CHAPTER XI
A BLIZZARD
Moya found in Goldbanks much to interest her. Its helter-skelter streetsfollowing the line of least resistance, its slapdash buildings, thescarred hillsides dotted with red shaft-houses beneath which straggledslate-colored dumps like long beards, were all indigenous to a life themanner of which she could only guess. Judged by her Bret Harte, theplace ought to be picturesque. Perhaps it was, but Moya was given littlechance to find out. At least it was interesting. Even from an outsidepoint of view she could see that existence was reduced to the elemental.Men fought for gold against danger and privation and toil. No doubt ifshe could have seen their hearts they fought too for love.
Miss Seldon was frankly bored by the crude rawness of the place. Onephase of it alone interested her. Of all this turbid activity DobyansVerinder was the chief profiter. Other capitalists had an interest inthe camp. Lord Farquhar held stock in the Mollie Gibson and Moya's smallinheritance was invested mostly in the mine. The Kilmenys owned sharesin two or three paying companies. But Verinder was far and away thelargest single owner. His holdings were scattered all over the camp. Inthe Mollie Gibson and the Never Quit, the two biggest properties atGoldbanks, he held a controlling vote.
It was impossible for Joyce to put her nose out of the hotel withoutbeing confronted with the wealth of her suitor. This made a tremendousappeal to the imagination of the young woman. All these thousands of menwere toiling to make him richer. If Verinder could have known it, theenvironment was a potent ally for him. In London he was a socialclimber, in spite of his gold; here he was a sole autocrat of the camp.As the weeks passed he began to look more possible. His wealth wouldgive an amplitude, a spaciousness that would make the relationshiptolerable. As a man of moderate means he would not have done at all, butevery added million would help to reduce the intimacy of the maritaltie. To a certain extent she would go her way and he his. Meanwhile, shekept him guessing. Sometimes her smiles brought him on the run. Again hewas made to understand that it would be better to keep his distance.
The days grew shorter and the mornings colder. As the weeks passed theapproach of winter began to push autumn back. Once or twice there was aninch of snow in the night that melted within a few hours. The Farquharparty began to talk of getting back to London, but there was animpending consolidation of properties that held the men at Goldbanks.For a month it had been understood that they would be leaving in a fewdays now, but the deal on hand was of such importance that it was feltbest to stay until it was effected.
One afternoon Moya and Joyce rode out from the canon where the uglylittle town lay huddled and followed the road down into the foothills.It was a day of sunshine, but back of the mountains hung a cloud thathad been pushing slowly forward. In it the peaks were already lost. Thegreat hills looked as if the knife of a Titan had sheered off theirsummits.
The young women came to a bit of level and cantered across the mesa in arace. They had left the road to find wild flowers for Lady Jim.
Joyce, in a flush of physical well-being, drew up from the gallop andcalled back in gay derision to her friend.
"Oh, you slow-pokes! We win. Don't we, Two Step?" And she patted theneck of her pony with a little gloved hand.
Moya halted beside the dainty beauty and laughed slowly, showing in twoeven rows the tips of small strong teeth.
"Of course you win. You're always off with a hurrah before one knowswhat's on. Nobody else has a chance."
The victor flashed a saucy glance at her. "I like to win. It's morefun."
"Yes, it's more fun, but----"
"But what?"
"I was thinking that it's no fun for the loser."
"That's his lookout," came the swift retort. "Nobody makes him play."
Moya did not answer. She was thinking how Joyce charged the batteries ofmen's emotions by the slow look of her deep eyes, by the languorous turnof her head, by the enthralment of her grace.
"I wouldn't have your conscience for worlds, Moya. I don't want to be sodreadfully proper until I'm old and ugly," Joyce continued, pouting.
"Lady Jim is always complaining because I'm not proper enough," laughedMoya. "She's forever holding you up to me as an example."
"So I am. Of course I flirt. I always shall. But I'll not come acropper. I'll never let my flirtations interfere with business. Lady Jimknows that."
Moya looked straight at her. "Were you ever in love in your life?"
