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THE CASSOWARY
[Illustration: "I HAVE BEEN NARROW," SAID THE MINISTER]
THE CASSOWARY
What Chanced in the Cleft Mountains
BY STANLEY WATERLOO
Author of "The Story of Ab,"
"The Seekers,"
"The Wolf's Long Howl,"
"The Story of a Strange Career,"
Etc., Etc.
PUBLISHERS
MONARCH BOOK COMPANY
CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1906 BY
MONARCH BOOK COMPANY
CHICAGO
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. WHAT CHANCED IN THE CLEFT MOUNTAINS
II. A MAN
III. JOHN LIPSKY'S SIGN
IV. A SPECIAL PROVIDENCE
V. THE "FAR AWAY LADY"
VI. THE LIFE LINE
VII. A TOAD AND A SONG
VIII. ALAN MACGREGOR'S BROWN LEG
IX. THE HUGE HOUND'S MOOD
X. THE SIREN
XI. THE PORTER'S STORY
XII. THE PURPLE STOCKING
XIII. HESITANT
XIV. A TEST OF ATTITUDE
XV. A SAMOAN IDYL
XVI. A WOMAN AND SHEEP
XVII. THE ENCHANTED COW
XVIII. LOVE AND A ZULU
XIX. AT BAY SOFTLY
XX. LOVE WILL FIND THE WAY
XXI. A LITERARY LOVE AFFAIR
XXII. ABERCROMBIE'S WOOING
XXIII. EVAN CUMMINGS' COURTSHIP
XXIV. THE SWISS FAMILY ROBERTSON
XXV. THE LOWRY-TURCK LOVE ENTANGLEMENT
XXVI. THE PALE PEACOCK AND THE PURPLE HERRING
XXVII. THE RELEASE
XXVIII. LOVE'S INSOLENCE
XXIX. AT LAST
ILLUSTRATIONS
"THE STOREKEEPER!" HE EXCLAIMED
"I HAVE BEEN NARROW," SAID THE MINISTER
THEY PLUNGED INTO THE WHITENESS
THE GREAT SNAKE BEGAN ITS WORK OF DEGLUTITION
THE BIG BODY RELAXED AND STRAIGHTENED OUT
THE MAYOR HAD BEEN GETTING INTERESTED
THE AWARD COULD BUT GO TO UNA LOA
THE CHILDREN CARRIED AWAY ARMFULS OF FLOWERS
SIR GLADYS ESCORTED THE LADY FLORETTA HOME
HE WAS UNCONSCIOUS AS A CHILD
A DOZEN OR MORE NESTS WERE FOUND
"WE SHALL MEET AT BREAKFAST"
THE CASSOWARY
CHAPTER I
WHAT CHANCED IN THE CLEFT MOUNTAINS
The blizzard snorted and raged at midnight up the narrow pass west of
Pike's Peak, at the bottom of which lay the railroad track, and with
this tumult of the elements the snow was falling in masses which were
caught up and tossed about in the gale until the air was but a white,
swirling, yeasty mass through which nothing could be seen a yard away.
The canyon was filling rapidly and the awful storm showed no sign of
abatement. The passage was not of the narrowest at the place to which
this description refers. The railroad builders had done good work in
what had been little more than a gorge. They had blasted and carried
away after the manner of man who, if resolute enough, must find the way.
He may sweat for it; he may freeze for it, but he attains his end, as he
did in forcing a passage through the vainglorious labyrinths of the
Rockies. So, he had made a road between the towering heights of the
Cleft Mountains. He had done well, but he had left a way so indefensible
that indecent Nature, seeking reprisals, might do almost anything there
in winter. Just now, with the accompanying war-whoop of the roaring
blast, she was building up an enormous buttress across the King's
Highway. The canyon was filled to the depth of many feet, and the
buttress was growing higher every moment.
And, plunging forward from the West toward this buttress of snow, now
came tearing ahead boisterously the trans-continental train from San
Francisco. Its crew had hoped to get through the pass while yet the
thing was possible. On it came at full speed, the big train, with all
its great weight and tremendous force of impact, and plunged, like a
bull with lowered horns, into the uplifting mountain of snow. It tore
its way forward, resistlessly at first, then more slowly, and slower
still, until, at last, it stopped quiveringly. But it was not beaten
yet. Back it went hundreds of yards and hurled itself a second time into
the growing drift. It made a slight advance, and that was all. Again and
again it charged, but it was useless. Nature had won! Paralyzed and
inefficient, the train lay still.
Then to the wild clamor of the storm was added another note. The whistle
screamed like a woman. Why it should be sounded at all none but the
engineer could tell--perhaps it was the instinct of a railroad man to
sound the whistle anywhere in an emergency. Speaking the voice of the
train, its cry seemed to be, at first, one of alarm and protest, then,
as the hand on the throttle wavered, one of pleading, until, finally,
beaten and discouraged, it sank sobbingly into silence, awaiting that
first aid for the wounded in the case of railroad trains--the telegraph.
Upon the trains which must adventure the passes of the Rocky Mountains
in winter are carried all the means for wire-tapping, that communication
may be had with the outside world on any occasion of disaster at a
distance from a station, the climbing spikes, the cutters, tweezers and
leather gloves, and all the kit of a professional line repairer.
Ordinarily, too, some one of the train crew, or a professional
telegrapher, in times of special apprehension is prepared to do the work
of the emergency. This particular train had all the necessary kit, but,
to the alarm of the conductor and engineer and all the train crew, it
was discovered, after they had met in hurried consultation, that while
they had the means, they lacked the man. What was to be done? They must
reach the outside world somehow; they must reach Belden, whence must
come the relief train headed by the huge snow-plow which would
eventually release them. The conductor was a man of action: "It may be,"
he said, "it may be that there is some one on the train who can do the
job. It's a mighty doubtful thing, but I'll find out."
