XXIV
When the Chinook wind, moving northwest at a faster pace than thewaterfowl move south, struck the home cabin, Virginia's first thoughtwas for Bill. She heard it come, faint at first, then blustering, justas Bill had heard it; she saw it rock down a few dead trees, and shelistened to its raging complaints at the window.
"I'll show you my might," it seemed to say. "You have dared my silentplaces, come into my fastness, but now I will have revenge. I'll payyou--in secret ways that you don't know."
It so happened that Harold's first thought was also of Bill. It was acurious fact that his heart seemed to leap as if the wind had smittenit. He knew what the Chinook could do to a snow crust. He estimatedthat Bill was about halfway between the two cabins, and he didn't knowabout the little, deserted cabin where Bill could find refuge during thenight. His eyes gleamed with high anticipations.
Harold's thought was curiously intertwined with the remembrance of thedark cavern he had entered yesterday, the gravel laden with gold. Ifindeed all things went as it seemed likely that they would go, Billwould never carry the word of his find down to the recorder's office.It was something to think of, something to dream about. Yellowgold,--and no further trouble in seeking it. Such a development wouldalso save the labor of further planning. It was a friend of his, thiswind at the window.
"Won't this Chinook melt the snow crust?" Virginia asked him.
He started. He hadn't realized that this newfound sweetheart of hisknew the ways of Chinook winds and snow crusts. "Oh, no," he responded."Why should it? Wind makes crusts, not softens them."
Virginia was satisfied for the moment. Then her mind went back tocertain things Bill had told her on one of their little expeditions.Strangely, she took Bill's word rather than Harold's.
"But this is a warm wind, Harold," she objected. "If the crust ismelted Bill can't possibly get through to his Twenty-three Mile cabinto-night. What will he do?"
"He'll make it through. The crust won't melt that fast, if it melts atall. He may have a long, hard tramp, though. Don't worry, Virginia,he'll be coming in to-morrow night--with his back loaded with food."
"I only wish I hadn't let him go." The girl's tone was heavy and dull.
"But we have to have supplies----"
"We could have gone out on that grizzly meat. It was so foolish to riskhis life, and I had a presentiment too."
He was glad that she had had a presentiment. It tended to verify hisfondest dreams. But he laughed at her, and falling into one of his mostbrilliant moods, tried to entertain her. Her interest was hard to holdto-day. Her mind kept dwelling on Bill, mushing on through thesoftening snow, and her eyes kept seeking the window.
She cooked lunch and burned every dish. Then, no longer able to denyher own fears, she ventured out in the snow to test its crust. She puton her snowshoes, starting a little way down Bill's trail. She waswhite-faced and sick of heart when she returned.
"Harold, I'm worried," she cried. "I tried to walk in this snow--andyou can talk about Bill making it through all you want, but I won'tbelieve you. A hundred steps has tired me out."
He was beginning to be a little angry with her fears. And he made themistake of answering rather impatiently.
"Well, what can you do about it? he's gone, hasn't he, and we can'tcall him back."
"I suppose not. But if I--we--were out there in that soft snow, andhe was here, he'd find something to do about it! He'd come racing outthere to us--bringing food an blankets----"
"Oh, he'd be a hero!" Harold scorned. "Listen, Virginia--there'snothing in the world to fear. The Chinook sprang up at nine----"
"Oh, it was much later than that."
"I looked at my watch," the man lied. "He was only well started then;he's woodsman enough to turn around and come back if there's danger.You may see him before dark."
"I pray that I will! And if--if--anything has happened to him----"
All at once the tears leaped to her eyes. She couldn't restrain themany more than the earth can constrain the rain. She turned into her owncurtained-off portion of the cabin so that Harold could not see.
The afternoon that followed was endlessly long, and lonely. Her heartsank at the every complaint of the wind, and she dreaded the fall of theshadows. Three times she thrilled with inexpressible joy at a sound onthe threshold, but always it was just the wind, mocking her distress.
She saw the sinister, northern night growing between the spruce trees,and she dreaded it as never before. She cooked a meager supper--thesupplies were almost gone--but she had no heart to sit up and talkwith Harold. At last she went behind her curtain, hoping to forget herfears in sleep.
All through the hours of early night she slept only at intervals:dozing, coming to herself in starts and jerks, and dreaming miserably.The hours passed, and still Bill did not return.
Her imagination was only too vivid. In her thoughts she could see thisstalwart woodsman of hers camping somewhere in the snowdrifts,blanketless, staying awake through the bitter night to mend the fire,and perhaps in trouble. She knew something of the northern cold thatwas assailing him, hovering, waiting for the single instant when hisfire should go down or when he should drop off to sleep. Oh, it waspatient, remorseless. He was likely hungry, too, and despairing.
