Rosswas writing to Dr. and Mrs. Grant. He bent over the rough table under the light of two candles stuck into the logs above his head. Weimer slept in his bunk the sound and noisy sleep of a tired laborer.
"At the rate we’re going at present," Ross wrote, "we’ll finish work by the middle of May.... We have at least one thing to be thankful for in our tunnel. We’re not obliged to timber it. Of course, blasting through solid rock isn’t easy nor fast work, but I guess in the long run we get along faster than we would through dirt. In this case, you see we should be obliged to snake logs down from the mountainside and build side walls and roof in the tunnel for our own safety. How’s ’snaking’ for you, Aunt Anne? First time I heard it I hadn’t an idea what it meant, but it covers the process of cutting down trees and getting them to their destination. Tell you what! We speak some language up here. The King’s English isn’t always in it, but then every oneunderstands, and I have fallen into using it as easily as a fish takes to water. And I am getting hardened to the work and the weather. I wouldn’t mind the whole thing so much now if only the way to Miners’ Camp would remain open. But any day it may become practically impassable, and then I cannot hear from you nor you from me for months. That–as I look ahead–is the tough part of it, being cooped up here with only five of us; and how the McKenzies can remain without laying in more provisions I don’t see. They have meat enough, but that’s all. With this letter I’m taking another over to Camp for Leslie’s father. I ought to have sent him word before that Leslie hasn’t been seen nor heard of since he disappeared, but every day I’ve looked for him back–the whole affair worries me a lot–I should think as soon as he gets my letter, old man Quinn would come and hunt Leslie up himself."
At this point there was the sound of laughter outside, and Ross laid aside his pencil and pad.
"Sandy," he muttered, listening.
To his surprise it was not Sandy whom the opening door revealed, but Lon and Waymart, both in unprecedented high spirits.
"We left Sandy snorin’," Waymart volunteered. "He and Uncle Jake ought to bunk in together. Lon, show Ross how Sandy talks in his sleep."
Weston sat down, leaned his head back against the logs, gave one or two passes through his hair, which left it arranged like Sandy’s with a lock falling over his forehead; and in an instant, although Weston was dark and Sandy fair, an excellent imitation of the latter mumbled and talked and snored against the logs. Weston accurately and easily imitated the voice and manner of Sandy with his laugh and every facial characteristic. Even Weimer rolled over in his bunk and laughed. Next, Weston, carried out of himself by an appreciative audience, imitated Waymart, the sheep-herder at Dry Creek, and finally Ross himself, and did it all with amazing success.
Ross, convulsed with laughter, rocked back and forth on his box. It was the first real fun he had encountered since leaving Pennsylvania. It did not seem possible that this Weston was the same half-sullen, wholly silent man whom he had nursed at the stage camp.
Ross sat opposite the window in front of which Weston was performing; and finally, just as Waymart had called for an imitation of Weimer, the boy, glancing up, encountered Sandy’s face outside the dirty pane. It remained there but an instant while Sandy took the measure of the performer, but that instant was enough to show Ross the full expression of which he had caught glimpsesbefore, and which revealed the side of his character that Sandy usually concealed. His blue eyes glinted angrily. His thin lips, tightly closed, wore a cruel expression, while every feature clearly showed a malignant disapproval of Weston’s methods of entertainment.
The laugh died in Ross’s throat; but the next instant the door swung open and Sandy entered, gay and careless–except as to eyes. They still glinted.
"Thought ye’d shook me, didn’t ye?" he asked with a grin. "Wall, this racket would bring a feller up from his grave, to say nothin’ of a little snooze."
He pushed a box over on its side, and sat astride it; and at once the atmosphere in the cabin changed, and became frigid, despite the newcomer’s gaiety. Weston slunk back to his seat, and all Ross’s urging proved ineffectual to draw him out of his shell again. Waymart’s face also lost its good humor.
Presently the three left together.
Weimer, wide awake, moved around the shack.
"Dat Veston!" he chuckled. "How many kinds of beoples ist he? I could shut mine eyes and tink he vas dem all."
The next day was Sunday, and early in the morning in the teeth of a mild wind and threatenedstorm Ross was off for Miners’ Camp. As far as the shoulder around Crosby he went on snow-shoes. Arrived at the shoulder, and, making use of the long, sharp spike which he carried, he picked his way cautiously forward, pushing through the deep snow in the trail with his feet and knees, the spike set on the outer edge to prevent his slipping. Again and again a ledge of overhanging snow would break away and fall on him; and, light even as the snow yet was, its weight dropping on his shoulders caused him to stagger. The snow-shoes also became a burden, for they were a useless encumbrance until he reached the foot of the mountain and struck out for Steele’s shack over two miles of snow already five feet deep.
When he reached Gale’s Ridge, he was almost exhausted, not only from pushing through the snow on the trail, but from the unaccustomed effort of walking on snow-shoes. Already he was dreading the most difficult task of all–the return journey.
Steele met him with a manifest uneasiness.
"Grant, your trips down to Camp this season are numbered," he cautioned as they sat down to an early dinner. "An old trailer could creep around the shoulder of Crosby for a little while yet, but neither you nor I could do it in safety.The snow’s gettin’ so almighty deep now, and blowin’ up in ledges on the shoulder–you probably got a ducking coming over?" His tone arose inquiringly.
Ross nodded. "Several times a lot of snow dropped on me; once I almost lost my balance."
Steele moved uneasily. "That’s the trouble with that trail even before there’s danger of a regular avalanche. You’re likely to get swept over when you least expect it, and going back is worse than coming."
Directly after dinner Ross commenced to bind on his snow-shoes for an early departure, having filled his pockets with candy for Weimer. His heart was heavy, and he had a queer, choky sensation as he looked around the little shack, which he might not see again in months.
Steele was adjusting the straps on his own snow-shoes.
"Going up the cañon with me, are you?" asked Ross.
Steele nodded, and got into his top-coat. "A little way," he answered briefly.
Although it was only one o’clock in the afternoon, twilight had fallen. The clouds rolled up the cañon so low that they hung almost within reach of the men’s hands, although not much snow was yet falling. An indescribable gloom filled thecañon, the gloom of utter isolation and loneliness. Not a breath of wind was stirring; not a movement of a tree was audible. Everywhere were the deep snow, the silent trees, the great white hulks of the mountains; and over all the clouds glowered sullenly.
Nature had erected sudden and impenetrable barriers in all directions, and Ross felt as though he were striving against them all.
In silence the two traveled the distance which lay between Gale’s Ridge and the upper end of Miners’ Camp, which was at present a deserted end. When they passed out of sight of the eating house on Gale’s Ridge, they left behind them every sign of life. The Mountain Company had shut down two weeks before. A few men had gone to Steele, but the majority had betaken themselves "below." Their shacks stood as the owners had left them, with their stoves, their crude furniture, and in some cases provisions, intact.
