_THE BLIZZARD_.
When the door closed behind Rance Belmont and Evelyn, Fred sank into a
chair with the whole room whirling dizzily around him. Why had the
world gone so suddenly wrong?
His head was quite clear now, and only the throbbing hurt on the back
of his head reminded him of Reginald's cowardly blow. But his anger
against his brothers had faded into apathy in the presence of this new
trouble which seemed to choke the very fountains of his being.
One terrible fact smote him with crushing force--Evelyn had left him
and gone with Rance Belmont. She said she hoped she would never see him
again--that she was done with him--and her eyes had blazed with anger
and hatred--and she had stepped in between him and the miserable
villain whom he would have so dearly loved to have beaten the life out
of.
He tried to rage against her, but instead he could think of nothing but
her sweet imperiousness, her dazzling beauty, her cheerfulness under
all circumstances, and her loyalty to him.
She had given up everything for him--for his sake she had defied her
father, renounced all share in his great wealth, suffered the hardships
and loneliness of the prairie, all for him.
Her workbag lay on the table, partly open. It seemed to call and beckon
to him. He took it tenderly in his hands, and from its folds there fell
a crumpled sheet of paper. He smoothed it out, and found it partly
written on in Evelyn's clear round hand.
He held it to the light eagerly, as one might read a message from the
dead. Who was Evelyn writing to?
"_ When you ask me to leave my husband you ask me to do a dishonorable
and cowardly thing. Fred has never_"--the writing ceased abruptly. Fred
read it again aloud, then sprang to his feet with a smothered
exclamation. Only one solution presented itself to his mind. She had
been writing to Rance Belmont trying to withstand his advances, trying
to break away from his devilish influence. She had tried to be true to
herself and to him.
Fred remembered then with bitter shame the small help he had given her.
He had wronged her when he struck Rance Belmont.
One overwhelming thought rose out of the chaos of his mind--she must be
set free from the baneful influence of this man. If she were not strong
enough to resist him herself, she must be helped, and that help must
come from him--he had sworn to protect her, and he would do it.
There was just one way left to him now. Fred's face whitened at the
thought, and his eyes had an unnatural glitter, but there was a deadly
purpose in his heart.
In his trunk he found the Smith and Wesson that one of the boys in the
office had given him when he left, and which he had never thought of
since. He hastily but carefully loaded it and slipped it into his
pocket. Then reaching for his snowy overcoat, which had fallen to the
floor, and putting the lamp in the window, more from habit than with
any purpose, he went out into the night.
The storm had reached its height when Fred Brydon, pulling has cap down
over his ears, set out on his journey. It was a wild enough night to
turn any traveller aside from his purpose, but Fred Brydon, in his
rage, had ceased to be a man with a man's fears, a man's frailties, and
had become an avenging spirit, who knew neither cold nor fatigue. A
sudden stinging of his ears made him draw his cap down more closely,
but he went forward at a brisk walk, occasionally breaking into a run.
He had but one thought in his mind--he must yet save Evelyn. He had
deserted her in her hour of need, but he would yet make amends.
The wind which sang dismally around him reminded him with a sickening
blur of homesickness of the many pleasant evenings he and Evelyn had
spent in their little shack, with the same wind making eerie music in
the pipe of the stove. Yesterday and to-day were separated by a gulf as
wide as death itself.
He had gone about three miles when he heard a faint halloo come down
the wind. It sounded two or three times before the real significance of
it occurred to him, so intent was he upon his own affairs. But louder
and more insistent came the unmistakable call for help.
A fierce temptation assailed Fred Brydon. He must not delay--every
minute was precious--to save Evelyn, his wife, was surely more his duty
than to set lost travellers on their way again. Besides, he told
himself, it was not a fiercely cold night--there was no great danger of
any person freezing to death; and even so, were not some things more
vital than saving people from death, which must come sooner or later?
Then down the wind came the cry again--a frightened cry--he could hear
the words--"Help! help! for God's sake!" Something in Fred Brydon's
heart responded to that appeal. He could not hurry by unheeding.
Guided by the calls, he turned aside from his course and made his way
through the choking storm across the prairie.
The cries came nearer, and Fred shouted in reply--words of impatient
encouragement. No rescuer ever went to his work with a worse grace.
A large, dark object loomed faintly through the driving storm.
"What's the matter?" called Fred, when he was within speaking distance.
"I'm caught--tangled up in some devilish thing," came back the cry.
Fred hurried forward, and found a man, almost covered with snow,
huddled beside a haystack, his clothing securely held by the barbs of
the wire with which the stack was fenced.
"You're stuck in the barbed wire," said Fred, as he removed his mittens
and with a good deal of difficulty released the man from the close grip
of the barbs.
"I hired a livery-man at Brandon to bring me out, and his bronchos
upset us and got away from him. He walked them the whole way--the roads
were heavy--and then look at what they did! I came over here for
shelter--the driver ran after the team, and then these infernal
fishhooks got hold of me--what are they, anyway?"