Her friend laughed to cover a faint blush. "What an _enfant terrible_you are, my dear! Of course I've been--hundreds of times."
"No, but--really?"
"If you mean the way they are in novels, a desperatefollow-to-the-end-of-the-world, love-in-a-cottage kind--no. My emotionsare quite under control, thank you. What is it you're driving at?"
"I just wondered. Look how cloudy the sky is getting. It's going tostorm. We'd better be going home."
"Let's get our flowers first."
They wandered among the hills, searching for the gorgeous blossoms offall. Not for half an hour did they remount.
"Which way for home?" Joyce asked briskly, smoothing her skirt.
Moya looked around before she answered. "I don't know. Must be over thatway, don't you think?"
Joyce answered with a laugh, using a bit of American slang she had heardthe day before. "Search me! Wouldn't it be jolly if we were lost?"
"How dark the sky is getting. I believe a flake of snow fell on myhand."
"Yes. There's one on my face. The road must be just around this hill."
"I daresay you're right. These hills are like peas in a pod. I can'ttell one from another."
They rode around the base of the hill into a little valley formed byother hills. No sign of the road appeared.
"We're lost, Moya, They'll have to send out search parties for us.We'll get in the dreadful Sunday papers again," Joyce laughed.
An anxious little frown showed on Moya's forehead. She was notfrightened, but she was beginning to get worried. A rising wind and afalling temperature were not good omens. Moreover, one of those swiftchanges common to the Rockies had come over the country. Out of a leadensky snow was falling fast. Banked clouds were driving the wintrysunshine toward the horizon. It would soon be night, and if the signswere true a bitter one of storm.
"It's getting cold. We must find the road and hurry home," Joyce said.
"Yes." Moya's voice was cheerful, but her heart had sunk. An icy handseemed to have clutched it and tightened. She had heard the dreadfulthings that happened during Rocky Mountain blizzards. They must find theroad. They _must_ find it.
She set herself searching for it, conscious all the time that they mightbe going in the wrong direction. For this unfeatured roll of hillsoffered no guide, no landmark that stood out from the surroundingcountry.
Moya covered her anxiety with laughter and small jokes, but there came atime when these did not avail, when Joyce faced the truth too--that theywere lost in the desert, two helpless girls, with night upon them and astorm driving up. Somewhere, not many miles from them, lay Goldbanks.There were safety, snug electric-lighted rooms with great fires blazingfrom open chimneys, a thousand men who would gladly have gone into thenight to look for them. But all of these might as well be a hundredleagues away, since they did not know the way home.
The big deep eyes of Joyce shone with fear. Never before in hersheltered life had she been brought close to Nature in one of herterrible moods.
From her soft round throat sobbing words leaped. "We're lost, Moya.We're going to die."
"Nonsense. Don't be a goosie," her downright friend answered sharply.
"But--what shall we do?"
Scudding clouds had leaped across the sky and wiped out the last narrowline of sunlight along the eastern horizon. Every minute it was gettingcolder. The wind had a bitter sting to it.
"We must find the trail," Moya replied.
"And if we don't?"
"But we shall," the Irish girl assured with a finality that lackedconvic
tion. "You wait here. Don't move from the spot. I'm going to rideround you at a little distance. There must be a trail here somewhere."
Moya gave her pony the quirt and cantered off. Swiftly she circled, butbefore she had completed the circumference the snow, now fallingheavily, had covered the ground and obliterated any path there might be.With a heavy heart she started to return to her friend.
Owing both to the lie of the ground and the increasing density she couldnot see Joyce. Thrice she called before a faint answer reached her ears.Moya rode toward the voice, stopping now and again to call and wait fora reply. Her horizon was now just beyond the nose of her pony, so thatit was not until they were only a few yards apart that she saw Two Stepand its rider. Both broncho and girl were sheeted with snow.
"Oh, I thought you were gone. I thought you were never coming," Joycereproached in a wail of despair. "Did you find the road?"
"No, but I've thought of something. They say horses will find their ownway home if you let them. Loosen the reins, dear."