The stage was due now only once a week, and the post-office had been removed to Steele’s cabin. The former postmaster had gone to work on a ranch on the Grey Bull, leaving the post-office doors wide open, the snow filling the cabin and banking up against the letter boxes.
"By April," said Steele, "you can’t see even the roof of a single one of these places down here nextthe river. They’ll all be plumb covered with snow."
Steele did not stop, as Ross supposed he would, at the foot of Crosby, but started up the trail.
"Where are you going?" demanded the boy.
The superintendent went on. His reply came back muffled by the heavy air. "Around the shoulder of this little hill."
Nor could any protest from Ross restrain him.
As they began the ascent, Ross found the moisture hanging in drops to his clothing, while his face felt as though it were being bathed in ice-water. At the same time the clouds settled all about them.
"This is literally walking with our heads in the clouds," muttered Steele grimly. "And this is the weather that’ll pack the snow in this trail with a crust as hard as earth–ugh!"
They ascended the trail laboriously, Steele in the lead, Ross lagging behind, leg-weary, and heavy-hearted at the thought of the months to come. Around the shoulder of the mountain they cautiously felt their way, the thick clouds about them seeming to press back the banks of snow above.
Once on the safe trail beyond the shoulder Steele turned, and held out his hand without a word. Also wordless, Ross gripped it. Then the older man took the back trail, and disappeared.
The boy stood where the other left him, staring into the clouds which hid the shoulder. As he stood, a slight breeze touched his cheek and died away. He buckled his snow-shoes on again, and faced Meadow Creek Valley. As he did so, the breeze came again. Presently it turned into a wind, and the clouds retreated hastily up the mountainside. Great flakes of snow filled the air. Faster and faster they came swirling down until the air was thick with a storm which cut sharply against Ross’s face. He hurried on, and in an hour was beyond the reach of the storm in Weimer’s shack, drying his wet coat and cap.
He found his old partner half wild with anxiety.
"If you did not come pack to-night," he cried, "I thought you would never! A plizzard ist now."
So rejoiced was Uncle Jake at Ross’s return that he sat near the fire and waxed garrulous while the wind lashed the trees and drove the snow outside; and Ross, the other side of the stove, shivered and listened listlessly.
"What ails you, hein?" Weimer finally demanded.
And Ross, with a lump in his throat of which he was not ashamed, told him.
"Ach!" exclaimed Weimer disgustedly. He snapped his thumb and finger together. "I vashere dree vinters alone mit no one near. Py day I vorked. Py night dem volves howl und cayotes; but," consolingly, "dey can’t git in, und dey vant nicht to git in."
Then for the first time he went on to relate to Ross in his quaint and broken English many stories of those lonely winters in this solitary valley, which had then held him as its only inhabitant.
"No wonder," thought Ross, listening to the fury of the storm, "that the old man’s mind was ready to give away under the additional trial of an attack of snow-blindness."
The blizzard continued in unabated fury all the next day. Neither Weimer nor Ross visited the tunnel. They remained housed, watching the snow gradually pile itself around the little shack until the two small windows were obscured, and they were obliged to resort to candle-light.
But during the night the wind changed, and the following morning the sun rose in a brilliantly blue sky. Directly after an early breakfast Ross started to shovel a way out of the cabin. He dug the snow away from the door and windows, and then turned his attention to the trail leading to the tunnel. Here he found that the wind had favored him, sweeping the path clean and filling up the hollows. In the valley the snow lay seven feet deep.
Ross worked his way to the ore-dump, at the base of which he paused to look down on the McKenzies. Their cabin was also released from the snow as to door and window. The snow was also tramped and shoveled around the discovery hole, but no one was in sight, and Ross had turned again to his task when a yell caused him again to face the McKenzie cabin.
Sandy was gesticulating frantically while he advanced rapidly on snow-shoes, dodging the trees as he came diagonally across the mountainside. He came on, talking at the top of his voice, but all Ross could catch was "sticks" and "thief" and "trail." Sandy was plainly excited. His neckerchief was knotted under one ear; his coat was buttoned up awry; his cap was on with one ear-flap dangling, and the other held fast by the rim of the cap. His ears and nose were scarlet, the thermometer registering, that morning, thirty below zero.
"Our dynamite is gone," Sandy yelled when he was near enough to make Ross understand. "Gone–stolen."
Ross stared at him stupidly. "Who is there to take it?"
"Some one," panted Sandy with an oath, "must have come up the trail Sunday and taken the stuff, thinkin’ that it ’ud storm right off and shut up thetrail so none of us ’ud be such fools as t’ go over t’ Camp after more. That’s the way I’ve figured it out, and I lay ye I’m right."
"When did you find out the sticks were gone?" asked Ross with an interest which did not as yet reach beyond Sandy.
"A few minutes ago," gasped Sandy. "I come as fast as I could to see if your––"
Ross cut him short with a loud exclamation, and without waiting to hear the end of the sentence turned and plunged up over the dump, ploughing and fighting his way through the snow as though it were a thing of life.
Sandy picked up the wooden shovel which the boy had cast away, and followed out of breath, but still talking.
"You know we kept the sticks in a box under a hemlock right above the hole, and––"
Ross, unheeding, floundered across the dump, and began to dig wildly at the tool-house door, only the upper part of which was visible. With set teeth he dug, forgetting Sandy, forgetting the shovel, his common sense swallowed up in a panic of fear.
Weimer had always kept the dynamite sticks in a box, a large double boarded and heavily lidded affair which was set in the corner of the tool chest furthest from the door.
At first Ross had raised the lid of this box with chills creeping down his spine. His hair had stirred under his cap when he first saw Weimer stuff the sticks carelessly into his pocket and enter the tunnel. But familiarity with the use of the sticks had robbed them of their terror, although Ross was always cautious in the handling.
"Hold on, Doc." Sandy’s voice at his elbow finally brought the frantic boy to his senses. "Ye can’t do nothin’ with yer hands. Stand aside there, and I’ll shovel the snow away from the door."
Ross stood back, unconscious of the nip of the cold on his nose and cheeks, and watched Sandy shoveling with a will, the while talking consolingly.
"I don’t believe the thieves have come anigh ye; don’t look so, anyway. It’s likely some one who’s a grudge against some of us. There’s plenty holds grudges agin Lon. Wisht he’d stayed in the valley–here ye be! Ketch a holt of this side of the door. Now, one, two, three!"
The door yielded to their combined efforts, and Ross rushed in with Sandy at his heels. His fingers were so numbed he could scarcely raise the lid of the dynamite box. A film seemed to cover his eyes, and in the light which entered grudgingly only by way of the door he could see nothing. Hebent his head further over the box, but it was Sandy’s voice which confirmed his worst fears.