Fred explained.
"This is surely a God-forsaken country that can jerk a storm like this
on you in November," the older man declared, as Fred carefully dusted
the snow off him, wondering all the time what he was going to do with
him.
"Where are you going?" Fred asked, abruptly.
"I want to get to the Black Creek Stopping-House. How far am I from
there now?"
"About three miles," said Fred.
"Well, I guess I can walk that far if you'll show me the road."
Fred hesitated.
"I am going to Brandon," he said.
"What is any sane man going to Brandon to-night for?" the stranger
cried, impatiently. "Great Scott! I thought I was the only man who was
a big enough fool to be out to-night. The driver assured me of that
several times. I guess there's a woman in the case with you, too."
"Did you meet anyone?" Fred asked, quickly. "Not a soul! I tell you
you and I are the only crazy ones to-night."
Fred considered a minute.
"I'll take you on your way," he said.
The stranger suddenly remembered something. "I'm a good bit obliged to
you, young man, whoever you are. I guess I'd have been here all night
if you hadn't come along and heard me. I was beginning to get chilly,
too. Is this a blizzard?"
"Yes, I guess it is," Fred answered, shortly, "and it's not improving
any, so I guess we had better hurry on."
It was much easier going with the wind, and at first the older man,
helped along by Fred, made good progress. Fred knew that every minute
the drifts were growing higher and the road harder to keep.
The night grew colder and darker, and the storm seemed to thicken.
"Pretty hard going for an old man of sixty," the stranger said,
stopping to get his breath. The storm seemed to choke him.
Soon he begged to be let rest, and when Fred tried to start him again
he experienced some difficulty. The cold was getting into his very
bones, and was causing a fatal drowsiness.
Fred told him this and urged him to put forth his greatest efforts.
They were now but a mile from Fred's house. Every few minutes the light
in the window glimmered through the storm, the only ray of light in the
maze of whirling snow which so often thickened and darkened and blotted
it out altogether.
When they were about half a mile from the house, the old man, without
warning, dropped into the snow and begged Fred to go on without him. He
was all right, he declared, warm and comfortable, and wanted to rest.
"You'll freeze to death!" Fred cried. "That's the beginning of it."
"Feel very comfortable," the old man mumbled.
Fred coaxed, reasoned, entreated, but all in vain. He shook the old
man, scolded, threatened, but all to no purpose.
There was only one thing to be done.
Fred threw off his own coat, which was a heavy one, and picked the old
man up, though he was no light weight, and set off with him.
But the man objected to being carried, and, squirming vigorously,
slipped out of Fred's arms, and once more declared his intention of
sleeping in the snow.
With his frozen mitten Fred dealt him a stinging blow on the cheek
which made him yell with pain and surprise.
"Do what I tell you!" cried Fred.
The blow seemed to rouse him from his stupor, and he let Fred lead him
onward through the storm.
When they arrived at Fred's house he put the old man in a rocking-
chair, first removing his snowy outer garments, and made sure that he
had no frost-bites. Then hastily lighting the fire, which had burned
itself out, he made coffee and fried bacon.
When the old man had taken a cup of the coffee he began to take an
interest in his surroundings.
"How did I get here?" he asked. "The last thing I remember I was
sitting down, feeling very drowsy, and someone was bothering me to get
up. Did I get up?"
"Not until I lifted you," said Fred.
"Did you carry me?" the other man asked in surprise.
"I did until you kicked and squirmed so I couldn't hold you."
"What did you do then?" queried his visitor, tenderly feeling his sore
cheek.
"I slapped you once, but you really deserved far more," said Fred,
gravely.
"What did I do then?"
"You got up and behaved yourself so nicely I was sorry that I hadn't
slapped you sooner!"
The old man laughed to himself without a sound.
"What's your name?" he asked.
While this dialogue had been in progress Fred had been studying his
companion closely, with a growing conviction that he knew him. He was
older, grayer, and of course the storm had reddened his face, but Fred
thought he could not be mistaken.
The old man repeated the question.
"Brown!" said Fred, shortly, giving the first name he could think of.
"You're a strapping fine young fellow, Brown, even if you did hit me
with your hard mitt, and I believe I should be grateful to you."
"Don't bother," said Fred shortly.
"I will bother," the old man cried, imperiously, with a gesture of his
head that Fred knew well; "I will bother, and my daughter will thank
you, too."
"Your daughter!" Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out another
stick for the stove.
"Yes, my girl, my only girl--it's her I came to see. She's living near
here. I guess you'd know her: she's married to a no-good Englishman, a
real lizzie-boy, that wouldn't say boo to a goose!"
Fred continued to fix the fire, poking it unnecessarily. He was
confident that Evelyn's father would not recognize him with his crop of
whiskers and sunburnt face. His mind was full of conflicting emotions.
