The Snowstorm
Given three good-natured young men, a satisfactory guide, a stretch of
Labrador wild, and no cares of any sort, it is not surprising that the
happy days and weeks followed one another into the maw of Time, until
the date of departure for home drew near.
"I'd like to stay here forever," declared Blair, as he filled his pipe
and stretched luxuriously before the fire. "Civilization has lost all
charm for me."
"Go away with you!" scoffed Peter Boots, "that's a fine, ambitious
spirit to show, and you a rising young author,--or about to become one."
"Not unless you duff in and help, old chap. Our book hangs on your
efforts, I've pretty well done my part of it."
"And I'll do mine, don't worry. I'm a procrastinator and a put-offer,
but I'll get there! Now, cut out the book till we get home. These last
few days up here must be given over to Nature as she is snowed under!"
It was the last week in September, but snow-squalls were frequent,
winds were high and rains were cold and sleety.
Joshua had been urging the homeward journey for several days, but the
men were loath to go, until now, a more severe bit of weather had
persuaded them. Even as they sat round the fire, with storm coats drawn
high up around their ears, the sleet-squalls drove against their faces
and the gale howled among the snowy trees.
Peter loved the life, the outdoor days and tented nights, but his mind
once made up to leave, his volatile spirit turned toward home.
"A couple of days more staving round in the snowdrifts and I'll be
ready," he announced, and Joshua began to pack up.
The guide growled a little at the reluctance of his party to start.
"You men wait too long, and you'll be sorry," he warned. "This wind
won't only let up for a little spell at a time,--mostly it'll blow like
somethin' let loose! And if a big snow comes,--and it's likely
to,--we'll be in a fix."
"Now, now, old man," began Shelby, "don't growl. We've been a pretty
good sort, haven't we? We're going home, aren't we? Why croak at us?"
"That's all right, sir, but meantime this Northwest wind keeps up its
force, and--well, it means business."
"All right, we'll get the better of its business deal," prophesied
Peter, and he and Blair went off for a hike.
As they started, the sun shone clear, and though the temperature was
below thirty, the two men strode along, happy with sheer physical joy of
living.
"This is the life!" said Peter, flapping his arms, and watching his
breath congeal in frosty clouds.
"Yes," Blair agreed, "to a certain point----"
"Freezing point?"
"I guess that's right! I like it all as well as you do, but it's nicest
when the sun shines. And by Jiminy, she's clouding over again!"
Clouds meant cold,--a raw, penetrating chill that seemed to strike to
the marrow, and the pair were glad to turn back toward camp.
"What do you think most about, when you think of home?" asked Blair,
idly.
"Carly Harper," replied Peter, speaking from the fullness of his heart.
"Good Lord! So do I!" exclaimed Blair, his tone that of surprise only.
Peter turned and looked at him. "Not a chance for you, old chap," he
said. "Little Carly is waiting for me. Yeo, ho, lads, ho,--Yeo, ho!"
"Oh, I say! Really?" Blair's consternation was almost comic.
"Yes, sir! Fair warning,--keep off!"
"Engaged?"
"Same as."
"Meaning she hasn't said a positive yes?"
"Meaning that, if you like."
"Then it's fair field and no favor! We're too good friends to
misunderstand, but let's call it a case of may the best man win."
"All right, but I'll win and you can be best man at the wedding, how's
that?" Peter's eyes shone with good humor, and his happy face left Blair
little room for doubt as to Peter's own view of the case. What Carly
herself thought was another matter.
But the two were too good friends to quarrel, and moreover, each knew
the other too well to mistrust him for a minute. It would, indeed, be a
fair field where they were concerned.
"I didn't know you'd gone so far," said Blair, ruefully, "of course,
there's no chance for me."
"I hope not," returned Peter, cheerfully. "But when we get back we'll
soon find out."
"Perhaps find out that she's 'gone with a handsomer man,'" suggested
Blair.
"Not impossible. I suppose there are such."
But a disinterested observer, looking at Peter's fine, strong face, with
its radiant coloring, brought out by the sharp air, might not have
agreed.
And then conversation became abstract, for the wind rose to a piercing
gale and it was all they could do to keep their balance and fight their
way along.
* * * * *
"I said this here wind was bound to ease up some time and it has," said
Joshua, with decided satisfaction, the morning of the start for home.