"Not a stick left. They’ve made a clean sweep of Medder Creek Valley!"
The film cleared from Ross’s eyes, but not from his brain. The box was empty–the box which had contained the stuff absolutely necessary to the work in the tunnel.
Ross glanced up and met Sandy’s eyes. Sandy’s eyes looked steadily and guilelessly into Ross’s, and Sandy’s face expressed all the sympathy and commiseration of which Ross stood in need.
The boy sat down on the edge of the box. "What shall I do?" he asked, his thoughts in a whirl.
"Do about th’ same as we’ve got t’–git out!" quoth Sandy with a lugubrious shake of his head. "Here we got Lon up here t’ help push our work, and now we’re up a stump; for ye know"–here Sandy’s eyes held Ross’s while he spoke slowly–"there’s no use thinkin’ about gittin’ any over from Camp. No one ’ud be crazy enough to resk packin’ a load of sticks around the shoulder this time of year."
Ross shivered as he thought of the shoulder under its body of snow.
"When are you going?" he asked.
"To-morrow," answered Sandy promptly."We’ll start then, but we’ll have to shovel through. You’ll have t’ lead Weimer, won’t ye?"
Ross swallowed twice before he answered. "Yes, I suppose so."
"We’ll help ye." Sandy’s tones were good-natured and soothing. He seemed suddenly to have lost all regret at the disappearance of his store of dynamite. "We’ll break open the trail, and then we can rope ourselves together around the shoulder. That’s safer."
"All right," Ross heard himself say in an unnatural voice. He could not in an instant adjust himself to this radical uprooting of his plans.
"It’ll be a ticklish job," Sandy continued, "t’ break through around the shoulder without bringin’ down the hull side of old Crosby on us, includin’ a few rocks; but every day now we put it off is so much the worse."
He turned to go. "Then we’ll pick ye up in the mornin’; will we?"
"Why–I suppose so," returned Ross. "There doesn’t seem to be anything else to do."
"Better not load up much," warned Sandy; "and don’t give Uncle Jake a load at all. All we’re goin’ to try to pack over is a little venison."
Then Sandy disappeared, and Ross suddenly recovered from his mental numbness. It was the sting of anger which aroused him. So confusedand disappointed had he been, and so well had Sandy played his part, that the true solution of the theft did not dawn on the boy until the other’s departure. Then he stopped short on the downward trail and uttered an exclamation, his hands clinching inside his mittens, and his eyes narrowing and flashing.
Of course, it was Sandy’s own brain which had planned the matter and Sandy’s own henchmen who had made off with the sticks. They had taken this way of stopping the progress of work in the tunnel. They had waited until no more dynamite could be brought over the trail, calculating that when the time came for the claims to be patented one half year’s work would be undone, and then!
Ross started blindly down the path. He would go over to the Camp with the McKenzies. He would go down to Meeteetse with them–no officer of the law could be found nearer, and there he would put them all under arrest. Here he stopped again. Arrest them on what evidence? Face to face with this question, he was obliged to acknowledge the neatness of the scheme which had for its first point the theft of their own sticks. Could he prove that no one had come over the trail after he reached the valley? And could he prove that the dynamite had not been taken by this mythical some one?
Ross thought of what Steele had said concerning trusting Sandy with his pocketbook. Sandy would have the contents of the purse, Steele said, but he’d take care to get them in such a way that he could shake hands afterward with the owner, as well as face any jury.
"And Steele," Ross muttered, drawing a long breath, "was right."
The news of the loss seemed to jar Weimer back into a semblance of his former intelligence. Instead of ranting as Ross expected he would he sat down and talked over the situation reasonably with his young partner. It was Weimer, in fact, who restored something like hope to Ross.
He objected to leaving the valley with the McKenzies. He had been over that valley and the surrounding mountains inch by inch, he told Ross. Let that "consarned gang" be gone. They two would stay and bring the dynamite to light. Then he told of place after place on the mountain which would make excellent hiding-places for the sticks. There were many caves, and some of them dry. Weimer reasoned the "gang" would cache the sticks in a dry place for their own future use.
Temporarily the old partner and the young changed places, and, as Ross listened, he became stout of heart once more.
"Of course," he exclaimed, "if dynamite can’tbe carried up the trail, neither can it be taken back into Camp. It’s got to be somewhere around here; and, if we hunt for it a month, we can still get the work done in time."
"Vy didn’t I tink of dem sticks?" Weimer asked angrily. "I might know dem consarned gang pe up to somet’ing ven dey see our vork it vas gettin’ fast! Vy didn’t I tink?"
Ross, having lapsed into his own thoughts, made no reply; and Weimer arose from the box where he had been sitting, and crawled into his bunk.
Ross paced the floor slowly, his arms folded behind him. Ross’s fighting blood was up. Before this he had looked at his work as the result of his father’s request. It was not to his liking, and the only actual pleasure he took in it was the prospect of finishing it. He had believed before the theft of the sticks that he would welcome anything which really necessitated his leaving Meadow Creek Valley, although he would accept nothing less than necessity.
But this theft seemed suddenly to have made the work his own and the failure to accomplish it a personal defeat. Instead of rejoicing over the prospect of leaving Meadow Creek Valley he welcomed eagerly Weimer’s suggestion that they stay and hunt for the dynamite, even though the huntmeant that, dynamite or no dynamite, they must be shut up in the valley for months to come.
Suddenly a new fear caused him to scramble hastily into his coat, cap, and mittens.
"I’m going to fetch the tools down," he explained grimly. "I’m not going to risk having some one make off with them!"
"Dat ist so," assented Weimer. "Ve vill need dose tools; ve vill. Dose McKenzie gang vill see. I can find dose sticks, und I know I can."
None of the McKenzies came over that evening, to Ross’s relief, for the events of the day had brought a new fear of that outfit. Sandy’s good-natured neighborliness had deceived him. Now for the first time he realized that they were actual enemies, ready to stoop to any means within the law to baffle him.
It was scarcely daylight the following morning, although breakfast in the Weimer cabin had been disposed of, before there was heard a tramp of feet outside through the creaking snow, and Sandy with a heavy pack on his back appeared at the door.
"All ready t’ strike the trail?" he asked, putting his head inside the shack.
There was an instant’s silence, during which Sandy’s face changed as he looked quickly from Ross to Weimer. The latter sat beside the table,his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the boards.
Ross answered, "We can’t get ready to go so quickly."
For a moment Sandy’s face was the face which had appeared at the window the night Weston was indulging in mimicry, but for a moment only. Then he rallied and assumed an air of concerned astonishment.
"What? Not ready? Why, man alive, yer chance may be gone if ye wait another day. Uncle Jake, you ought to know that, if Doc here don’t. Why, we’re afraid we can’t come it even by ropin’ together. Better hustle up and come."
