One forenoon, in the winter of the great storms that swept the Pacific States, Adrian Wilder, a tall, slender, dark young man, stood in front of his stone hut on a shoulder of Mt. Shasta and watched the assembling of the elemental furies to do their savage work in the mountains. By all the signs that he had learned he knew that mighty havoc was to be done; but he did not foresee, nor did the oldest residents of that wilderness, that this was the beginning of the most memorable winter of terrors known to the white man’s history of the region.

A strong sense of security and comfort filled him as, turning from the gathering tumult about him, he studied the resistance of his hut. He, with Dr. Malbone’s help, had built it from foundation to roof, using the almost perfectly shaped blocks from the talus of the lofty perpendicular basalt cliff at whose base he had built his nest that summer. With nice discrimination he had selected the stones from the great heap that stretched far down from one end of the shelf upon which he had built; with mud he had fitted the stones to form floor, walls, arched roof, and chimney. With boards and a window-sash borne by him up the mountain from the road in the canon he had fashioned a window and doors. By the same means—for the shelf was inaccessible to a wagon—he had brought furniture, books, provisions, and fuel.

The hut was strong and comfortable.

Should snow fall to a great depth, he could easily shovel it down the steep slope of the canon. Should an avalanche come,—that made him wince. Still, he had made calculations on that account. By arching the roof of his hut he had given it great strength. Better than that, should an avalanche plunge over the edge of the cliff it must first gather great speed and momentum. Stretching back mountainward from the top of the cliff was a considerable space nearly level; an avalanche descending from the higher reaches of the vast mountain would likely stop on this level ground; but should it be so great and swift as to pass over, its momentum would likely carry it safely over his hut, as the water of a swiftly running stream, plunging over a ledge, leaves a dry space between itself and the wall.

But why think of the avalanche, with its crushing, burying snow, and, far worse, its formidable bowlders that could annihilate any structure made by men? It were better to think of the comfort and security of the hut, and listen to the pleasant music of the little stream at the base of the cliff.

Better still was it to view the coming onslaught of the elements; to note the marvellous coherency of the plan by which their destruction was to be wrought; to observe how the splendid forces at play worked in intelligent harmony to shape a malevolent design. To a man of Wilder’s fine sensibilities, every fury unleashed in the gathering tumult seemed to be possessed of superhuman malignancy of purpose and capability of execution. The furious wind that came driving down the canon lying far below him was the breath of the approaching multitude of storm-demons. The giant trees on the slopes of the canon seemed to brace themselves against the impending assault. Behind the wind, filling all the sky with a gray blanket that darkened away to the source of the wind, was the silent, stealthy snow-cloud, waiting to follow up and bury the havoc of the wind, and finish the destruction that the wind would begin.

From contemplation of this splendid spectacle the young man’s thoughts turned to the dangers with which the storm threatened the mountain folk, most of whom were engaged in the lumber traffic. Would any of these be cut off from their homes? The rising rage of the wind indicated the closing of all the roads with fallen trees: would that bring serious hardships to any? In the summer, now past, the environs and flanks of Mt. Shasta had sparkled with the life and gayety of hundreds of seekers for health and pleasure,—the wealthy thronging a few fashionable resorts, the poorer constrained to a closer touch with nature and the spirit of the vast white mountain; but they now were gone, and the splendid wilderness was left to the savage elements of winter. Had any delayed their leaving and were at that moment in the drag-net of the storm?

Above all, there was Wilder’s one close friend in the mountains, Dr. Malbone, who, like Wilder, had left the turmoil of city life to bury himself in these wild fastnesses. They had known each other in San Francisco years before. For five years the scattered people of the mountains had employed the services of this skilful physician, and had come to trust and honor him in the touching way that simple natures trust and honor a commanding soul. It was Dr. Malbone who had so wisely assisted in the building of the stone cabin at the foot of the cliff. It was he who had explained the principle of the arch to the younger man, and had shown him how to bend and place the supports of the growing arch until the keystones were fitted in. It was he who had explained the mysteries and uses of ties and buttresses. What would Dr. Malbone do in the storm? What risks would he run, to what hardships be exposed, in visiting his patients? Only a few miles separated these two friends, but with such a storm as was hastening forward these few might as well be thousands.

Far up the canon Wilder heard the first fierce impact of the storm, for the heavy crash of a falling tree sounded above the roaring of the wind. By walking cautiously out to the extremity of a point that projected from the shelf upon which his cabin stood, he had been accustomed to see the snowy domes of Mt. Shasta. He knew that the storm sweeping down the canon was but a feeble echo of the mightier tumult on the great father of the north. In the hope that he might see something of this greater battle, he now made his way to the extremity of the point, the wind making his footing insecure; but only broad slaty clouds were visible in that direction, transmitting the deep rumblings of the hurricane that raged about Mt. Shasta’s higher slopes.

It was while standing on the extremity of the point that the young man, turning his glance to the deep canon beneath him, beheld a thing that filled him with alarm. At the bottom of the canon, the Sacramento River, here a turbulent mountain stream, and now a roaring torrent from the earlier rains of the season, fumed and foamed as it raced with the wind down the canon, hurrying on its way to its placid reaches in the plains of California. The crooked road cut into the hither slope above the high-water level of the river was not the main highway running north and south through the mountains; it served the needs of a small local traffic only. Wilder felt both surprise and apprehension to observe a light wagon driven at a furious pace down the road, flying before the storm. The incident would have been serious enough had the wagon, the two horses, and the man and woman in the wagon belonged to the mountains. The horses were of fine blood, and were unused and unsuited to the alarming situation in which they now found themselves; the wagon was too elegant and fragile for the mountains in winter; and even at the distance that separated its occupants from Wilder, he could see that they were filled with a terror such as the mountaineers never know. The man was driving. Instead of proceeding with caution and keeping the horses perfectly in hand, he was lashing them with the whip. A man used to the mountains would never have been guilty of that folly.

It was clear that they were heading down the canon for the main road, still some miles away, by following which a little further they would arrive at a station on the railway. Pieces of luggage in the rear end of the wagon indicated that the travellers must have been spending the summer or autumn in the remoter mountains, where some beautiful lakes offered special charms to lovers of nature. Obviously their departure had been delayed until the approach of the present storm drove them hurriedly away, to be overtaken here in the canon.

The roaring of the wind, the surge of the torrential river, and, worst of all, the trees that were now crashing down, might have bewildered the steadiest head not trained to the winter savagery of the wilderness. A single tree across the road ahead might have meant disaster. Except for the little stone hut of Adrian Wilder, placed purposely to secure as great isolation as possible, and invisible from the road, there was no shelter within miles of the spot.

Presently the catastrophe came. The man, evidently seeing just ahead a tree that was swinging to its fall, shouted to the horses, and laid on the whip with added vigor, aiming to pass before the tree should fall. The horses, wholly beside themselves with terror, reared, and then plunged forward; but a moment had been lost. The horses and wagon passed under the falling tree just in time to be crushed and buried under it. The thunder of the fall echoed above the roar of the wind and the crash of more distant falling trees. Nothing of the four living things that had passed under the trap remained to Wilder’s view; they had been as completely blotted out as though they had never filled a place in the great aching world.