  When the boys awoke on the following morning, numb and stiff from cold in spite of the protection of their crudely constructed shelter, a full six inches of snow covered the surface of their blankets. “Snow make um much warmer to sleep,” Toma explained to them, as he crawled out of his bed, very much as a husky gets out of a snowdrift. Dick turned his eyes towards the open door of the shelter and shivered. Contrary to his expectations the storm had not abated during the night. A shining, white wall of snow almost shut out any view of their camp surroundings, while the wind continued to howl furiously. To all appearances, the boys were shut in by the high, white walls of a snow prison. Snow sifted in the door of their shelter and through the numerous cracks in the walls. “I’m not crazy about getting up,” Sandy observed, with a seriousness that brought a laugh from Dick and Toma. “Anyhow, nobody can get anywhere in a storm like this.” “The wind, she blow from northwest,” Toma cut in. “No get lost when wind blow hard like that. Keep wind on left side. No like—but better than stay here.” The young guide counted slowly on his fingers, and went on: “Me know place where young Indian live. Him called Raoul Testawich. Got um cabin nice and warm, an’ mebbe we ketch um good dog team there.” “Fine!” exclaimed Dick, “we’ll make a try for it. Sure you won’t get lost?” Toma shook his head. “No,” said the guide, with assurance. “I find way all right. Best thing we go.” Somewhere in the back of Dick’s mind there was some doubt as to the advisability of facing such a storm, yet he had implicit faith in the prowess of Toma, and he did not question the young Indian’s ability. “It’ll be great to get near a warm fireplace again,” said Dick. “What do you say, Sandy?” Sandy’s answer was to spring up out of his blankets and commence immediate preparations for breakfast. A fire was started with considerable difficulty, and less than an hour later the three boys were on the trail again, walking Indian file with Toma in the lead. But the storm was worse even than they had anticipated. It was fury unleashed, it sucked the very breath out of their mouths and blew through their mackinaws as if they had been cheesecloth. Dick imagined that the weight of the snow-laden air alone was sufficient to prevent any long continued trek across that blinding field of white. Taking turns breaking trail, they proceeded at a slow pace, puffing with exertion. And always they kept the wind on their left, Toma calling out encouragement from time to time to keep up the spirits of his less-hardened and less-experienced comrades. Moisture froze on their coat collars, formed by the warmth of their breath against the freezing wind. Breathing became more and more difficult, and Sandy, the weaker physically of the three, began to complain of aching muscles and finally stopped short, panting heavily. “I’m tired out,” he gasped, “——all in. Dick, I don’t believe I can go a step further. Can’t we sit down and rest?” Dick was on the point of acceding to Sandy’s request, when Toma, several paces in the lead, came back, crying out his disapproval. “No! No!” shouted the guide above the howling of the wind. “No do that; get um legs all stiffened up. Bye an’ bye can’t move. Mebbe we better go slower, but no sit down.” “I’ll try to go on,” declared Sandy bravely, “but you fellows better stop now and then to give me a chance to breathe. I tell you I’m all in.” And so they went on, bracing themselves against the fury of the wind, shuffling forward through mounting drifts, in places piled waist high, as if to block their progress. On several occasions, so violent was the storm that it was impossible to see anything. Once, fighting their way through a smothering fog of white, Toma shouted out a warning. They were traveling down a sharp incline at the time, attempting to reach a river bottom, where towering cliffs would protect them somewhat from the force of the wind. Toma shouted to them. His keen ears had detected a sound other than that made by the blizzard. It was a different sound, and he had heard it before—a queer rumbling, followed by a mighty roar. With a quickness born of desperation, the guide seized Dick and Sandy by the arms and pulled them out of the path of an almost certain death. As the boys stood trembling and appalled at the deafening tumult about them, what seemed at first a vast mountain of snow, went shooting past, carrying everything before it. The snowslide left in its wake nothing but a wide belt of barren ground—even huge rocks had been torn away from the earth and hurtled on into the storm. “That was close enough to suit me,” declared Sandy in a tragic whisper, as the boys continued their descent. “I’ve never seen a snowslide before, and I don’t wish to see another one. Do you feel shaky, Dick?” “Yes, I do,” admitted Dick, his cheeks slightly pale. “I thought the entire upper part of the valley wall was falling in on us.” He turned to Toma. “Do you suppose,” he inquired, “that it’ll be safe to go down?” The Indian lad shook his head thoughtfully. “Me no can tell. Mebbe more snowslide after while. We take chance—that’s all.” Dick and Sandy hesitated. “Perhaps we’d better not go down to the river,” said Dick. “It may be a wiser plan to keep up above, where there isn’t the danger from these avalanches. No use to risk our lives needlessly,” he pointed out. Their guide grunted something under his breath, then looked up, his sober, dark eyes twinkling. “Snowslide catch us in the valley,” he pronounced. “Big blizzard catch us on top. Which way you like die best?” At any other time the two boys would have seen the humor in the situation, but at that particular moment neither Sandy nor