Both Weimer and Ross sat still, and after a little further parley Waymart called angrily:
"Hike along here, Sandy. Guess they know what they want t’ do better ’n you do. Make tracks here!"
The three "made tracks," while Ross stood and watched them out of sight.
But after they had gone the boy, uneasy lest they should return to do the tunnel some damage, climbed the trail and entered the tool house. The house was fastened between two trees which grew at one side of the dump, the side furthest from the trail across the mountain toward Miners’ Camp.
Ross had entered aimlessly after assuring himself that the door at the mouth of the tunnel had not been opened. He stood silently looking out of a crack down on the mass of snow which glistened at the foot of the dump, when he was startled by seeing Sandy on snow-shoes creep around the dump and look up.
Only a glance upward did Sandy give, and them, turning, disappeared. Yet his face had appeared anxious before that upward glance, while afterward there was on it a satisfied smile.
The hours that followed were anxious ones for the two remaining in Meadow Creek Valley. They began a hunt for the dynamite as soon as the McKenzies had disappeared. Starting at the McKenzie shack and discovery hole they widened the search in a circle which finally included the valley and the sides of the adjoining mountains, with a single important omission; it did not occur to either of them to examine their own premises further than to assure themselves that neither tool house nor tunnel had suffered any damage from their "friends the enemy."
At four o’clock came the first signs of dusk and, discouraged, the partners moved slowly across the valley. Half-way across, Ross chanced to glance up at the stovepipe projecting from the roof of their shack.
"A fire!" he shouted. "Look there, Uncle Jake! Some one has built up the fire!"
At that instant the door swung open and Leslie Quinn stood in the doorway.
Overfried bacon, sour dough bread and varied "canned goods," Leslie told his story to an interested and excited audience of two. The day of Ross’s arrest he had shouldered a pack of stuff selected from the trunk which still stood under the new third bunk, waited until twilight so that he could not be seen on the trail, and then, on snow-shoes, had made his way over Crosby and up Wood River cañon to Wilson’s cabin on the coal claims.
"You see," he said, a flush sweeping over his face, "I supposed father was at Cody, and I wouldn’t have faced him without that five hundred dollars for all the gold that may be in these mountains, and, besides, the way he had taken to get even with me–well, I don’t need to say how it cuts!" Here Leslie bent over his plate in shame. "Although–I–well, of course, I deserve it, but I didn’t think he’d go as far as that."
"Hold on, Less!" Ross jumped up from the table so suddenly that the box on which he had been sitting was knocked over. "Here’s a letterto you in my care. It has been here so long I had forgotten it."
He pulled the emergency chest from under his bunk and produced both of Mr. Quinn’s letters–the one to himself and the one yet unopened.
"There you are!" he exclaimed, tossing both across the table. "I take it from what your father says in mine that he thought of the arrest not as a punishment, but as the way in which he could be sure of getting his hands on you quickly in Omaha."
Eagerly Leslie read both letters, his troubled face lighting and softening. "You’re right," he said finally in a low tone. "I guess dad is–is more all right than–than I used to think. I’ve been no end of an idiot, frankly."
He folded his letter and slipped it into his slicker pocket while Weimer urged:
"You was mit dot shack, und dey found you not, hein?"
"But I want to hear about Ross’s––"
"No, no," interrupted Ross. "Finish out your story first. Mine will look like thirty cents at the end of yours. I’m not exactly proud of myself."
"Vilson’s shack," prompted Weimer, pushing his plate back and planting both elbows on the table.
Leslie continued his story in a new exuberanceof spirits, occasionally fingering the letter in his pocket. He had foreseen that Wilson’s shack would be searched, and so, trusting to the drifting snow to conceal his trail, he had, during the night, packed provisions into one of the many deserted shacks in the upper camp. He had selected one overlooking the trail up Crosby. It had two rooms, one behind the other, the back room having an outside door and but one small window. Leaving the first room undisturbed, he had stowed his provisions in the back room, which also contained a bunk.
"I can tell you that it was hard sledding for me until after the sheriff and the McKenzies came and went that day," he continued ruefully. "I had brought along my blankets, but I didn’t dare light a fire, and I nearly froze and nearly starved on cold canned stuff. But after the sheriff had gone back–you see I could watch the camp from the back room window–and the McKenzies had passed the shack on the trail over here, I hung blankets over the windows and had a fire nights when the smoke wouldn’t be seen. I could cook at night and early in the morning and so got along fairly well. But I expected them all back again for another search, so mornings I used to vacate the outside room and leave it the same as it had been."
"Why didn’t you come over sooner?" asked Ross.
"Don’t you see that I couldn’t," demanded Leslie, "so long as the McKenzies were here? I knew, though, that they had told Wilson that they were not going to stay all winter. They told him they would go to Cody as soon as they thought the Crosby trail was getting dangerous. So I watched that trail like a cat for them to go and for my chance to get here."
"Vilson he vent out," interrupted Weimer.
"Yes, Uncle Jake, I saw him go, but I lay low. I was afraid of the consequences of being seen. I had no idea that father had been put off. I was sure he would come on himself, and I knew that if father once struck my trail he’d unearth me. He never gives up."
"Then, this morning––" prompted Ross.
"Yes, this morning when I saw the McKenzies coming down the trail bag and baggage, I humped myself to get ready to get over here before their tracks got filled up. I knew that if they could get one way I could get the other way to-day, but maybe not to-morrow. And I tell you what," here Leslie arose and stretched out his arms, "I’ve been living these weeks as close and cramped a prisoner as I ever want to be. I could get out nights a little because the camp came to be aboutdeserted, but I was cooped up all day in the shack."
Far into the night the boys talked, while Weimer alternately listened and dozed. When Ross was well launched on the story of his arrest he became at once embarrassed, wondering how he was going to evade the matter of Lon Weston and the note. He finally compromised by ending the story of his capture in a partial account of his conversation with Sandy in the barroom of "The Irma," and Leslie, taking it for granted that his father’s name and address came from Sandy, did not ask embarrassing questions.
"It’s as I suspected, then," he added slowly. "The McKenzies were probably employed on the ranches around home at some time. The cowboys and sheep-herders are always coming into the town, and probably they all knew me by sight, while I didn’t know them one from another."
Ross checked the question which arose to his lips concerning the fourth man that Mr. Quinn was after, and shortly after, the boys tumbled into their bunks, Ross with a feeling of deep relief that the third bunk would be occupied during the winter.
"I didn’t do so badly in Cody after all, as it has all turned out," he thought comfortably as he fell asleep.
He was only half awakened a few moments later by an exclamation from the third bunk, and heard Leslie say, "By the way, Ross, who was––" then the question, "Are you asleep?"
