CHAPTER X.
In the Grip of the Storm.
A world of small, whirling, white flakes, rushing, eddying, driftingbefore a wind that continually shifted from one quarter to another; acold, grey light filtering through this haze of stinging snow; acontinuous, angry murmur, as the icy particles struck the tall, stiff,prairie grasses, sometimes deepening to a roar as the wind momentarilyincreased; and, in the midst of this unresting, resistless tumult, twodark figures staggering uncertainly northward, leading between them analmost exhausted pony, laden with the last remnants of their food.
For three days, the snow, and the wind, and the great cold had scourgedthe prairies, and the storm was almost an early blizzard in its wildfury, in the confusion of air-currents and always-falling,never-resting white flakes, tipped with ice, and stinging like fire.And for these three days Dick and Peter Many-Names had gone blindly ontheir painful way, trusting to the Indian's sense of direction, yet notknowing where they were going. An Indian's bump of locality is amarvellously developed organ; but it is of little use in a blizzard.And now the two lads were staggering forward, with no hope that theywere keeping to the right path--one in stoic resignation, the other ina passion of regret and despair. They were almost exhausted, and onlykept moving through fear of that snow-sleep from which there is noawakening. Even this fear had now become dulled through cold andweariness.
When the blizzard first struck them, Dick's obstinacy had changed to avery lively realisation of danger. "We will turn back now, if youlike," he had said somewhat shamefacedly.
But Peter had given one of his rare, bitter laughs. "All too late," hehad said grimly. "Death behind as well as in front--everywhere.P'raps so we go on we find band of Indians that we followed. P'raps wedo. All too late go back now, too late." And, with those words intheir ears, they had faced the unsheltered prairie and the strength ofthe storm.
For the first day hope had been left to them, for they could judgetheir direction from the steady, cutting wind. But, after that, thewind began to shift constantly, and thus their only guide failed them.A prairie is not as bare of all landmarks as a lawn, but onebuffalo-wallow is much like another, one poplar-bluff is notdistinguishable from the next, and most sloughs have a family likenessto each other, especially when one's circle of vision is limited to acouple of yards' radius, and everything beyond is blotted out withpitiless, hurrying, scurrying clouds of white flakes. Dick was utterlylost. "Where are we? Where are we?" he kept saying. "Is the wholeworld turning to snow?" And sometimes, angrily, "I know you are goingthe wrong way, Peter. I know you are." Whereupon he would stumble offby himself, and the Indian would follow and drag him back again.
"No right, no wrong, no anything," Peter exclaimed angrily in answer;"but you must not go round, round, round in circles. That what youdoing, an' if you do so, you die pretty quick. You come on with me."And actually they had kept a straighter course than they knew, or thanthey would have dared to hope, thanks to the Indian's sense ofdirection.
The first night they passed in the shelter of a large bluff of aspens,and were not very much the worse for it. It was then that they somehowlost one of their ponies through inexcusable carelessness in securingit, and it was after that also that they began to lose hope.
Their food as well as their strength was failing them, and on thisthird day they were in a very bad case. Dick had, of course, sufferedmore than the Indian, and plodded forward in a sort of stupor, whichthreatened to end in fatal unconsciousness at any moment. But evenPeter's keen senses were dulled by the cold, and his movements, thoughlittle less agile, were more mechanical. His face was grey andpinched, and his hard, grey eyes were very weary also. He seemedleaner and more shrunken than ever. But his mouth was set in grimdetermination to meet whatever fate might be in store for him withfitting dignity.
At first, Dick's remorse had been passionate. "It's my wretchedobstinacy has led us into this, Peter," he said repeatedly; "but sorrowcan't do any good now. Nothing can do any good. Oh, what a fool, whata silly, self-willed fool I was! And all my regret is useless!Everything's useless! There's nothing to help us."
"Except Great Spirit," the Indian replied austerely, though Dick, inhis despairing mood, scarcely noticed the words, and went on with hisvain regrets and repentance.