"Maybe you know him," said the old man. "His name is Brydon. They live
somewhere near the Stopping-House."
"I've not lived here long," said Fred, evasively, "but I've heard of
them."
The comfort and security of the warm little shack, as well as the good
meal Fred had given him, had loosened the old man's tongue.
"I never liked this gent. I only saw him once, but it don't take me
long to make up my mind. He carried a cane and had his monogram on his
socks--that was enough for me--and a red tie on him, so red you'd think
his throat was cut. I says to myself, I don't want that shop window
Judy round my house,' but Evelyn thought he was the best going. Funny
thing that that girl was the very one to laugh at dudes before that,
but she stuck it out that he was a fine chap. She's game, all right, my
girl is. She stays right with the job. I wrote and told her to come on
back and I'd give her every cent I have--but she pitched right into me
about not asking Fred. Here's her letter. Oh, she's a spunky one!" He
was fumbling in his pockets as he spoke. Drawing out a long pocketbook,
he took out a letter. He deliberately opened the envelope and read.
Fred with difficulty held back his hand from seizing it.
"Listen to this how she lit into me: 'When you ask me to leave my
husband you ask me to do a dishonorable thing--'"
Fred heard no more--he hung on to the seat of his chair with both
hands, breathing hard, but the old man took no notice of him and read
on:
"'Fred is in every way worthy of your respect, but you have been
utterly unjust to him from the first. I will enjoy poverty and
loneliness with him rather than endure every pleasure without him.'"
Fred's world had suddenly righted itself--he saw it all now--this was
the man she was writing to--this was the man who had tried to induce
her to leave him.
"I haven't really anything against this Fred chap--maybe his clothes
were all right. I was brought up in the lumber business, though, and I
don't take to flowered stockings and monograms--I kept wondering how
he'd look in overalls! What was really wrong with me--and you'll never
know how it feels until you have a girl of your own, and she leaves
you--was that I was jealous of the young gent for taking my girl when
she was all I had."
Fred suddenly understood many things; a fellow feeling for the old man
filled his heart, and in a flash he saw the past in an entirely
different light.
He broke out impetuously, "She thinks of you the same as ever, I know
she does--" then, seeing his mistake, he said, "I know them slightly,
and I've heard she was lonely for you."
"Then why didn't she tell me? She has always kept up these spunky
letters to me, and said she was happy, and all that--she liked to live
here, she said. What's this Fred fellow like?" The old man leaned
toward him confidentially.
"Oh, just so-so," Fred answered, trying to make the stove take more
wood than it was ever intended to take. "I never had much use for him,
and I know people wondered what she saw in him."
The old man was glad to have his opinion sustained, and by a local
authority, too.
"It wasn't because he hadn't money that I objected to him--it wasn't
that, for I have a place in my business where I need a smart, up-to-
date chap, and I'd have put him there quick, but he didn't seem to have
any snap in him--too polite, you know--the kind of a fellow that would
jump to pick up a handkerchief like as if he was shot out of a gun. I
don't care about money, but I like action. Now, if she had taken a
fancy to a brown-faced chap like you I wouldn't have cared if he hadn't
enough money to make the first payment on a postage stamp. I kinda
liked the way you let fly at me when I was acting contrary with you out
there in the storm. But, tell me, how does this Fred get on? Is he as
green as most Englishmen?"
"He's green enough," Fred agreed, "but he's not afraid of work. But
come now, don't you want to go to bed? I can put you up for the night,
what there's left of it; it's nearly morning now."
The old man yawned sleepily, and was easily persuaded to go to bed.
When the old man was safely out of the way Fred put his revolver back
where he had found it. The irony of the situation came home to him--he
had gone out to kill, but in a mysterious way it had been given to him
to save instead of take life. But what good was anything to him now?--
the old man had come one day too late.
At daylight, contrary to all expectations, the storm went down, only
the high packed drifts giving evidence of the fury of the night before.
As soon as the morning came Fred put on his father-in-law's coat,
having left his in the snow, and went over to the Black Creek Stopping-
House. Mrs. Corbett was the only person who could advise him.
He walked into the kitchen, which was never locked, just as Mrs.
Corbett, carrying her boots in her hand as if she were afraid of
disturbing someone, came softly down the stairs.
Mrs. Corbett had determined to tell Fred what a short-sighted, jealous-
minded man he was when she saw him, but one look at his haggard face--
for the events of the previous night were telling on him now--made her
forget that she had any feeling toward him but sympathy. She read the
question in his eyes which his lips were afraid to utter.
"She's here, Fred, safe and sound," she whispered.
"Oh, Mrs. Corbett," he whispered in return, "I've been an awful fool!
Did she tell you? Will she ever forgive me, do you think?"
"Ask her!" said Mrs. Corbett, pointing up the narrow stairs.