Part 27 (1/2)
”I've wired the agent at Denver three times about that stuff,” came the announcement of the combined telegrapher and general supervisor of freight at the little station. ”He's told me that he'd let me know as soon as it got in. But nothing's come yet.”
A week more, and another week after that, in which spring taunted the hills, causing the streams to run bank-full with the melting waters of the snow, in which a lone robin made his appearance about the camp,--only to fade as quickly as he had come. For winter, tenacious, grim, hateful winter, had returned for a last fling, a final outburst of frigid viciousness that was destined to wrap the whole range country in a grip of terror.
They tried the bobsled, Ba'tiste and Houston, only to give it up. All night had the snow fallen, in a thick, curtain-like s.h.i.+eld which blotted out even the silhouettes of the heaviest pines at the brow of the hill, which piled high upon the ridges, and with great sweeps of the wind drifted every cut of the road to almost unfathomable depths.
The horses floundered and plowed about in vain efforts at locomotion, at last to plunge in the terror of a bottomless road. They whinnied and snorted, as though in appeal to the men on the sled behind,--a sled that worked on its runners no longer, but that sunk with every fresh drift to the main-boards themselves. Wadded with clothing, shouting in a mixture of French and English and his own peculiar form of slang, Ba'tiste tried in vain to force the laboring animals onward. But they only churned uselessly in the drift; their hoofs could find no footing, save the yielding ma.s.ses of snow. Puffing, as though the exertion had been his own, the trapper turned and stared down at his companion.
”Eet is no use,” came finally. ”The horse, he can not pull. We must make the trip on the snowshoe.”
They turned back for the bunk house, to emerge a few moments later,--bent, padded forms, fighting clumsily against the sweep of the storm. Ghosts they became almost immediately, snow-covered things that hardly could be discerned a few feet away, one hand of each holding tight to the stout cord which led from waist-belt to waist-belt, their only insurance against being parted from each other in the blinding swirl of winter.
Hours, stopping at short intervals to seek for some landmark--for the road long ago had become obliterated--at last to see faintly before them the little box-car station house, and to hurry toward it in a fear that neither of them dared to express to the other. Snow in the mountains is not a gentle thing, nor one that comes by fits and gusts.
The blizzard does not sweep away its vengeful enthusiasm in a day or a night. It comes and it stays--departing for a time, it seems--that it may gather new strength and fury for an even fiercer attack. And the features of the agent, as he stared up from the rattling telegraph key, were not conducive to relief.
”Your stuff's on the way, if that's any news to you,” came with a worried laugh. ”It left Denver on Number 312 at five o'clock this morning behind Number Eight. That's no sign that it's going to get here. Eight isn't past Tollifer yet.”
”Not past Tollifer?” Houston stared anxiously. ”Why, it should be at the top of the range by now. It hasn't even begun to climb.”
”Good reason. They're getting this over there too.”
”The snow?”
”Worse than here, if anything. Denver reported ten inches at eleven o'clock--and it's fifteen miles from the range. There was three inches when the train started. Lord knows where that freight is--I can't get any word from it.”
”But--”
”Gone out again!” The telegrapher hammered disgustedly on the key.
”The darned line grounds on me about every five minutes. I--”
”Do you hear anything from Crestline--about conditions up there?”
”Bad. It's even drifting in the snowsheds. They've got two plows working in 'em keeping 'em open, and another down at Crystal Lake. If things let up, they're all right. If not--they'll run out of coal by to-morrow morning and be worse than useless. There's only about a hundred tons at Crestline--and it takes fuel to feed them babies. But so far--”
”Yes?”
”They're keeping things halfway open. Wait a minute--” he bent over the key again--”it's opened up. Number Eight's left Tollifer. The freight's behind it, and three more following that. I guess they're going to try to run them through in a bunch. They'll be all right--if they can only get past Crestline. But if they don't--”
He rattled and banged at the key for a long moment, cursing softly.
Only the dead ”cluck” of a grounded line answered him. Houston turned to Ba'tiste.
”It looks bad.”
”_Oui_! But eet depen'--on the storm. Eet come this way, near' ev'
spring. Las' year the road tie up--and the year before. Oh,” he shrugged his shoulders, ”that is what one get for living in a country where the railroad eet chase eetself all over the mountain before eet get here.”
”There wouldn't be any chance at the tunnel either, would there? They haven't cut through yet.”
”No--and they won' finish until June. That is when they figure--”
”That's a long way off.”