Part 10 (2/2)

”The shock's perhaps the worst thing, and he feels cold.”

Both had had some experience of accidents in a country where surgical a.s.sistance could seldom be obtained, and Devine nodded agreement.

”Guess we'll have trouble in hauling up the grade and getting to Allenwood before the blizzard, but we've got to make it.”

The opposite slope was rough and steep, and the jumper too wide to pa.s.s easily between the trees. They had to lift it, and help the oxen here and there; but they struggled up and then found that their difficulties were not over when they reached the open plain. The wind had risen while they were in the hollow and was now blowing the dry snow about. It had grown dark and the trail was faint.

”Might be wiser to take him to your homestead,” Devine suggested; ”but they'll be able to look after him better at the Grange. Get a move on the beasts, Craig; we've no time to lose.”

Harding urged the oxen, which stepped out briskly with their lighter load, but he had some difficulty in guiding them, though Devine went ahead to keep the trail. It was impossible to see any distance, and there was no landmark on the bare white level; the savage wind buffeted their smarting faces and filled their eyes with snow. The cold struck through Harding's unprotected body like a knife, but he went on stubbornly, keeping his eyes on Devine's half-distinguishable figure. He was sorry for the unconscious youngster, but he did not glance at him.

This was a time when pity was best expressed in action.

They had gone about two miles when the blizzard broke upon them in a blinding cloud of snow and the cold suddenly increased. Though he wore a thick jacket, Harding felt as if his flesh had changed to ice; his hands were numb, and his feet seemed dead. He knew the risk he ran of being crippled by frostbite; but to take his coat back might cost Lance his life.

They had been struggling forward for a long time when Devine stopped and came back.

”We've been off the trail for the last ten minutes,” he said. ”Guess it's got snowed up.”

It was a bald statement of an alarming situation. Their only guide had failed them, and unless they could soon find shelter all must perish. It might, perhaps, be possible to keep moving for another hour or two, and then they would sink down, exhausted, to freeze. Yet, having faced similar perils and escaped, they were not utterly dismayed.

”The long rise can't be very far off,” Harding said hopefully. ”If we could make it, there's a little coulee running down the other side. Then we ought to see the Grange lights when we strike the lake.”

His voice was scarcely audible through the roar of the icy gale, but Devine caught a word or two and understood.

”Then,” he shouted back, ”you want to keep the wind on your left cheek!”

It was the only guide to the direction of the blast, for the snow whirled about them every way at once, and sight was useless amid the blinding haze. Feeling, however, to some extent remained, and although their faces were freezing into dangerous insensibility, so long as they kept their course one side was still a little more painful than the other. They struggled on, urging the jaded oxen, and dragging them by their heads where the drifts were deep. The snow seemed to thicken as they went. They could not see each other a yard or two apart, and the power that kept them on their feet was dying out of them. Both had been working hard since sunrise, and weary flesh and blood cannot long endure a furious wind when the thermometer falls to forty or fifty below.

Nothing broke the surface of the plain except the blowing waves of snow that swirled across their course and beat into their faces. It seemed impossible that they could keep on. Hope had almost left them when Devine suddenly called out:

”It's surely rising ground!”

Harding imagined by the oxen's slower pace, and his own labored breathing, that his comrade was right, but the rise was gradual and extensive. They might wander across it without coming near the lake; but they could take no precautions and much must be left to chance.

”Get on!” he said curtly.

By the force of the wind which presently met them he thought they had reached the summit. Somewhere near them a watercourse started and ran down to the lake; but the men could not tell which way to turn, although they knew that the decision would be momentous. One way led to shelter, the other to death in the snowy wilds.

”Left and down!” Harding cried at a venture.

They trudged on, Devine a few paces in front picking out the trail, and Harding urging forward the snow-blinded oxen. They had not gone more than a few yards when Devine suddenly disappeared. There was a rush of loosened snow apparently falling into a hollow, and then his voice rose, hoa.r.s.e but exultant.

”We've struck the coulee!”

He scrambled out and it was comparatively easy to follow the ravine downhill; and soon after they left it the surface grew unusually level, and no tufts of withered gra.s.s broke the snow.

”Looks like the lake,” said Devine. ”We'll be safe once we hit the other side.”

Harding was nearly frozen, and he began to despair of ever reaching the Grange; but he roused himself from the lethargy into which he was sinking when a faint yellow glimmer shone through the swirling snow. It grew brighter, more lights appeared, and they toiled up to the front of a building. With some trouble Devine found the door and knocked.

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