"We ought to make good goin' to-day, and maybe get ahead of our own
schedule."
"That's the trick," said Shelby, "always get ahead of your own schedule,
and you're bound to succeed. Come on, Peter, here we go."
The leave-taking was a bit silent, for all three had become attached to
the camp, and they gave long farewell glances backward.
Then off they went, and throwing sentiment aside, turned their thoughts
and their talk to the coming journey.
For home was yet a long way off. Many days' traveling before they
reached the mail boat and then many more before they could lift New York
Harbor.
"And I'm glad of it," declared Peter. "The longer we are on the home
stretch, the better I'll be pleased."
"Granting we don't miss the boat," added Blair. "When I start out I want
to arrive."
It was about three days later that a big storm set in. Relentlessly it
blew and snowed and the gales were almost unbreastable.
"Don't dare stop," said Joshua, in his usual laconic way; "the winter's
set in, and any day may be worse'n the day before. Old Merk is down to
twenty-four, and we want to peg ahead,--that's what we want to do."
They did,--by day,--and by night they enjoyed the rest and warmth of
camp, but still, Joshua urged them ahead continually.
He parceled out longer days and shorter nights, until even strong Peter
began to feel the strain.
Shelby was of a wiry sort, and stood hard going well; Blair was a
patient, plodding nature and wouldn't have complained if he had dropped
in his tracks; but Peter was impulsive and impatient, and he growled
frankly.
"We'll get there, Eli," he said to the guide; "don't hustle us so."
"Got to do it, Mr. Crane. I know more about this here winter that's
closing in on us, than you do. It's a bit early, but it's sure!"
So on they went, through snow that was wet and heavy, through icy sleet
that stung and cut their faces, through roaring winds that choked their
lungs, but full of indomitable courage and perseverance and of
unimpaired good nature.
And yet a week of this traveling at last began to tell on their
_morale_. Not that they grew testy or irritable, but the silences were
longer, the repartee less gay, and even buoyant Peter's spirits drooped
a little.
Joshua then took a turn as comforter.
"The worst'll soon be over," he reassured them. "Two days will get us to
Big Lake, and once we finish that, we'll be well on our way."
So on they pushed, heavily laden, traveling slowly, but all well and
sound in wind and limb.
It was the middle of October, when a bright sunny day beamed on them and
their spirits rose in consequence.
But Joshua did not smile. "Weather breeder," he said, laconically, and
looked gloomy.
The others knew better than to call him a pessimist, for when Joshua
predicted weather, it came.
And come it did. Not a squall; there was little if any wind, but a
snowfall. A steady, straight down snow that was so thick, so dense, they
could scarce see one another's forms.
"Keep a-going," directed Joshua; "and for the land's sake, don't get far
apart. Stay close together, single trail, and close!"
Thus they went on, the guide first, then Shelby, then Blair, then Peter.
There was no reason for the order they took, it merely happened that it
was so.
They kept close, as directed, but the going was hard. If one stumbled,
one must recover quickly and hasten ahead not to lose sight of the
others.
And the snow continued. Soft, white, feathery flakes, more and more
thickly falling every moment. Joshua plowed ahead, the others followed,
and each had all he could do to keep his eyes clear enough to see the
man in front.
Which is how it happened that when Peter stumbled and fell, and found
himself unable to rise, the others had no knowledge of it.
As the big man went down, he essayed to rise quickly, but his right leg
refused to move.
"Broken!" he said to himself, as one noting a trivial occurrence.
"Queer, to break a leg, falling in a bed of soft snow!"
But that was exactly what he had done, and realizing it, he set up a
yell that would have made a North American Indian envy its force and
volume.
But for all the good it did, it might as well have been a whisper. The
wind, though not violent, was against him, and carried the sound away
from the plodding travelers. His friends could not hear it. Not looking
back, as indeed, they had no thought of doing, they did not miss their
fallen comrade and on they toiled, ignorant of the fact that they were
three instead of four now.
And Peter,--big, strong Peter Crane,--brave, intrepid Peter Boots,--sat
there in the furious snowstorm, unable to rise, but with brain and mind
vividly alive to what had happened.
Quick of thought, always, he now traced with lightning rapidity, just
what the future held for him--and such a short future, at
that--unless----
His only hope lay in his lung power.
