LIFE OR DEATH
Carol started down over the steep of the Gothics, conscious that she was
going into grave danger, but her excitement was so great that she felt
no fear. She had a cool head and a steady eye, and could look down into
those terrible depths without giddiness. She descended cautiously
through the low bushes which grew just under the bare rock of the
mountain-top. Soon, however, the balsams rose higher than her head. It
was like venturing out beyond one’s depth when one has hardly learned
the swimming stroke. The trees closed over her and she was drowned in a
sea of evergreens. Down, down, she burrowed her way. Her face and hands
were scratched, but she had no thought to spare for her own discomfort.
In desperation she fought her way blindly, in constant danger from the
holes hidden in that treacherous ground. At last the stretch of balsams
gave place to a growth of trees larger and less dense. Taking fresh
heart, Carol pushed on, ever downward, step by step, occasional glimpses
of the slides showing her that she had kept a straighter course than she
had dared to hope. For some time a sharp ravine separated her from her
goal, but it grew shallower as she went on, until it suddenly ended, and
she found herself out of the woods and standing on the great central
slide.
Above her and beneath spread the Gothics’ mighty breastplate of stone.
She gazed up at the frowning mountain, and then down the awful and
precipitous incline at her feet, down over the vast dark forest below to
the narrow black line of the lake. Then she began her descent of the
slide, keeping close to the edge. The wind came sweeping in fierce
gusts, threatening to carry her off her feet. She braced herself against
the gale by grasping at the branches of the frail little trees bordering
the slide. The fear of hidden holes such as had lain in wait for her in
the woods above, and the need of seeing where she was going, made her
keep to the rock. Firmly she planted her steps. To lose her footing
would, she felt, mean to lose life itself. Steadily, steadily down that
headlong slant she went, until she reached the broken boulders at its
foot. Below these again were sheer perpendicular falls of rock. It
seemed impossible to descend further. But she had come to save a life;
she must hold her own less precious, and go on. Resolutely Carol turned
her face to the cliff and let herself down, inch by inch. Again and
again she had to support her weight by clinging with her hands to sharp
and jagged ledges, while her feet sought resting places beneath, well
knowing that, failing to discover a foothold, she must fall to the
broken rocks below. The gale continued its assaults. Once a furious gust
drove her for refuge behind a boulder that seemed to hang poised and
ready to roll thundering down the mountain-side.
How the desperate feat was accomplished she hardly knew herself, but at
last, those steeps and ledges safely passed, she crossed the gentler
slope of the last slide. The trees made a dark wall in front of her; and
somewhere near her, she knew, Douglas lay, bruised, and helpless—perhaps
dead. She felt a dread of coming upon that white face and seeing all the
cruel marks of the fall; but a moment more and she had stepped boldly
through the trees. She found herself in a twilight of deep shade. Just
below her was the dry bed of a brook, and there on the stones lay the
boy, his face upturned. Carol stepped quickly down the bank and dropped
on her knees beside him.
His eyes were closed, and there was perfect stillness. A great cut ran
backward from his temple, and the blood had flowed freely, drenching his
thick, fair hair. She touched his face softly—the skin was cool in the
chill air, but there was no unnatural coldness. She lifted his hand—it
was icy, and no pulse-beat answered her pressure. Had the throbbing
stopped forever? She unslung her heavy guide-basket, and laid her ear
against his heart. There was a slow but regular beating. Life was there!
She loosened his collar and belt to give him ease in breathing, and drew
his jacket over his chest for warmth; then turned to unpack the few
things that she had brought to help her in her fight against death. One
of the sweaters she rolled up and laid under the boy’s head to protect
it from the stones.