She wakened before dawn; and the icy, winter stars were peering throughthe cabin window. Surely Bill had returned by now: yet it would hardlybe like him to come in and not let her know of his safe return. He hadalways seemed so well to understand her fears, he was always sothoughtful. There was no use trying to go back to sleep until she knewfor certain. She slipped from her bed onto the floor of the icy cabin.
She missed the cozy warmth of the fire; but, shivering, she slippedquickly into her clothes. Then she lighted a candle and put on hersnowshoes. She mushed across the little space of snow to the men'scabin.
The east was just beginning to pale: the stars seemed lucid as ever inthe sky. There was a labyrinth of them, uncounted millions that gleamedand twinkled in every little rift between the spruce trees. Even thestars of lesser magnitude that through the smoke of her native city hadnever revealed themselves were out in full array to-night. And the icyair stabbed like knives the instant she left the cabin door. It was thecoldest hour she had ever known.
She knocked on Harold's door, then waited for a reply. But the cabinwas ominously silent. Her fears increased: she knew that if Bill werepresent he would have wakened at her slightest sound. He would haveseemed to know instinctively that she was there. She knocked again,louder.
"Who's there?" a sleepy voice answered. Virginia felt a world ofimpatience at the dull, drowsy tones. Harold had been able to sleep!He wasn't worrying over Bill's safety.
"It's I--Virginia. I'm up and dressed. Did Bill come back?"
"Bill? No--and what in God's earth are you up this early for? Forgetabout Bill and go back to bed."
"Listen, Harold," she pleaded. "Don't tell me to go back to bed. Ifeel--I know something's happened to him. He couldn't have gone onclear to the cabin in that awful snow; he either started back or camped.In either case, he's in trouble--freezing or exhausted. And--and--Iwant you to go out and look for him."
Harold was fully awake now, and he had some difficulty in controllinghis voice. In the first place he had no desire to rescue Bill. In thesecond, he was angry and bitterly jealous at her concern for him. "Youdo, eh--you'd like to send me out on a bitter night like this on afool's errand such as that. Where is there a cabin along the way--you'donly kill me without helping him."
"Nonsense, Harold. You could take that big caribou robe and some food,and if you had to camp out it wouldn't kill you. Please get up and go,Harold." Her tone now was one of pleading. "Oh, I want you to----"
"Go back to bed!" But Harold remembered, soon, that he wasn't talkingto his squaw, and his voice lost its impatient note. "Don't worry aboutBill any more. He'll come in all right. I'm not going out on anywild-go
ose chase like that--on a day such as to-day will be. You'llsee I'm right when you think about it."
"Think!" she replied in scorn. "If it were Bill he wouldn't stop tothink. He'd just act. You won't go, then?"
"Don't be foolish, Virginia."
Angry words rose in her throat, but she suppressed them. A daring ideahad suddenly filled her with wonder. It came full-grown: that sheherself should start forth into the snow deserts to find Bill herself.
Virginia had not been trained to self-reliance. Except for her northernadventure, she had never been obliged to face difficulties, to care forand protect herself, to work with her hands and do everyday tasks. Tobuild a fire, to repair a leaking tap, to take responsibility foranything above such schoolday projects as amateur plays an socialgatherings would have seemed tasks impossible of achievement. At firstit had never occurred to her that she might herself be of aid to Bill.The old processes of her mind still ran true to form; she had gone toask a man to carry out her wish. At first she had felt wholly helplessat his refusal. But why should she not go herself?
If indeed Bill had reached the Twenty-three Mile cabin, he would bemushing home by now; she would meet him somewhere on his snowshoe trail.No harm would be done. It might even be a pleasant adventure to mushwith him in the snow. The snow itself was perfect for travel; and shehad learned that her strong young body was capable of long distances ina day. And if he were in trouble she could help him.
It might mean building a fire in the snow and possibly camping outthrough the day and night to come. It would be a dreadful and dangerousexperience, yet she saw no reason why she couldn't endure it. Bill hadshowed her how to make the best of such a bad situation as this. Hehad taught her how to build a fire in the snow; her round, slenderarms--made muscular in her weeks in the North--could cut fuel to keepit burning. Besides, she would carry the caribou robe--one of the cotcoverings that Bill had stored in his cabin and which, though light asdown, was practically impervious to cold. Besides, there was no oneelse to go.
She went swiftly to her cabin, put on her warmest clothing, and, as Billhad showed her, rolled a compact pack for her back. She took a littlepackage of food--nourishing chocolate and dried meat--the whiskyflask that had been her salvation the night of the river experience, anda stub of candle for fire-building, tying them firmly in the caribourobe. The entire package weight only about ten pounds. She fastened iton her shoulders, hung a camp ax at her belt; and as she waited for thedawn, ate a hearty but cold breakfast. Then, with never a backwardlook, she started away, down the dim, wind-blown, snowshoe trail.