  The sun was setting over a wilderness of snow and winter-washed, bleak, bare land, as late next day the three travelers, rounding a towering granite crag, came at last into full view of all that lay beyond. It was the promised land, the valley of green gold. For a full moment they stood there, motionless. The scene that lay before them, glistening snow turned to a rosy hue by the setting sun, crags, torrents, mists, rushing little streams, all that go to make mountains, valleys and rugged hills, all that is the spring break-up in a land of ice and snow was here. Many days before they had started for this divide. Weeks of toilsome travel, weeks of perils and adventure had come into their lives since Gordon Duncan had said, “There is the knife. The trail leads up this ridge.” Now they were at the divide, ready to descend into a wild valley. And why? Perhaps Gordon Duncan knew all. Johnny and Faye knew little enough. Yet, with the tender feeling of youth for an old man who was perhaps on his last long journey, his final joyous adventure, they had followed his lead. Now here they stood. “There’s a great river yonder,” said Johnny, lifting his field glasses to his eyes. “Wouldn’t be surprised if it were the headwaters of the Yukon.” “But look!” he exclaimed. “There’s something moving down there. Here, tell me what it is. It seems to be marooned on that little island in midstream. Water’s overflowing the ice. Water must be rising. May flood the island.” The girl took the glasses and with steady gaze studied the spot he pointed out. As for Gordon Duncan, he stood there erect, motionless, seeing all that lay before him, mountains, rivers, hills and valleys. He appeared to search for that which he did not see. “Should be to the right down there,” he mumbled once. “Can it be that I have mistaken the pass? No. That could not be. Yet if it were there one would see a curl of smoke. It is growing dusk. Time for the evening meal.” He shaded his eyes to look again. “There is something moving there,” the girl said to Johnny. “I can’t make out what it is. Might be caribou; might be Indians. Can’t tell. In the morning light we can tell.” “Indians.” The thought gave Johnny a start. Even today in this wild out-of-the-way corner of the world, Indians were not to be trusted too far. In a fit of anger, in a moment of greed, they might kill. And who would be the wiser? “We can’t camp here,” Johnny said as a cold wind, sweeping across the perpetual snow of the mountain side chilled him to the bone. “Have to go on down. May find a sheltering ledge.” He slung his pack over his shoulder, then motioned the older man to guide them on. “The way is down,” Gordon Duncan said huskily. “That’s all I know. Young man, your foot is surer than mine. Lead on.” So Johnny took up the task of trail blazer, and even as his eyes worked out a passage here and a detour there, his mind went back to that day when he first met Faye Duncan, the day on which they killed their first caribou. Woven with his thoughts of that which had happened then were wonders regarding the creatures moving about on the river island, and Gordon Duncan’s purpose in bringing them on this wild chase into the unknown. An hour later in a sheltered nook they pitched their small tents and built a crackling fire of scrub fir trees. Over the fire they cooked the last of their goat’s meat, and boiled coffee. After that for a time they sat over their crude table of rocks to stare away over the moonlit mountains. Johnny and the girl were wondering about many things. The great river, the island with living creatures moving upon it, their strange mission in this stranger land, all these came in for their share of perplexing thought. It was quite wonderful as they sat there thinking of all that had gone before, and that which lay about them. On the far side was a storm, on the crest a wild tumult, but down here was quiet and peace. There were no clouds. The moon came up. Everywhere were purple shadows, silent and deep. Not a breath of air stirred. Not a wild creature in all that land but appeared to be at rest. “It’s like all of life,” Gordon Duncan said solemnly. “At times we find ourselves in the midst of terrible trouble, storms of life. We may have companions in these troubles, or they may be hidden away, our own secret troubles. In any case, it is quite wonderful to feel that about us, standing shoulder to shoulder with us, are friends ready at an instant’s notice to reach out a helping hand. “Much of the meaning of life is just here.” His tone became more thoughtful. “Life, after all, is a storm and in a way the worst of storms, for many of us haven’t the faintest notion whither we are bound. One thing alone we know, we must struggle on. The one thing that makes the struggle far more than worth while is the splendid human companionship we enjoy while we are in the midst of the storm. As we travel on, it seems there is always a hand outstretched to guide us home.” “A hand outstretched,” Faye said, thinking out loud. Before her mind’s vision she saw again the glistening slope down which she had been about to glide when Johnny seized her and drew her back. “Back from what?” she asked herself. As if in answer, Johnny said, “Look!” Her eyes followed the direction of his arm. Then her cheeks went white. The moon, rising higher and higher, had brought out the upper ridges of the mountain they had crossed. At the point where she had lost her footing and had been saved from a sudden plunge by the boy, the snow, blown over and beaten down by countless storms, had taken on the form of an inverted saucer. The edge of this great saucer hung more than a hundred feet over the edge of a gigantic precipice. From the outer rim of this snow saucer to the rocky ridges below was thousands of feet. The girl’s head whirled, her heart went sick at thought of that which she had escaped by so little. One second more of downward glide over that glistening saucer, and she would have been lost forever. “An arm reaching out to one during the storms of life,” she said in a tone that was deep with emotion. “Let’s not think of it,” said Johnny. “See how the moonlight plays on the river far below. It has painted a path of gold, a path that leads beyond doubt to home and the little cottage you love.” “If you’ll excuse me,” he said a moment