He yelled, screamed, whistled, hooted, and put all of his strength and
nerve force in his desperate efforts to reach the ears of his comrades.
But it was impossible. The cruel wind drove his voice away from those it
was meant to reach, the snowflakes filled his open mouth as he shouted;
and as hope failed, strength failed and Peter faced his fate.
Strong, able-bodied, save for the broken leg, he tried to crawl along.
The result was pitiful, for he merely floundered in the deep mass of
soft whiteness. His share of the luggage was heavy packs, nothing of
which he could make a flag of distress or even build a fire. He felt for
his matches, and lighting a cigarette, waved it aloft, almost smiling at
his tiny beacon.
Then came despair. His mind seemed to grow more alert as his body was
overcome by the cold. His blood boiled, even as it froze in his veins.
He felt abnormally acute of intellect, and plead with himself to think
of something,--to invent something that would save his life.
Yet he knew there was no hope. The fast-falling snow obliterated all
tracks almost instantly. Even though the others missed him, they could
never find him, and,--this thought struck a new chill through his
veins,--in a short time the snowfall would even obliterate him!
What a death! Helpless; unable even to meet it standing, he must lie
there, and let the snow bury him alive!
He could maintain a half-sitting posture,--but what use? Why not lie
down flat and get it over quickly? Yet he must hold on as long as
possible, for the men might come back,--he began to think what they
would do--but, he was sure they would not miss him until too late to do
anything. If the snow would only let up. It was such a pity to have his
whereabouts hidden by a foolish fall of snow! As Peter grew colder he
grew calmer. His senses mercifully became numbed at last, and as the
actual moment of his freezing to death came nearer and nearer, he cared
less and less. A state of coma is a blessing to many dying men, and into
this state Peter gently drifted, even as the snow drifted over and
covered his stiff, silent form.
* * * * *
And his friends trudged on; not that it could be called
trudging,--rather, they plodded, stumbled, pitched, fought and merely
achieved progress by blindly plunging ahead.
It was nearly a half hour after Peter's fall that Blair, accidentally
turned round by a gust of wind, called out an exasperated "Halloo!"
which gained no response.
"Halloo!" he repeated, "Peter! how goes it?"
Still no return call, and Blair called to those ahead.
They turned, and, huddling together in the storm, they looked at one
another with scared faces.
"I warned you to keep close together," began Joshua, but forbore to
chide, as he saw the dumb agony in the eyes of the other two men.
"Turn back," said Shelby, "and quickly. How long do you suppose he has
been gone? Has he missed the track? What happened, Joshua?"
"He must have fallen," the guide replied. "Or maybe just strayed off,
blinded by the snow, and he's wandering around yet. He has a compass and
he knows where to head for. Small use our trying to turn back and find
him. He's 'way off by this time,--or, maybe, he ain't. Maybe he's close
behind,--we couldn't see him ten yards off in this snow."
"I never saw such a thickness of white!" exclaimed Blair. "I've heard
that when snow is so white and feathery, it doesn't last long."
"This snow does," returned Joshua, "and I tell you, Mr. Shelby, there's
no use turning back. We'd just waste our time,--maybe our lives----"
"But, man, we can't go without Crane!" Shelby cried. "I won't go on and
leave him to his fate!"
"'Tain't likely he's in any real danger," said Joshua, almost believing
his own statement. "If it was one of you two, now, I'd feel more
alarmed. But Mr. Crane,--he's got a head on him, and a compass, and he
knows the route we're taking,--he went over it with me before we
started. Lord knows I'd be the first one to go to his rescue, if it was
rescue he needed, but I don't think it is."
"Rescue or not," said Blair, "I will not go on without Peter. You two do
what you like. I'm going to turn back and hunt for him."
"So am I," declared Shelby, and the two turned to face the backward
trail.
"All foolishness," muttered Joshua, "but of course, I'll go along."
It was all foolishness, there was no doubt of that. The snow had covered
all signs of their own tracks, there was no road to follow, no landmarks
to go by. Though Joshua had pursued his route by compass, he could not
retrace it surely enough to find a lost man.
However, they persisted; they dashed at snow-covered mounds only to find
them hummocks or rocks. They hallooed and shouted; they stared into the
snowy distance, hoping to discern smoke; but though their big, strong
Peter was less than half a mile away from them, they could get no hint
of his presence.
