Part 13 (2/2)

The Snow family were at their best that evening, and Ma Snow's rendition of ”The Gypsy's Warning” was received with such favor that she was forced to sing the six verses twice and for a third encore the entire family responded with ”The Was.h.i.+ngton Post March” which enabled Mr.

Snow, who had tottered down from his aerie, to again demonstrate his versatility by playing the concertina with long, yellow fingers, beating the cymbals and working the snare-drum with his feet.

Ma Snow wore her coral-rose breast-pin, and a tortoise-sh.e.l.l comb thrust through her k.n.o.b of ginger-colored hair added to her dignity and height; while Miss Vi and Miss Rosie Snow were b.u.t.toned into their stylish princess gowns, with large red bows sprouting back of each ear. In truth, the dress of each member of the family bore some little touch which hinted delicately at the fact that with them it had not been always thus.

All Ore City was present. Those who ”bached” had stacked their dishes and hurried from the supper-table to the Hinds House, where the regular boarders were already tilted on the rear legs of their chairs with their heads resting comfortably on the particular oily spot on the unbleached muslin sheeting, which each recognized as having been made by weeks of contact with his own back hair.

A little apart and preoccupied sat Uncle Bill with the clipping in his wallet burning like a red-hot coal. He could have swallowed being ”carried down the mountain side,” but the paragraph wherein ”tears of grat.i.tude rained down his withered cheeks” stuck, as he phrased it, in his craw. It set him thinking hard of Bruce Burt and the young fellow's deliberate sacrifice of his life for one old ”c.h.i.n.k.” Somehow he could not rid himself of blame that he had let him go alone. As soon as he could get back to Ore City he had headed a search party that had failed to locate even the tent under the unusual fall of snow. Well, if Burt had taken a life, even accidentally, he had in expiation given his own.

As he brooded, occasionally the old man glanced at Wilbur Dill. He had seen him before--but where? The sharp-faced, sharp-eyed Yellow-Leg was a.s.sociated in the older man's mind with something shady, but what it was he could not for the time recall.

”Rosie, perhaps Mr. Dill would like to hear 'When the Robins Nest Again,'” Ma Snow suggested in the sweet, ingratiating tones of a mother with two unattached daughters.

Mr. Dill declared that it was one of his favorite compositions, so Miss Rosie obligingly stood forth with the dog-eared music.

”When the Robins Nest Again, and the flower-r-rs--” she was warbling, but they never bloomed, for Mrs. Snow started for the door, explaining: ”I'm sure I heard a scrunching.” She threw it open and the yellow light fell upon a gaunt figure leaning against the entrance of the snow tunnel. The man was covered with frost and icicles where his breath had frozen on his cap and upturned collar, while it was obvious from his snow-caked knees and elbows that he had fallen often. He stood staring dumbly at the light and warmth and at Ma Snow, then he stooped and began fumbling clumsily at the strappings of his snow-shoes.

”Won't you-all come in?” Ma Snow, recovering a little from her surprise, asked hospitably.

He pitched forward and would again have gone down but that he threw out his hand and caught the door-jamb.

”Bruce Burt! h.e.l.l's catoots! Bruce Burt!” Uncle Bill was on his knees outside in an instant, jerking and tugging at the snow-clogged buckles.

Chairs came down on their forelegs with a thump and Ore City shambled forward in curiosity and awkward congratulation. Mr. Dill did not move.

He was gazing at the scene in mingled resentment and consternation. Was this the Bruce Burt whose claims he was sent to survey? It was plain enough that Bruce Burt ”now deceased” was very much alive, and he, Dill, had crossed three summits on a wild goose chase, since it was obvious he could not relocate a man's ground while he was actually living upon it.

Why didn't Sprudell find out that he was deceased before he sent a busy engineer on such a trip in winter? Mr. Dill sat frowning at Bruce, while willing hands helped him out of the coat his fingers were too stiff to unb.u.t.ton.

”I've been coming since daylight.” He spoke thickly, as though even his tongue were cold. ”I played out on the last big hill and sat so long I chilled.”

”And I guess you're hungry,” Uncle Bill suggested.

Hungry! The word stabbed Ma Snow to the heart and her heels went clickity-click as she flew for the kitchen.

Divested of his coat Bruce looked a big, starved skeleton. The cords of his neck were visible when he turned his head, his cheeks were hollow, his wrist-bones were prominent like those of a fever convalescent.

”You're some ga'nted up,” Uncle Bill commented as he eyed him critically. ”Don't hardly look as though you'd winter.”

The shadow of a smile crossed Bruce's dark face.

”Toy and I proved just about the length of time a man can go without eating, and live.”

”You made it then? You got to Toy--he's all right?”

”Yes,” briefly, ”but none too soon. The snow had broken the tent down, so we made it over the ridge to an old tunnel . . . I killed a porcupine but we ran out of matches and there was no dry wood or sticks to make a fire.”

”I et raw wolf onct in Alasky,” Yankee Sam interjected reminiscently.

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