Moya spoke with a business-like cheerfulness meant to deceive herfriend. She knew it must be her part to lead. Joyce was as soft andabout as competent as a kitten to face a crisis like this. She was acreature all curves and dimples, sparkling with the sunshine of lifelike the wavelets of a glassy sea. But there was in her an instinctiveshrinking from all pain and harshness. When her little world refused tosmile, as very rarely it did for her, she shut her eyes, stopped herears, and pouted. Against the implacable condition that confronted themnow she could only whimper her despair.
They waited with loose reins for the ponies to move. The storm beat uponthem, confining their vision to a space within reach of theiroutstretched arms. Only the frightened wails of Joyce and the comfortingwords of her friend could be heard in the shriek of the wind. Theponies, feeling themselves free, stirred restlessly. Moya clucked to herroan and patted his neck encouragingly.
"Good old Billy. Take us home, old fellow," she urged.
Presently the horse began to move, aimlessly at first, but soon with asteadiness that suggested purpose. Moya unloosed with her chill fingersthe rope coiled to her saddle, and threw one end to her friend.
"Tie it tight to the saddle horn, Joyce--with a double knot," sheordered. "And keep your hand on it to see that it doesn't come undone."
"I can't tie it. My hands are frozen ... I'm freezing to death."
Moya made fast one end of the rope and then slipped from the saddle. Theother end she tied securely to the saddle horn of her friend. Shestripped from her hands the heavy riding gauntlets she wore and gavethem to Joyce.
"Pull these on and your hands will be warmer. Don't give up. Sit tightand buck up. If you do we'll be all right."
"But I can't.... It's awful.... How far do we have to go?"
"We'll soon hit the road. Then we can go faster."
Moya swung to her saddle again stiffly, and Billy took up the march inthe driving storm, which was growing every minute more fierce andbitter. The girl did not dare give way to her own terror, for she feltif she should become panic-stricken all would be lost. She tried toremember how long people could live in a blizzard. Had she not read ofsome men who had been out two days in one and yet reached safety?
The icy blast bit into her, searched through to her bones and sapped herstrength. More than once she drew up the rope with her icy hands to makesure that Joyce was still in the saddle. She found her there blue fromexposure, almost helpless, but still faintly responsive to the call oflife.
The horses moved faster, with more certainty, so that Moya felt they hadstruck a familiar trail. But in her heart she doubted whether either ofthe riders would come to shelter alive. The ponies traveled upward intothe hills.
Joyce, lying forward helpless across the saddle horn, slid gently to theground. Her friend stopped. What could she do? Once she had descended,it would be impossible to get back into the saddle.
Searching the hillside, the girl's glance was arrested by a light. Shecould not at first believe her good fortune. From the saddle she slippedto the ground in a huddle, stiffly found her feet again, and began toclamber up the stiff incline. Presently she made out a hut. Stumblingly,she staggered up till she reached the door and fell heavily against it,clutching at the latch so that it gave to her hand and sent her lurchinginto the room. Her knees doubled under her and she sank at the feet ofone of two men who sat beside a table playing cards.
The man leaped up as if he had seen a ghost. "Goddlemighty, it's awoman!"
"My friend ... she's outside ... at the foot of the hill ... save her,"the girl's white lips framed.
They slipped on mackinaw coats and disappeared into the white swirlingnight. Moya crouched beside the red-hot stove, and life slowly tingledthrough her frozen veins, filling her with sharp pain. To keep back thegroans she had to set her teeth. It seemed to her that she had neverendured such agony.
After a time the men returned, carrying Joyce between them. They put heron the bed at the far corner of the room, and one of the men poured froma bottle on the table some whisky. This they forced between herunconscious lips. With a shivering sigh she came back to hersurroundings.
Moya moved across to the group by the bed.
"I'll take care of her if you'll look after the horses," she told themen.
One of them answered roughly. "The horses will have to rough it. Thisain't any night for humans to be hunting horses."
"They can't be far," Moya pleaded.
Grudgingly the second man spoke. "Guess we better get them, Dave. Theywere down where we found the girl. We can stable them in the tunnel."
