
which gave every promise of becoming a storm of sleet stung continually.
The wind confined in the narrow gorge also uttered a hideous shrieking
and moaning.
“Tests your nerve!” shouted Petty to Dick. “There are hard things
besides battles to stand, an' this is goin' to be one of the hard ones,
but if you go through it all right you kin go through any number of the
same kind all right, too. Likely the sleet will be so thick that it will
make a sheet of slippery ice for us comin' back. Now, hosses that ain't
got calks on thar shoes are pretty shore to slip an' fall, breakin' a
leg or two, an' mebbe breakin' the necks of thar riders.”
Dick looked at him with some amazement. Despite his announcement of dire
disaster the man's eyes twinkled merrily and the round, red outline of
his bushy head in the scarlet comforter made a cheerful blaze.
“It's jest as I told you,” said Petty, meeting the boy's look. “Without
calks on thar shoes our hosses are pretty shore to slip on the ice
and break theirselves up, or fall down a cliff an' break themselves up
more.”
“Then why in thunder, Blaze,” exclaimed Whitley, “did we start without
calks on the shoes of our horses?”
Red Blaze broke into a deep mellow laugh, starting from the bottom of
his diaphragm, swelling as it passed through his chest, swelling again
as it passed through throat and mouth, and bursting upon the open air in
a mighty diapason that rose cheerfully above the shrieking and moaning
of the wind.
“We didn't start without em,” he replied. “The twelve feet of these
three hosses have on 'em the finest calked shoes in all these mountains.
I put 'em on myself, beginnin' the job this mornin' before you was
awake, your colonel, on the advice of the people of Townsville who know
me as one of its leadin' an' trusted citizens, havin' selected me as the
guide of this trip. I was jest tellin' you what would happen to you if I
didn't justify the confidence of the people of Townsville.”
“I allow, Red Blaze,” said the sergeant with confidence, “that you ain't
no fool, an' that you're lookin' out for our best interests. Lead on.”
Red Blaze's mellow and pleased laugh rose once more above the whistling
of the wind.
“You kin ride ag'in now, boys,” he said. “The hosses are pretty well
rested.”
They resumed the saddle gladly and now mounted toward the crest of the
pass. The sleet turned to snow, which was a relief to their faces,
and Dick, with the constant beating of wind and snow, began to feel
a certain physical exhilaration. He realized the truth of Red Blaze's
assertion that if you stiffen your back and push your way through
troubles you leave troubles behind.
They rode now in silence for quite a while, and then Red Blaze suddenly
announced:
“We're at the top, boys.”