But now the stealthy hand of the frost was lulling all his hopes andfears and regrets to sleep. As he plodded on beside the staggeringpony, he thought only of his previous life, and that without any painor grief. He vaguely remembered one May morning long ago, before hismother had died, when Stephanie had crowned herself with all the firstfrail blossoms of the year, and had then danced over the miserablelog-hut, brightening it with the spirit of grace and childhood, andsweetening it with the shy fragrance of spring flowers. He hadforgotten the little incident entirely, but now he remembered itclearly enough, and idly wondered over it. He suddenly seemed toremember so many things, pleasant little happenings of past years. Andhis mind dwelt upon them more and more dreamily. More and more slowlyhe walked, half-forgetting the benumbing ache of cold, the rush andwhirl of the surrounding snow.
He was roughly roused from his dangerous dreams. The restless, dancingdrifts and eddies of snow seemed to vanish from beneath his feet, andhe fell head foremost down a steep bank, some three feet deep, into alittle depression of the soil between two high ridges. In spring thiswas doubtless a slough, haunted by wild-fowl, but now it was dry, andcovered with grass, thin and poor, but much relished by the trembling,famished pony. It was sheltered on all sides by the three-foot banks,crested with little straggling bushes, against which the snow haddrifted. So cosy did this desolate little valley seem after theroaring tempest without, that Dick grew quite comfortable and drowsy,and would have gone to sleep where he fell. But this Peter would by nomeans allow. "You wake up," he commanded; "even little child knowbetter than go sleep in snow an' cold. You wake up."
"For pity's sake, let me alone!" Dick pleaded. "Go on if you like andleave me here. I 'm so comfortable."
"'FOR PITY'S SAKE, LET ME ALONE!' DICK PLEADED. 'GO ONAND LEAVE ME.'"]
"Ugh! Yes, you very comfortable, so you stay there that your bonesscare the birds away in the spring. That how comfortable you are."
And, roused by this grisly picture, Dick fought off the weariness thatwas overwhelming him. They huddled in their blankets silently, and atesome pieces of dried and icy deer's meat--ate with despair in theirhearts, for this food was their last.
The slight refreshment following the food and rest was almost unwelcometo Dick, bringing with it a keener realisation of the consequences ofhis wilfulness, and of the desperate strait they were in. When theystarted again on their hopeless tramp, his thoughts turned to theprobable fate that awaited them. Once more he seemed to hear himselfsay, "Nothing, nothing to help us!" And once more he seemed to hearPeter's solemn answer, at the time unheeded, "Nothing, except GreatSpirit." With his whole soul he felt that it was true. He was facingdeath more nearly than ever in his life before, and he knew it. Withthe knowledge came the old, instinctive cry, the readiest of allprayers, "God help us!"
But had he deserved such help? He knew that he had not. He was toomuch confused with bitter cold and exhaustion to feel these thingsother than vaguely and uncertainly. But as he stumbled on through theswirling haze of white, he gave full sway to those softened thoughtswhich he had hitherto rejected, seeing his past conduct in a clearerlight-the light of repentance. "Before I ask for help," thought poorDick, "I have need to say, 'God forgive me!' But if we get throughthis, I 'll do my best to be less selfish, and to think less of my ownwishes. Oh, Steenie, Steenie! Indeed, I have need to ask forforgiveness."
Resolves made under such circumstances are not generally worth much.But though that hour might pass, Dick would never again be quite whathe was before. Some of his careless selfishness would be wanting, andin its stead would appear a far more manly humility.
For the first time he had dimly realised that
no human being can liveto himself alone--realised that, even if a man is responsible to noearthly duties of kinship and labour, he is responsible to his Maker.And such realisation could not fail to bear fruit in deeds.
But presently the insidious hand of the frost fell heavily upon themagain. Peter's long, savage step became shorter and less sure, and hefell to crooning little snatches of some wild chant under his breath--abrave's death-song, if Dick had known. The pony lagged more and more,and Dick noticed nothing, felt nothing any longer. He was benumbed,mind and body, with the cold. Peter's song blew past his ears on theirregular gusts of wind, but he did not hear. He was back again inthose long ago days, and his mother was standing at the door of thecabin, calling, "Stephanie, Stephanie!"