Ross, without replying, sank into a deeper sleep, and Leslie said no more. Weimer was already snoring.
The following morning Ross tumbled out at daybreak and built a roaring fire in the old cracked heater. He glanced at the third bunk and began whistling cheerfully. Perhaps they could find the dynamite now that there was a second with sound eyes to aid in the search and a sound brain to help plan. If only the sticks could be found the early spring would see the work completed and the claims patented.
The first thing Weimer did when he arose was to go to the door and survey sky and mountains with practiced eye, as he sniffed the bracing air. The sky was overcast and lowering, while a sharp wind drove the snow in eddies and drifts through the valley.
"Der vill pe a pig storm mit us," he prophesied; "it ist on its vay. It vill get here in dree, four days."
"Hear that, Less?" shouted Ross at the new bunk. "You turn out and we’ll be off. We’vegot to unearth that dynamite before any more snow piles up here around us."
Leslie left his bunk with a bound. "I’m good for it. How’s breakfast? When I filled up last night I thought I’d never need anything more and here I am as hollow as a drum!"
At the breakfast table, he suddenly bethought himself of the question he had meant to ask the previous night. "I say, Doc," he exclaimed, "who was the third man with the McKenzies yesterday? My cabin wasn’t near enough the trail so that I could see."
Ross hesitated and Weimer answered, "Dot vas a cousin of the McKenzies, name of Lon Veston."
There was a clatter and a fall as knife and fork slipped out of Leslie’s hands. "Lon Weston!" he ejaculated. "Lon Weston here? A cousin of the McKenzies?"
"Know him?" asked Ross.
Leslie picked up his fork. "Know Lon? Well, I should say so. He’s made trouble enough at home––" He bit his lips suddenly and stopped, adding, "He was foreman on a ranch near North Bend for a couple of years. He–he used to come to our house a good deal."
In a flash Ross recalled the photo that had dropped out of Weston’s pocket at Sagehen Roost, the pretty girl face, and instantly he knew whyHank had said of Leslie when he rode away with Wilson, "Seems as if I’d seen that there young feller before."
"Yes, they are surely brother and sister," Ross decided, his gaze fixed critically on Leslie’s downcast face. "They look tremendously alike."
"Veston, he vas de man dot Doc here mended," Weimer volunteered. "Doc vas at Dry Creek mit Veston."
Leslie glanced quickly across the table. "Not the man who was there when I passed through–the day I was with Wilson–not that one, Ross?"
"The same," nodded Ross. "He’s the Lon Weston that I know."
"Then he isn’t the Lon Weston that I know," said Leslie with conviction and also relief. "That man at Dry Creek had dark hair, while the ranch foreman had hair as light almost as Sandy’s. Not the same at all."
And because of the note at "The Irma," Ross did not contradict Leslie, did not tell him that Weston’s hair was still light beneath its dye of chestnut brown.
"But some day," he thought, "I can ask him about the fourth man that his father is after, and so find out about Weston in a roundabout way."
But the search for the dynamite soon proved so strenuous that all thought of the crime committedon the North Fork faded from Ross’s mind. Day after day the boys continued the search while Weimer stayed in the cabin "rustling grub" and giving suggestions. The theft of the sticks seemed to have shocked the man into something of his former mental keenness and industry. Not once did Ross have to urge him to his household tasks. When the boys tramped into the cabin at noon or long after darkness had fallen, they found a hearty appetizing meal prepared, the cook even going to the length of objecting to their washing the dishes.
"If you dem sticks find," he would say, "Ich vill stay mit dese dishes."
"Uncle Jake," exclaimed Ross at noon the third day of the hunt, "I’m discouraged. We have poked into every spot for miles around where such a lot of dynamite could be hidden–and then have gone again."
"I’m almost ready to believe," declared Leslie, "that the boys had the sticks in their packs when they left."
Weimer shook his head. "No, never would dose poys pe so foolish. Dose sticks are here, hein? Somewhere in Meadow Creek Valley ve vill find dem," but the old man’s voice broke on the declaration.
"Of course it couldn’t be that the McKenziescarried them away," affirmed Ross. "If there had been six men of them they couldn’t have carried away all the dynamite that we had and Wilson had and they had. In fact they couldn’t have carried it all very far that night and in the teeth of the awful storm that howled among these peaks. I believe with Uncle Jake that the stuff is in this valley."
"You see, Uncle Jake," Ross began after a pause, "we have gone on the supposition that they chose a spot under the cover of rocks or in hollow trees, some place where the dynamite would be kept dry. Now, it may be that they have dug a hole in the snow and ice, and buried it in the open, and the snow has drifted over its grave."
"Maype! maype!" Weimer ejaculated. "Put, if dey haf, our goose, it ist cooked."
He pushed the box on which he sat back against the wall.
Ross opened the cabin door, and looked out. The weather had grown warmer. The blanket of clouds which had hovered over the earth for days had lifted and the snow lay dazzling in the strong light. When he closed the door, Weimer had donned his blue goggles.
"Where’s your big storm, Uncle Jake?" asked Ross.
"Comin’, comin’," answered Uncle Jakeconfidently. "It vill pe on us py mornin’. Dis light it vill not last."
Ross sat down and took his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees.
"Every fall of snow," he thought, "makes our work so much more hopeless."
Presently Weimer broke the silence. "Vell," he began meditatively, "ve haf t’ings to eat fer de vinter, anyvay," and Ross understood the circle around which Uncle Jake’s thoughts had been winding.
"Yes, it’s Meadow Creek for us now, whether the dynamite is found or not." Ross’s voice was grim. "We went over on the trail as far as the shoulder of Crosby to-day and whew! Uncle Jake, it was a sight to see. The wind has packed the snow into that trail until it hangs over the gorge in great masses and curls."
"Looks," added Leslie, "as though a thousand tons or so might sweep down over the shoulder any minute. The trail is closed all right as far as I’m concerned. If I hadn’t come in the McKenzies’ footprints that morning I wouldn’t have come at all."
After dinner the boys fastened on their snow-shoes outside the door and then looked questioningly at each other.
"Well–where to now?" asked Leslie despondently.
"Sure enough–where?" returned Ross equally despondent.
Weimer had offered no suggestions, and the boys were at the end of their resources.
"We’ve hunted every place," said Ross absently, adjusting a buckle on the strap of his snow-shoe, "except our own premises here."
No sooner had he heard his own voice speaking these careless words than their possible significance struck him. He sprang up with kindling eyes. "Less, do you hear?" he shouted, his thoughts in advance of his tongue. "There’s where it may be, and maybe that was the reason why Sandy came back and looked. Hurry! Hurry up!"
"What are you talking about?" yelled Leslie as Ross raced awkwardly around the cabin on his snow-shoes.
Weimer opened the door and peered out through his colored goggles. "Has dot poy gone crazy?" he asked.