Left to herself, Moya unlaced the shoes of Miss Seldon. Vigorously sherubbed the feet and limbs till the circulation began to be restored.Joyce cried and writhed with the pain, while the other young womanmassaged and cuddled her in turn. The worst of the suffering was pastbefore the men returned, stamping snow from their feet and shaking itfrom their garments over the floor.
"A hell of a night to be out in," the one called Dave growled to hisfellow.
"Did you get the horses?" Moya asked timidly.
"They're in the tunnel." The ungracious answer was given without aglance in her direction.
They were a black-a-vised, ill-favored pair, these miners upon whosehospitality fate had thrown them. Foreigners of some sort they were,Cornishmen, Moya guessed. But whatever their nationality they wereprimeval savages untouched by the fourteen centuries of civilizinginfluences since their forbears ravaged England. To the super-nervousminds of these exhausted young women there was a suggestion of apes inthe huge musclebound shoulders and the great rough hands at the ends oflong gnarled arms. Small shifty black eyes, rimmed with red from drink,suggested cunning, while the loose-lipped heavy mouths added more than ahint of bestiality. It lent no comfort to the study of them that thelarge whisky bottle was two-thirds empty.
They slouched back to their cards and their bottle. It had been badenough to find them sullen and inhospitable, but as the liquorstimulated their unhealthy imaginations it was worse to feel the covertlooks stealing now and again toward them. Joyce, sleeping fitfully inthe arms of Moya, woke with a start to see them drinking together at thetable.
"I don't like them. I'm afraid of them," she whispered.
"We mustn't let them know it," Moya whispered in her ear.
For an hour she had been racked by fears, had faced unflinchingly theirlow laughs and furtive glances.
Now one of the men spoke. "From Goldbanks?"
"Yes."
"You don't live there."
"No. We belong to the English party--Mr. Verinder's friends."
"Oh, Verinder's friends. And which of you is his particular friend?" Thesneer was unmistakable.
"We started out this afternoon for wild flowers and the storm caughtus," Moya hurried on.
"So you're Verinder's friends, are you? Well, we don't think a whole lotof Mr. Verinder out here."
Moya knew now that the mention of Verinder's name had been a mis
take.The relations between the mine owners and the workmen in the camp werestrained, and as a foreign non-resident capitalist the Englishmillionaire was especially obnoxious. Moreover, his supercilious mannershad not helped to endear him since his arrival.
The man called Dave got to his feet with a reckless laugh. "No freelodgings here for Mr. Verinder's friends. You'n got to pay for yourkeep, my dears."
Miss Dwight looked at him with unflinching eyes which refused tounderstand his meaning. "We'll pay whatever you ask and double theamount after we reach camp."
"Don't want your dirty money. Gi' us a kiss, lass. That's fair pay. Weain't above kissing Verinder's friends if he is a rotten slave driver."
Moya rose to her slender height, and the flash of courage blazed in hereyes.
"Sit down," she ordered.
The man stopped in his tracks, amazed at the resolution of the slim tallgirl.
"Go on, Dave. Don't let her bluff you," his companion urged.
The miner laughed and moved forward.
"You coward, to take advantage of two girls driven to you by the storm.I didn't think the man lived that would do it," panted Moya.
"You'n got a bit to learn, miss. Whad's the use of gettin' your Dutchup. I ain't good enough for 'ee, like enough."
The girl held up a hand. "Listen!"
They could hear only the wild roar of the storm outside and the low sobsof Joyce as she lay crouched on the bed.
"Well?" he growled. "I'm listenin'. What, then?"
"I'd rather go out into that white death than stay here with suchcreatures as you are."
"Doan't be a fool, lass. Us'n won't hurt 'ee any," the second manreassured roughly.
"You'll stay here where it's warm. But you'll remember that we're bossin this shack. You'n came without being asked. I'm domned if you'llride your high horse over me."
"Go on, Dave. Tak' your kiss, man."
Then the miracle happened. The door opened, and out of the swirlingwind-tossed snow came a Man.