Night came on. They built their camp fire of enormous dimensions, hoping
against hope that it might attract the lost man.
None slept, save for a few fitful dozes from sheer exhaustion and grief.
Joshua stolidly insisted that Peter was undoubtedly all right, and
though they could scarcely believe it, this comforted the other two.
Next morning they held council. Joshua was all for going on and giving
up the search for Crane.
Blair, too, felt it a useless waste of time to remain, but Shelby begged
for a few hours.
"If the storm abates just a little----" he began.
"It won't," declared Joshua. "It's a little mite less windy but this
snowfall's only just begun. It won't quit for days,--lessen it turns to
rain,--and then the goin''ll be a heap worse."
It didn't seem as if the going could be much worse. Already the men had
difficulty in moving because of their wet, half-frozen clothing.
Available wood was buried under the snow, their strength was becoming
impaired, and all things pointed to even worse weather conditions.
Reluctantly Shelby and Blair agreed to Joshua's plans, realizing that
Peter might be all right and on his homeward journey, and further delay
might result in their own loss of life. For the outlook was menacing,
and Joshua's knowledge and advice were sincere and authoritative.
And still it snowed. Steadily, persistently, uninterruptedly. There
seemed a permanency about that soft, downward moving mass that foreboded
danger and defeat to any one who remained to dare it further.
And so they started again, half glad to go, half unwilling to leave. It
was the terrible uncertainty that told on them. They shrank from facing
the thought of what it would mean if they didn't find Peter, and forced
themselves to believe that they would meet him.
Their objective point was a trapper's log house on the shore of the
lake.
They reached it, tired, footsore, but full of hope for good news. A
quick glance round the tiny interior, consisting of but two rooms,
showed no smiling-faced Peter.
A few words from Joshua to the trappers gave no cause for rejoicing, and
further conversation and explanation revealed the fact that the
experienced trappers had no doubt as to Peter's fate.
Nor did they blame Joshua in any way. Had he stayed for a longer search,
they averred, there would have been four dead men instead of one.
And then both Shelby and Blair realized that Joshua's expressed
hopefulness of finding Peter safe at the end of their journey was merely
by way of urging them to move on, knowing the result if they did not.
They also realized that he was right. The opinions and assertions of the
experienced trappers could not be gainsaid. The two came to know that
there was but one fate that could have overtaken their comrade and that
there was no hope possible.
If Shelby had a slight feeling that Blair ought to have looked back
oftener, he gave it no voice, for he knew he himself had never looked
back with any idea of watching over Blair. To be sure the last one of
the four was in the most dangerous position, but Peter had come last by
mere chance, and no one had given that point a thought.
They surmised something must have disabled him. Perhaps a cramp or a
fainting spell of exhaustion. But it was necessarily only surmise, and
one theory was as tenable as another.
Long parleys were held by Blair and Shelby as to what was best to be
done. It proved to be impossible to persuade any one to start on a
search for the body of Crane. The winter had set in and it was a
hopeless task to undertake in the snows of the wild. No, they were told,
not until March at the earliest, could a search be undertaken, and there
was small chance of finding the body until later spring melted the snow.
It was to be an especially bad winter, all agreed, and no pleas, bribes
or threats of the men could move the natives from their decision.
Then, they debated, should they go home, or wait till spring?
The latter plan seemed foolish, for it was now nearly November and to
wait there idly for five or six months was appalling. Moreover, it
seemed their duty to go home and report Peter's loss to his father, even
if they returned in the spring to search for the body of their chum.
The last boat left for Newfoundland the middle of November, and they
concluded that if there was no news of Peter by that time they would
sail on it. "I feel cowardly to go," said Shelby, whose brain was weary,
working out the problem of duty. "Yet, why stay?"
"It's right to go," Blair said, gravely. "You see, Mr. Crane must be
_told_,--not written to."
"One of us might go,--and one stay," Shelby suggested.
"No use in that," Blair said, after a moment's consideration; "the
remaining one couldn't do anything."
"You men talk foolishness," said Joshua, gravely. "Mr. Peter Crane is by
this time buried under eight feet of snow. You can do nothing. You'd
both better go home."
So they went