  Mid-afternoon of that day found them at the crest of the mountain, caught in the grip of such a storm as one dreams of but seldom meets in real life. A sixty-mile gale drove particles of snow fine as white sand and cutting as steel into their burning cheeks. When they attempted to go forward it was as if they were leaping against a fine meshed but unbreakable net. They could but drop on hands and knees and crawl. When they went with the wind they were appalled by the push and drive of it and by the sweeping whirls of snow that leaping fifty, a hundred feet in air, appeared nearly to reach to the very sky. “Now,” said the girl in a half sob, “I know why these mountains appear to smoke.” “If only we could find a way down,” said Johnny as he lent an arm to Gordon Duncan, who was struggling against the wind. Of a sudden a burst of wind more terrible than ever seized the girl and sent her whirling down the white slope toward the unknown abyss beyond. In the nick of time Johnny grasped the belt of her mackinaw. Throwing himself flat behind a low rock, he clung there like grim despair until the wind lost its power and the girl was drawn back to safety. “You—you remember,” the girl panted, “we were going to try to slide down on the o—other side. I nearly did.” “Game to the last,” Johnny thought. “But your face is freezing!” Snatching off her deerskin mittens, the girl held snow against his cheeks to draw out the frost. “There,” she said, “that’s done for this time. And now—” “Now we must find a way down,” said Johnny. “Tico,” the boy said, speaking to the dog cowering at his feet, “show us the way.” As if understanding his mission, the dog began creeping forward along the ridge. Knowing nothing better to do, his human companions followed. Ten yards, twenty, thirty, battered at and buffeted, faces cut by snow, knees bruised from creeping over rocks and hard packed snow, they moved forward. Now they paused to thaw cheeks and noses. And now, as a ruder blast struck them, they flattened themselves against the snow and clung together like grim death. But still they struggled on. But what was this? The dog had disappeared in the snow fog before them. Plucking up hope, they redoubled their efforts. Another twenty yards found them half sheltered by a ledge; another, and they were standing on their feet pushing forward down a gentle incline. “Hurray! We win!” the boy shouted. “Good for Tico!” Ten minutes later, beneath a cave-like sheltering ledge they paused to rest their trembling limbs and to take counsel for the future. They were resting there in silence when of a sudden, some distance away, they heard the dog growl. “It’s something dangerous or he wouldn’t growl like that. Come on,” said the girl. “Only a footprint in the snow,” said Johnny a moment later as they came to the spot where the dog stood. “But such a footprint!” said the girl, shaking as if seized with a sudden chill. “What can it be?” “It’s the same as before,” said Johnny. “It’s the great banshee!” Then, seeing that the girl was truly frightened, he added: “That, I am convinced, is the footprint of a man.” “But look! Twice the size of our own!” “The Eskimos have many legends regarding giants. It has always been supposed that these legends had to do with white men from the south. But supposing—” “You wouldn’t believe such things?” “What is one to believe? There is the footprint in the snow.” “Come,” said Gordon Duncan, who now joined them, “this is no time for fairy stories. The night will be upon us. Let’s be going down.” As they descended they marveled more and more at the downward passage Tico had discovered. “It is as if the giants had really cut the way through,” said Johnny. “Look!” said the girl as they paused after an hour of steady tramping. “There is another footprint in the snow.” At that they all fell silent. Night was descending upon them. “If only we could have a fire to-night,” the girl said wearily. “I feel as if I should die of fear in the dark.” “But look!” cried Johnny as they rounded a turn. “The good banshee has granted your wish. There is a scrub forest not ten minutes away.” It was true. The gnarled trees, twisted and bent, were scarce six feet tall, but dead trunks were dry as tinder. Soon, in a sheltered spot, they had built a roaring fire and were preparing to boil coffee and roast the goat’s meat they had packed across the mountain. “To-morrow,” said Gordon Duncan, “we shall see the valley of green gold.” |
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