Her brain worked as busily as her hands. Water! Of all things she must
have water first! Here was the bed of Rainbow Brook, but where was the
stream itself? She took the tin pail and went down along the stony
channel. She had not far to go. There was the water, a mere thread of a
rill, coming up from the stones under which it had been trickling. Carol
filled her pail with the aid of her tin cup. Then she went back to
Douglas, and kneeling beside him sprinkled the cold water on his face,
and raising his head tried to pour a little between his lips. She bathed
his face and bound a folded handkerchief over the wound. Then she rubbed
his hands and wrists vigorously.
Now for the other restorative—heat. Douglas had lighted the picnic fire,
and she found his match-box in his pocket. But to protect him from the
cold before a fire could be built she spread out beside him the cloak
that she had brought, and putting all her strength into the work slowly
and carefully raised and turned him until he was lying upon it. While
moving him she heard a low moan. The cloak served both for bed and
covering. She laid a sweater over his chest for additional warmth, and
wrapped her own about his feet. Gathering sticks and dry leaves she
kindled her little fire, and built a half circle of stones around it to
keep in the heat. She took the cover of the pail and Douglas’s bent
drinking-cup and set them on the hot stones. Her own cup she filled and
placed among the embers. When the tins were heated she put them in the
folds of the sweater which she had wrapped about the boy’s feet.
Douglas turned his head slightly. She began to rub his hands again, and
as she worked his eyelids opened, closed again and opened once more.
Carol took the smoking cup of water from the fire, cooled its brim from
her pail and brought it to her patient.
“Jean,” murmured the boy, as she raised his head to give him the hot
drink.
“This isn’t Jean,—this is Carol,” she said. “Here’s water, Douglas. Try
it, just a sip.” She put the cup to his lips and found that he could
swallow; but after two or three sips he seemed exhausted and closed his
eyes again. She put back the cup to keep hot. Then she looked about her.
How dark it was growing! Night was coming on, and a cold night too! What
time was it? She looked for the boy’s watch: it was gone! Skirting the
slides Tony must have come down and robbed the unconscious lad.
Carol pushed her way through the woods again to collect all the fuel she
could find before the darkness should make further search impossible. By
the time she had an encouraging pile, there was blackness everywhere
except in that small circle around the fire. Douglas was now conscious,
but pitifully weak and bewildered.
“What happened?” he asked.
“You had a fall, dear,” she answered.
“He had it!” he murmured.
“He had what, Douglas?”
“The watch.”
“Jean’s watch?”
“Yes.”
“Douglas, do you know me?” she asked.
“Miss Carol,” he said faintly. Then he moaned.
“What hurts you, Douglas? Tell me where the pain is.”
“My leg,—my head!”
Carol found by pressure that a spot on the right leg gave him intense
pain. “It’s broken!” she thought. “What can I do for the poor boy?” She
chose out several thin branches from her little woodpile, stripped them
and lashed them together with ribbons and ties, making two very fair
splints. These she placed one on each side of the broken leg, fastening
them firmly but gently with the strap of the guide-basket and the belts.
What other injuries there might be she could not tell, but he was
evidently suffering greatly. It tortured her to think of the miserable
little she could do for him. To tend the fire, to give sips of water in
his conscious moments, to keep him from casting off the wraps in his
restlessness, to try with her soft voice and touch to sooth him,—this
was all.
Carol realized that her own plight was wretched enough. For the first
time in her life she was learning what suffering with hunger meant. A
cup of hot water was her only supper—there was not a crumb left in the
basket. And she was cold, without her sweater. It was hard to believe
that this was August. Fortunately, the gale had subsided; but her heap
of fuel was dwindling alarmingly. She strained her ears for the sound of
voices, but in vain. And the longer she waited the more convinced she
became that harm had befallen Jean and Cecily.
The night wore on. A score of times she groped her way up the bank to
the foot of the slides in the faint hope that she might see help coming.
How darkly the mountain loomed! How black the sky was! Long before dawn
she threw her last stick on the fire.
“He’ll die if the night lasts much longer!” thought Carol. She dropped
down by the boy’s side, put her arms about him to keep the cold away,
and so waited for the first gray of morning.