He was a big, red-faced, heavy-moustached man, with a big voice, and he
started promptly on his way, bellowing through each car:
"Is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph? Is there
anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph?"
The strident call aroused everybody as he passed along, but response was
lacking. He became discouraged. As he reached the drawing-room car he
was tempted to abandon the idea. He hesitated, unwilling to disturb the
sleepers in--or rather the occupants of the berths, for the general
tumult outside had awakened them--but pulled himself together and kept
on. He entered the car roaringly as he had the others:
"Is there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph? Is
there anybody here who can cut in on a wire, and telegraph?"
The curtains of one of the berths were drawn apart, and a head appeared,
the head of a man of about forty years of age with clean-cut features,
distinctly those of a gentleman. There was force in the aquiline nose
and the strong jaw, but the voice was gentle enough when he spoke:
"I might do it, possibly. What's the matter? Stalled?"
The conductor was astounded. The drawing-room car was the last place
from which he had expected or hoped assistance, but he answered
promptly:
"Yes, sir," he said, "we are in a bad way, half buried in a snow
mountain. We've got to reach Belden by wire, but we've no one to make
the connection and send the message. If you can help us it will be a
great thing. I hate to ask you. It's going to be an awful job."
"Have you got the tools?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'll try it."
John Stafford dressed hurriedly. He emerged, a straight,
broad-shouldered man, possessed apparently of exceptional strength and
vigor, qualities soon to be tested to the utmost. He went forward with
the conductor to the car at the front, in which the trainmen were
assembled. He equipped himself for the work, then, lamp in hand, he
stepped out upon the platform and looked about him. He could see
nothing.
He was enclosed between walls of white, the substance of which was
revolving, curling and twisting uncannily. What seemed almost the
impenetrable was beside him. All vision was cut off. There was but the
mystery of the filled canyon. And he must venture out into that
sinister, invisible space, find a telegraph pole and climb it and cut
the wire and talk with Belden! The thing was appalling.
But a resolute and courageous man was John Stafford, civil engineer, and
he had been building railroads in Siberia. He gave swift directions to
the trainmen:
"Get together and light all the lamps you have and bring them here," he
ordered; "set some of them in this window and hang some of them against
it. I want the brightest beacon I can have. Keep the glass of the window
clean and clear, inside and outside." Then, with a coil of wire about
him, and lamp in hand, he stepped out into that wicked vastness.
He plunged into snow up to his neck. He realized now more than ever
what was the task he had undertaken. He stamped to clear as well as he
could a little space about him and took his bearings. Practical railroad
man, he had reasoned out his course. He had with him a pocket compass
and upon this alone he relied. He knew the distance from the track to
the telegraph line and knew that by going just so many yards north and
then going directly east or west he would reach a pole. But the distance
he could only estimate, and who could accomplish that feat with any
degree of accuracy under such conditions?
Then began a fight which must remain a desperate memory with the man
forever.
Straight north he began his way, plowing, digging, almost burrowing. It
was fearful work, body-distressing, soul-trying. To acquire an added
yard in his progress was a task. Cold as it was, he was perspiring
violently in no time. The snow had begun to pack, and in the slight
depressions, where it was deepest, he had even to heave his chest
against it to force his way. His feet became clogged and heavy. But he
floundered on. He became angry over it all. He would not be beaten! At
last, as he estimated, he reached a point which must lie somewhere in
the line between poles, but he was not sure. He could not judge of
distance, in such a struggle. He lay down in the snow and drew long
breaths and rested until the cold, checking the welling perspiration,
warned him that, if he would live, he must work again.
Straight east by the compass he started, and there was renewed the same
fierce, exhausting struggle, but this time maintained much longer. He
kept it up until he knew he must have compassed more than half the
distance--all that was required--between two poles, but he could not
find one. The situation was becoming desperate. The lamp gave light for
only a yard ahead, no more, because of the wall of falling snow. Back
and forth he went, almost exhausted now, his heart thumping, his breath
exhausted. And then, just as he was about to lie down again to a rest
which would have been more than dangerous, he stumbled upon a telegraph
pole. It was but fortune.
Stafford's strength returned with the finding of the pole. He would at
least accomplish what he sought to do! He rested long against the pole
and then began the ascent. Everything was easy now. The work in hand was
nothing compared with the battle in the drift. He cut in on the wire,
made the connection, talked with Belden and got assurance of instant
gathering of every force at command there for the rescue. The relief
train would start at once. There is sympathy and understanding and swift
aid where they have learned to know the perils of the passes.
Stafford came down the pole at ease. Everything was all right now. All
he had to do was to go back to the train and rest. He would follow his
back track. He looked for it, but there was no back track! The densely
falling snow had obliterated it completely. He fell back upon the
compass again, and all the desperate work was but repeated. He was
becoming faint and thoroughly exhausted now. He looked for the beacon
light in the window but he might as well have tried to look through a
stone wall. He feared his case was hopeless, but he did not flinch nor
lose his courage. He sat down in the snow, unable for the moment to go
further, and shouted with all the force of which his strained lungs were
capable, but, at first, with no result. At last he thought he heard an
answering call, and later he was assured of it. That revived him. He got
upon his feet again and stumbled forward, following the direction of the
sound. Two forms appeared beside him suddenly. They were those of the
conductor and engineer. He was taken by each arm, and, staggering
between the two, was lifted into the car. He was approaching a state of
entire collapse, but brandy stimulated him into ability to tell of what
he had accomplished. The trainmen were more than grateful. They removed
his outer clothing, and, half-carrying him to his berth, left him there
enveloped in a warm blanket. He was oblivious to all things in a moment,
sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.