Dick felt that there was anything funny about it. For a brief interval they stood, deep in thought, their two youthful faces clouded with apprehension. “It makes no difference to me which way I die,” declared Sandy at length, kicking disconsolately at the trunk of a small tree, which had been uprooted by the force of the snowslide. “We’re more than half way down to the river now, so what’s the use of turning back. My choice is the valley. At least, we can travel faster down there, with more protection from the storm.” “You’re right,” agreed Dick, “I choose the valley, too. Do you think we can reach your friend Raoul’s place before dark?” “Best we can do it take three hours from here,” replied Toma, “an’ night come early. One hour more mebbe an’ then we no see at all. Dark all ’round. Travel very slow then. Raoul him live on top of river bank ten, fifteen miles from here.” Without further word, the three boys made their way quickly down to the floor of the valley and proceeded on their way. Beneath their feet was the frozen course of the Bad Heart River, winding forth through a white world of weird, irregular cliffs, now deeply mantled with snow. “This is better,” Sandy growled, looking up to where the storm broke above their heads. “I never would have thought it would make so much difference being down here. You can actually see a little and hardly feel the wind at all.” “Fine!” answered Dick. “But save your breath, Sandy. You’ll need it.” Monotonously, heavily, the moccasined feet of the three snow-covered figures crunched along the unbroken trail. In the lead, Toma glided ahead with an untiring energy that filled Dick with admiration. He wondered what the young half-breed was thinking about. Was he, too, secretly fearful of some new impending danger lurking in their path? He noticed presently that the shadows, flung across the floor of the valley, were gradually becoming darker and darker, a heavy dusk had settled around them. Toma, barely four feet away, was a vague, indistinct blur, completely shutting off his view of the trail in front of him. That the fury of the blizzard had not abated, was easily apparent. He could still hear the wind howling above their heads, and feel the snow as it sifted quietly down. At every step his feet sunk into the soft, yielding surface, and his heart pounded like a trip-hammer from the continuous, never-ending exertion. “How much farther?” Sandy demanded, a note of despair in his voice. “How much farther, Toma?” “No can tell.” Sandy mumbled and complained to himself. He came stumbling and panting behind Dick, keeping up an incessant babbling or muttering that filled his friend with alarm. “How much farther?” he asked again. Toma grunted. “No can tell.” A snort of fury seized upon Sandy. With a strangled, despairing cry, he sprang forward past Dick and seized Toma by the shoulder. “Listen to me you, you—Indian. I’ve got a right to know how far we’ve gone. Come on, now—out with it!” Toma turned as if to brush off the detaining hand, when Sandy struck out with all the force of his right arm. It was an unexpected blow which sent the young Indian guide staggering to his knees. Aghast, scarcely believing his senses, Dick stood in bewilderment for a moment unable to move. With incredible speed, his companion had sprung forward again, his fumbling, eager hands encircling Toma’s throat. “Stop it!” shrieked Dick. A shrill, unearthly shout, terrible in that utter desolation, seemed to freeze Dick’s blood. Toma and Sandy were at grips, struggling, rolling—a dark, almost indistinguishable ball against the gray background of billowing drifts. “Stop it!” roared Dick again, and, jumping in, endeavored to separate them. He was still somewhat dazed over the sudden, unexpected turn events had taken. What had happened to Sandy? What was the meaning of that unwarranted attack upon the kindly young Indian guide? Had the hardship and severe nervous strain of the past few days, proved too much for his friend? Desperately he tugged and pulled at the two combatants, finally breathing a sigh of thankfulness as Toma rolled on top, successfully pinning the arms of his assailant. “Fight all gone,” declared the victor between gasps of exhaustion, raising one hand to wipe away the blood trickling from a cut over his left eye. “Hm, poor fellow go sleep bye an bye. Trail too much. Worry too much. All make him mad like grizzly caught in trap, an’ fight like grizzly till strength all gone.” Toma arose, brushing the snow from his clothing, then placed a still trembling hand on Dick’s arm. “Him lay there all night—huh?” he inquired. “What you think we do next? What you think?” Disconsolately, Dick gazed out into the black pall of darkness which had gathered around them. “Toma,” he inquired presently, “do you believe Sandy will feel better after a while? Will he be able to get up and walk again?” “Him walk no more tonight,” stated Toma with conviction. “In that case, there’s only one thing to do. I’ll camp here with Sandy while you go on to your friend’s house for help. Do you think you can make it, Toma?” “You start ’em fire here,” instructed the Indian. “Me make it all right. Get back two, three hours, mebbe, with dog team and take poor Sandy to warm bed. Please no worry if I be little late.” “No,” answered Dick, gulping down a hard substance in his throat. “Good-bye and good luck to you, Toma. I’ll be here when you return.” Not a suspicious moisture, but real tears were standing in Dick’s eyes a few minutes later as he and the young half-breed separated over the recumbent body of Sandy. A single, warm hand-clasp, then Toma was away, his footfalls sounding faintly through the dark. |
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