later, “I think I’ll take a stroll along the ledge. Sort of want—want to think a little.” For a considerable distance the shelving rocky ledge led upward. Johnny followed it, to find himself at last standing upon a natural platform twenty feet square. From this point the whole world seemed spread out before him in the moonlight. White stretches of snow, black piles of rock, gleaming ribbons of water that were creeks and rivers, all these he saw as in a dream. Throwing back his shoulders, he took in three breaths of fresh air. A whirring of wings told that wild ducks were passing. Spring was here. And with spring a young man dreams of work, success, power. The life he had lived during the past few weeks seemed, as he looked at it now, quite purposeless. He had been helping someone else solve mysteries and run down one or two for himself. But one who spends his life running down mysteries gets nowhere. One must think of his future. True, no one was dependent upon his earnings. Yet, sometime, someone was likely to be. He meant to have a home of his own. Money earned and saved paved the way to such a future. “And yet—” He saw the face of Gordon Duncan, and the eager, anxious look of the girl who, without perhaps knowing it, had come to depend upon his wisdom, skill and strength. “Huh!” he grunted. “What’s the good of having a purpose to your every act? What’s youth for if not for adventure?” Turning his back upon the moon and the shimmering valley below, he went tramping back toward camp. As he rounded a rocky point he came in sight of the cheery glow of their campfire. He saw a short cut back. “Right over there,” he said to himself, “straight across that broad stretch of winter packed snow. What could be sweeter? I’ll use my bow as an Alpine staff. Not a bit of danger. Be there in no time.” Having been raised on the plains, Johnny knew little of the mountains. The great broad bank of snow he was to cross, ten feet deep here, twenty there, was indeed hard packed by beating winter winds. But beneath it, forces of nature had long been at work. Little trickles of melted snow, working from pebble to pebble, had worn narrow beds beneath the bank. These tiny trickles had become rushing rivulets. The great snowbank, clinging there to the steep mountain side, was gradually being undermined. Totally unconscious of all this, Johnny marched blithely along down the white incline. Here the grade was steeper and he was obliged to move with care. There the surface was like a great broad pavement. Here he paused to admire the reflection of the moon in a dark pool of water, and there stood staring away at a wavering light far out and below. “Might be on that river island. May be Indians,” he thought. Faint and from some distance down came a disturbing sound. It was like some heavy body plunging down. “What could that have been?” He quickened his pace. Coming to a broad break in the snow, he gripped his bow securely and leaped the chasm. Was it the shock of his landing that loosened the avalanche? Who can say? Enough that at this precise moment there came a solemn threatening rumble, and the boy felt himself moving downward. With one last effort, he threw himself flat, gripped his bow, then committed his spirit to the great Father of all. The next instant the cutting of cold air across his face told him he was going down, down, down—to what? This lasted for a space of seconds that seemed years. Then came a sudden shock; after that silence and darkness. Faye Duncan and her grandfather, as was their custom before retiring for the night, were partaking of a cup of tea when the sudden thunder of the avalanche reached their ears. A serious, questioning look passed from the girl to her grandsire as they sprang to their feet. The glance was returned. Not a word was spoken. As they stood there listening, intent, motionless, a swift cold breath of air fanned their cheeks, a thin film of snow gathered on their garments. That was all. It was all over in a moment. Once more the vast silence of the wilderness at night settled about them. Gordon Duncan was by nature a silent man. Suspense only served to deepen that silence. For a full hour he sat there beside his granddaughter while the firelight played across his immobile face. “If he comes to-night,” he said at last, rising slowly, “he’ll be late. We’ll heap the fire high. It will serve as a beacon. We—we can look in the morning,” he added slowly. “By night the mountain is treacherous. Nothing is to be gained.” Faye Duncan lay beneath her blankets a long time before sleep came. In her mind many questions revolved themselves like the turn of a heathen prayer wheel. Where was Johnny Longbow? Why did he not return? What was it that had brought them so far into the wilderness? An old man’s dream of treasure. Her grandfather had said it should be near here. Was it? Was their search to end so soon? Would Johnny return? If not, what then? What of those moving creatures on the river island? “The river is rising,” she told herself. “Soon that low island will be flooded. They must leave it. If they are human beings, I hope they have a boat.” Then a thought struck her all of a heap. Her grandfather would find in the need of these people, if need there was, a mission. Would this delay their search, their return? She hoped not. Of late the wilderness had seemed to be closing in upon her, shutting her from the world she had known. She longed for the return to their cozy cabin where the first snowdrops would be blooming and all the air fragrant with spring. “But I must see this through,” she told herself stoutly. “One can not—” Her thoughts broke off. Gordon Duncan was talking in his sleep. “We found it together.” His words were distinct. “I was sure it was a great discovery. I urged him to help me bring it out. I talked of money, of the name he would have. But he would not listen. He was a recluse. He would not come. I went for food. He’s there still—out there in the hills alone. For long years I could not recall the way. But now I know. It all came to me there by the tree of the knife. I shall see him soon. He will still be there. He is a recluse—a recluse—he—” His voice trailed off into nothingness, and again the oppressive silence of the mountains brooded over all. |
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