Leslie, without pausing to answer, hurried after Ross. "Where to?" he yelled.
"The tool house," returned Ross over his shoulder. "It’s fastened between two trees, and hangs out over the foot of the dump! See?"
But, instead of taking the trail to the tunnel, Ross struck across the mounds and hillocks and drifts of snow that blocked the trail leading toMiners’ Camp. Through the tangle of pines and hemlocks he led the way until he stopped at the foot of the snow-heaped dump and looked up at the tool house, one side of which rested on the dump, while the opposite side was fastened to sturdy hemlocks whose trunks arose from the débris heaped about them from the tunnel. The tool house was now a shapeless white form, while the dump was buried beneath tons of snow.
"It was here," Ross explained breathlessly, "that Sandy stood. I was looking out at the McKenzies from a crack up in the house. He came back and looked up under the house and then grinned and went back to the others. They had started to leave, you know. Now why did he want to look under that house?"
"That’s it!" cried Leslie with excited conviction. "They had cached the stuff under the house and he wanted to make sure that their trail could not be seen. Ross, the sticks are up under there, high and dry."
"You bet!" shouted Ross turning in his tracks. "We’ll get shovels and dig for it. And, Less, if we find the cache, we’ll let off one blast around here outside of the tunnel that ’ill show them, if they’re still over in Camp, that we ain’t dead yet."
"Nor dumb and stupid, either!" cried Leslie delightedly as he legged it rapidly over the snow.
In the door of the shack they found Weimer still standing, shielding his eyes with one hand and calling questions into space. The boys, appearing, stopped to answer, not only satisfying the old man but receiving a valuable suggestion.
"Vat for you dig mit all dot vork? It vill dake you poys a day und a half to git up unter dot shack. Vy not go in und raise dot floor und find dem sticks unter?"
Leslie tossed up his cap. "Three cheers for Uncle Jake!" he shouted. "That’s the very thing to do. We’ll get around to that signal blast sooner. Come on, Ross!"
It was Leslie who led this time, axe in hand, while Ross followed with hammer and shovel. The trail to the tunnel had been unused for days and was so deeply drifted that the boys had difficulty in getting up to the dump even with the aid of the shovel. Once on top they were obliged to shovel their way slowly into the tool house.
"Now," exclaimed Ross when they were fairly in, "now for work with these floor boards!"
Leslie, with many grunts, fell to clearing away the snow from the floor, while Ross pulled the big box in which the dynamite had been stored from the center of the shack into one corner.
"See here, Ross," cried Leslie excitedly as he bent to the last shovelful of snow. "We don’tneed axe nor hammer. The McKenzies have done the work for us. The floor has been taken up and just laid back again without being spiked down. That box held the planks down pretty firmly, you see."
The floor consisted of halves of tree trunks, flat above and rounded on the under side. Eagerly Ross and Leslie raised the central plank and both cried out simultaneously, for the dynamite filled the space beneath up to the level of the floor.
"And to think!" muttered Ross, "that I have not thought of this before–didn’t think of it when I saw Sandy peering up here."
Leslie sat back on his heels and mopped his face. "Pretty cute of ’em to think of a thing like this," he conceded. "I should have taken the sticks as far away as I could have carried them had I been doing it, and considered that the farther I went the better for my plans."
"It’s Sandy," declared Ross. "Steele has told me a dozen times that he’s the brains of the clan."
It did not take the trio long to restore the dynamite to its box, for Ross, going down to the cabin, led a delighted Weimer through the sunshine up to the tool house, and Weimer willingly devoted his great strength to the task.
"And," insisted Leslie when their task wascompleted, "now for putting the shot that shall tell Miners’ Camp that we’re livelier than ever over here."
As long as the trail was closed and the McKenzies could not return, the boys reasoned, it would be a lark to inform them in this way of the failure of their project.
"Even if they have gone on to Cody," suggested Ross, "Bill Travers might get the news to ’em by way of the stages."
"But you see," ruefully from Leslie, "probably there’s no one except themselves that knows of our plight. They may not have told any one of the theft of the sticks."
"Well, we’ll set off a blast that will tell every one that they’re found, anyway!" retorted Ross. "And we’ll do it in the morning before the storm comes on," for the brilliancy of the sunlight had long been dimmed by heavy banks of clouds rolling in from the northwest.
Weimer entered into the project with the abandon of a child, and it was he who suggested the location of the "shot."
"Nicht on Crosby," he said shaking his head. "Dot might upset dot tunnel. Put it mit Soapweed Ledge und see vat comes."
The boys did not ask what Weimer meant. Anything they did not understand they laid tohis "Dutch lingo," but they immediately adopted the suggestion concerning Soapweed Ledge, and in the morning carried enough sticks across the valley to plant a respectable "mine," as Ross called it, beneath one of the huge rocks which jutted out from the side of the mountain that bounded the valley on the north. This mountain rose four thousand feet above Meadow Creek, its head lost in the snow clouds that now threatened to submerge the valley. On the face of the mountain lay a great body of snow, especially heavy above the timber-line, which here, because of the great elevation of the valley itself, was only a few hundred feet above the base of any mountain.
Weimer, lured out of the shack by the dimness of the light and the enjoyment of the undertaking, went with the boys and did his share in the "packing" of the sticks unurged. It was he who, with an accession of unusual keenness, planted the charge in a shallow cave with a mass of rock perilously overhanging the entrance.
"Ve vant ein noise," he chuckled, "ein pig racket. It shall pe heard in Miners’."
A few moments later they had the noise, all they had planned for, and then a noise that no one had foreseen save Weimer, and he had not explained his expectations.
While the long fuse was burning, the threespectators had retreated to the middle of the valley and faced about expectantly. There came a fearful detonation which awakened the echoes on every hand and the vast rock with a dozen of its neighbors was lifted like lumps of clay and hurled into the valley amid a cloud of snow and ice. Some of the fragments landed almost at the feet of the spectators.
The echoes had not died away before Weimer, yelling, "Ve may not pe out of de vay far," turned and made his clumsy but rapid way on snow-shoes further from the scene of the explosion. The boys were following him blindly and excitedly when, in the clouds fairly over their heads, came a sound that neither had ever heard before, a wrenching, grinding, tearing sound which caused Ross’s hair to stir under his cap.
"Can th-that be thunder?" he stammered running.
Weimer looked over his shoulder at the mountain. "You haf neber an avalanche seen, hein!" he cried, and stopping, faced the other way again.
Down into view below the low hanging clouds it swept its terrible way, that avalanche which the trembling of the mountain had caused, the work of the dynamite. With a swift overwhelming rush it crumbled the rocks and, uprooting great trees, bore them easily on its bosom. Into thevalley it debouched, carrying with it the wreckage from the mountainside.
Ross and Leslie looked at each other with white faces when the roar and grind and rush finally ceased.
"Suppose," suggested Ross huskily, "we had set that blast off on old Crosby."
Both boys looked at the mountain overhanging the tunnel above their shack, and Ross shivered.
"It would have been good-bye to the tunnel and the shack and us too, I guess," muttered Leslie.
"I told you," declared Weimer, "vat vould happen, hein? I told you last nicht. Now ein avalanche you haf seen."
Neither boy contradicted his first statement. With the last they agreed rather breathlessly, for an avalanche they surely had seen!
"I hope," said Ross carelessly as they entered their shack, "that the McKenzies are still in Miners’ and that they heard that blast!"
Thefollowing morning the three inhabitants of Meadow Creek Valley began work again in the tunnel. The air was filled with a smother of snow which fell unaccompanied by wind. When, the following day, the sky cleared, over the path of the avalanche and over the ruins of Soapweed Ledge lay a concealing blanket of snow three feet deep.
"Whew!" shivered Ross as he led the goggled Weimer over the snow to the tunnel that morning. "Wish we had a thermometer up here. This is some cold. Must be minus zero by a long way."
"Mine nose ist my thermometer," complained Weimer, rubbing that whitening member. "Aber dis weather it holds nicht. Anoder snow falls in dree, four days."
The third day proved the truth of this prophecy. The atmosphere became many degrees warmer and the sky lowering.
"More snow," sighed Leslie, looking over the silent, white sheeted valley with homesick eyes.
"Und den more," added Weimer complacently. "More und more till June."
That noon it chanced that Weimer, being afflicted with a headache, left the tunnel early. A little later, Ross, pushing the little car out to the dump, called back to Leslie at work with the drill:
"Guess I’ll go down and rustle the grub for Uncle Jake. That headache of his is genuine."
"All right," assented Leslie, "I’ll be down in half an hour or so. I want to put this shot before I go."
Ross found Weimer in a state of great excitement, the headache forgotten. He stood at the door of the shack, peering up toward the tunnel, both hands shielding his blinking eyes.
"Who vas dot man?" he demanded in a high, eager voice.
"What man, Uncle Jake?" Ross stopped short, staring at Weimer as though he were bereft of his senses.
"I see him!" declared Weimer. "He vas shust startin’ up dot trail py de tunnel. I see his pack. He vore ein pag on it. He vore ein cap mit goggles. I see him."
Ross looked up the mountainside incredulously. "Why, Uncle Jake, I just left the tunnel and there was no one there but Leslie. I guess," jocosely,"your headache has made you ’see things at night,’ hasn’t it? No one can get into the valley now, you know."
Excitedly protesting and expostulating, half in English and half in German, Uncle Jake retreated inside the door, and taking up his position beside one of the little windows watched the trail to the tunnel while Ross, smiling at his partner’s hallucination, built up the fire, cheerfully banging the covers of the stove as he filled the fire-box with dry pine sticks. In the midst of this racket there entered the sound of crunching footsteps on the side opposite the shack from that occupied by Weimer.
"Hein!" yelled the latter springing up. "Was sagen sie? It ist somepody!"
A rap thundered on the door, and it was thrust open at the same time unceremoniously, while a low, gruff voice inquired abruptly:
"Is there a young doctor here?"
A man a little above medium height stood on the threshold. He wore buckskin trousers and a buckskin coat over a heavy sweater, giving him a bulky appearance. He had on snow-shoes, and strapped over his shoulder, a large leather game pouch sagged. Behind smoked goggles his eyes were blinking, like Weimer’s, almost closed. His head and ears were covered with a shaggy fur cap,which met his turned-up coat collar. His face was smooth above a fringe of black stubby whiskers, which ran from ear to ear under the chin. His voice, though gruff, was not unpleasant as he explained.
"Of course ’twas a month and more ago since they told me over t’ Red Lodge that––" His eyes fell on Ross. "You’re him they call Doc Tenderfoot, ain’t ye?"
"Why–yes," answered Ross. There was a pause between the two words caused by the speaker’s amazement at seeing a man drop in from–where?
"Come in," invited Weimer, "und set down."
"Don’t care if I do," assented the stranger.
He unbuckled his snow-shoes, and, leaving them outside, entered the shack. Turning down his coat collar, he loosened his cap, pushing it back on his head, thereby revealing the ends of short black hair.
"Haf you peen up to dat tunnel, hein?" demanded Weimer with a triumphant glance at Ross.
The stranger nodded, "Yep. Didn’t see no signs of livin’ here and I did see some signs up t’ the mouth of the tunnel, but I didn’t see no good way of gittin’ up t’ it. When I got there I was over t’ other side of the dump and when I got upon top of it I heard voices down here, so down here I put agin!"
"Did you come up from Miners’ Camp?" asked Ross eagerly.
The stranger shook his head. "No, I live toward the Divide on––" The stranger interrupted himself to ask, "Know the country over there, do you?"
Weimer shook his head. "Only py hearsay."
"Well, we located on Sagewood Run, my pal and me, and––"
"Didn’t know dere vas a soul livin’ in dem parts," exclaimed Weimer.
"Me and my pal," returned the stranger. "We hain’t got no neighbor near enough to throw kisses to, that’s sartain. You’re the nighest."
"Prospector?" asked Weimer.
"Coal," returned the stranger. "We’re tryin’ to hold down half a dozen claims."
He turned from Weimer, and changed the subject in his queer, abrupt way.
"Pard’s sick–hurt. Guess he’ll pass up his checks afore long if he don’t git help."
He squinted through his goggles at Ross. "Over t’ Red Lodge they said you fixed up a feller down in Dry Creek good’s new. So I come after ye fer a couple of days."
Instantly Weimer became alarmed. "Ross, hecan’t go und leave us, hein! When the sun pe shinin’, I can’t get ’round. Ross, he must pe here to work. He can’t go mit you."
Ross drew a long, perplexed breath, and said nothing. The stranger looked attentively at Weimer for the first time.
"Got a touch of the sun, too, have ye?" he asked.
Weimer removed his goggles, and pressed his hands over his eyes. "Yah, dot I has, a touch und more dan a touch. Ross here, he ain’t leavin’ us to go mit you."
Still Ross stood silent. The stranger made no response to Weimer’s protestations, but, bending forward, regarded him closely.
"What?" he burst out. "Are you Dutch Weimer?"
"Dot ist vat dey call me," assented Weimer, turning his bloodshot eyes on the stranger.
The latter persisted in an incredulous voice, "The Dutch Weimer who used to run a miners’ supply store down in Butte?"
"Dot same," assented Weimer. "Und who might you pe?"
The stranger grinned, a one-sided grin which sent his right cheek up under the smoked goggles. "Well, Uncle Jake, do you remember a little black-headed rascal that uster hang his chin on the edgeof yer counter about once a day and get a nickel’s worth of candy?"
Weimer wrinkled his brow in perplexity. "Dere vas so many plack-heads," he muttered, scratching his head.
The stranger grinned delightedly, and again his right cheek was pushed up under the goggles. "Of course there was. I wa’n’t the only calf running around loose, I know. Well, do you remember Marvin Miller?"
"Hein!" cried Weimer. He held out his hand impulsively. "Und are you Marvin Miller’s poy?"
"The same," declared the stranger, grasping the hand. "And didn’t you have a younger pard by the name of Grant?"
"Yah!" Weimer fairly shouted. "Dot I did, and he’s my pard yet."
"Uster git his eyes about shut, and tighten his lips, when things didn’t go to suit ’im," grinned Marvin Miller’s son.
"That’s my father all right!" cried Ross.
The stranger drew back and whistled. "Your dad!" he exclaimed. "Sho, now; that’s not so?"
"It ist so," Weimer broke in. "His fader sends him to help me mit der vork in dese claims, und den dis consarned gang of McKenzies go and pack off der sticks––" and Weimer was launched on an account of their troubles, feeling perfectly at homewith the man who as a boy had hung over his counter in the old days when he was merchant and not prospector.
Ross, too, felt his heart warm toward the man who had known his father; and for an instant the present faded, and he was back East again among the old familiar surroundings. He was being looked over by the father who "got his eyes about shut" when the son did not please him; he was being affectionately scolded by Aunt Anne and advised by Dr. Grant–but the thought of the doctor brought Ross up sharply against the purpose of the stranger’s visit.
A sick partner, Miller had said: but he, Ross, also had a sick partner, although the sickness was more of the mind than the body; and that partner objected to his going. What should he do? His training with his uncle would leave him no choice if he had only himself to consult in the matter. He was better than no doctor at all, and he was called on for help; therefore he must obey the call. But there was Weimer, who had learned to depend on him, and who, he feared, might relapse during his absence, however brief, into his former irresponsible state, for Leslie was, of course, a stranger to the methods which Ross had been obliged to employ to keep Weimer busy. Nor was Leslie, who had acted under Wilson’s direction,accustomed to going ahead with the work as Ross had been obliged to do. But if the trip would occupy only a couple of days–well, he could not refuse to go.
Here he became conscious that Miller was addressing him, and that Uncle Jake was leaning eagerly toward him.
"If Doc here is willin’," Miller was saying, "we might go into cahoots this way: If my pard needs ’im longer than a day ’r two, I’ll come along back and buckle down t’ work here ’n’ help you out while he’s there a-nussin’––"
"Yah, yah!" consented Weimer eagerly. "Den he may mit you go. You could do more vork dan Doc. You come pack und mit us vork."
Ross, relieved, turned to the peg where hung his cap. "I’ll go up to the tunnel and get Leslie, Uncle Jake, and you take hold of the dinner."
"Leslie," repeated Miller carelessly. "Who’s he?"
Ross, leaving Weimer to relate Leslie’s history, hurried up to the tunnel. He wanted to see Leslie alone and give him numerous suggestions and directions beyond the reach of Weimer’s ears.
"Of course, Less," he ended as the two finally started toward the shack together, "even if I do have to stay, and Miller comes back, he won’t know how to manage Uncle Jake in case he has a relapseinto the state that I found him in. And Miller looks like a strong willing fellow to work, so guess we won’t lose anything by my going. Anyway I’ve got to go, for he says his partner is in a bad way." Miller’s partner, it seemed, had been caught under a log they were "snaking" down to the cabin. His arm was crushed and in bad shape.
"Some way, Ross," Leslie burst out uneasily, "I mightily hate to have you go. I’ll be deadly lonesome up here without you even for a couple of days."
"But if I’m not back then this Miller will be," returned Ross hopefully, "and he shows up rather agreeably."
After a hasty dinner, Ross selected from his chest all that he considered would be required. Some of the articles Miller put into his game pouch, Ross making up a bundle himself to bind on his own back and so divide the load. At one o’clock they started, with Weimer and Leslie standing in the doorway, the former urging them on with many expressions of hope for a speedy return that they might get ahead of "dose consarned gang."
Ross walked after Miller easily. Those past few days on the mountainsides had accustomed him to the use of snow-shoes. Almost in silence they crossed the valley and began the ascent of what remained of Soapweed Ledge.
During the last hour the light had faded, and snow began to fill the air. From the base of the ledge the cabin on the other valley was barely visible, and Ross could scarcely make out the figures standing in front of the door.
Suddenly Miller turned with an exclamation. "There! I forgot something that I wanted t’ tell Uncle Jake. Wait here a minute, will ye? It’ll not take me long t’ go back."
He walked rapidly over the snow across the valley, and disappeared into the cabin. Five minutes passed. He reappeared, and made his way more slowly back again.
"All right," he shouted from the foot of the ledge. "Turn to the right, and go along above them rocks. That’s the trail."
At the top of the mountain Miller again took the lead. He had shifted the pouch to the front, and eased its weight with one hand. Ross noticed that it seemed much heavier than when he entered the cabin, but thought nothing further of the matter.
Half an hour later he was on totally unfamiliar ground among a labyrinth of "sugar loaf" peaks which they skirted and climbed, Miller pushing on steadily and without words.
"Hold yer wind," he directed Ross; "ye’ll have need of it before we reach camp."
The sky and earth were nearly blotted out now by the falling snow. Ross could see scarcely a dozen paces ahead. He could not tell whether they were headed east or west, north or south. They twisted and turned and turned again. The boy became leg-weary; but Miller pressed on, seemingly unexhausted, the heavy game pouch dragging at his shoulder.
"We–we can’t reach there to-night, can we?" Ross gasped at last.
Miller turned his head but did not pause. "Yep," he answered, "about dark."
Again in silence they went on.
Finally, at five o’clock, they began to climb the gentle slope of a mountain which seemed to have no summit. Here for the first time his guide stopped to allow Ross to rest. Then he advanced slowly, step by step, prodding the snow deeply at the left of the blind trail he was following.
"What’s the matter?" Ross called the first time he saw Miller taking measure of the snow in this way.
"Gorge somewhere here," Miller had replied. "Wind’s filled it up even from bank t’ bank. If we sh’ step off–why, there’s a hundred feet or so below made up of spruces and snow. I don’t want t’ go down int’ no such landscape."
Ross involuntarily hugged the upper side of themountain. He longed for their journey’s end. As they neared the top, the wind became active, cutting their faces and forcing Ross to turn his back and gasp for breath.
Then came the descent, the storm thickening about them. Occasionally Miller threw a direction or a warning over his shoulder, which always caused Ross’s heart to leap fearfully.