The name was on his blue lips as strength failed, and he fell fulllength in the snow, while the whirling haze of white, the pony, andPeter Many-Names, slid away to nothingness, and only that voiceremained--"Stephanie, Stephanie!"
Peter, partly roused from the lethargy which was creeping over him,tried to lift Dick from the drifts, but was too weak. So he quietlypulled off his own blanket, laid it over the English boy, and thencrouched down with his back to the worst of the wind, and waitedstoically--waited for death, which was all he looked for. He thoughtof it quite calmly; but then through all his stormy life the gates ofthe Happy Hunting-Grounds had never been far away. There was somethingvery pathetic in that little crouching brown figure waiting so gravelyand patiently for the end.
The wind blew the snow into little ridges on his long black hair, andthen blew it off again. The pony came close to him with drooping head,as if for company; but by then the Indian was too far gone to heedanything, though still he crooned little snatches of his desolate song,as was right and fitting.
Presently he too fell softly sideways into the snow as a tired childfalls. His last distinct thought was of the great broad woods throughwhich they had passed, and of the warm summer sun upon the fair, greenworld.
Just then the pony lifted its lean head, fringed over with the longragged mane, and pointing its nose to the blast, neighed shrilly,piercingly, as only an Indian pony can neigh. But neither Dick norPeter Many-Names heard it.
That neigh was answered by a dozen or more. But so strongly blew theirregular winds that only faint echoes of the shrill clamour were to beheard. It proceeded from the very heart of an unusually large bluff ofwillows upon the bank of a river. There was an open space in themiddle of this thick growth of stunted trees, which was occupied byseveral horses and a cluster of tepees. A band of Indians were verycomfortably weathering the unexpected storm in this manner, little morethan a few yards distant from the spot where Dick and Peter Many-Nameshad been overcome.
When the pony neighed, no echo of the sound reached the ears of thepeople in the tepees; but the loud whinnyings of their own horses atlast aroused Man-afraid-of-a-Bear, who had been sleeping the sleep ofthe just after a full meal, and he therefore went cautiously forth toinvestigate.
He noticed with satisfaction that the blizzard showed signs of abating,and he also noticed that another pony had been added to their littleherd; so he carefully followed that pony's track for a few yards, andcame upon Dick and Peter Many-Names. He had looked for something ofthe kind, being accustomed to the chances of the plains.
The Red Man is hospitable, but suspicious. However, there was nothingabout the half-frozen and unconscious pair that might have ledMan-afraid-of-a-Bear to suppose that they were enemies. Besides, theiradvent had added a very fine pony to the wealth of the tribe; so,without much more ado, he dragged them one after the other to thetepees.
His haste was probably their salvation. Heroic and weird remedies wereapplied to ward off frost-bite, and after a time Peter Many-Namesrecovered sufficiently to eat a hearty meal.
But it was days before the grip of the frost loosened from Dick'sbrain. An old woman had taken a queer fancy to the white boy, and shenursed him patiently and fed him well long after the great storm hadpassed, and long after Peter had begun to do his share of the huntingand other tasks which fell to the men. Day after day passed, and stillDick lay helpless on the pile of skins in the dusky tepee, waited on bythe grim, silent old squaw, and knowing nothing of his surroundings.He fancied the Indian woman was Stephanie, and kept calling out to herand begging her to forgive him. "For indeed, Steenie, I 'm sorry," hewould cry; "and after this I will be different, dear, and try and makeit up to you. I was selfish and did not think, but I loved you all thetime. I never forgot you. Forgive me, Stephanie! Stephanie,Stephanie!" And so it went on, until, exhaustion brought quiet.
No one noticed him much or was much interested in him. But PeterMany-Names, after a few weeks, was counted a valuable addition to thetribe; and the pony was the swiftest of the herd.
The days passed, and the prairies lay a vast field of white beneath theradiant blue of the skies. Then the snow blew off the higher moundsand ridges, and only the hollows and sloughs were white. So the seasonadvanced, through all its changes of cold, through all its shiftingwinds, and brilliant sun and sudden tempest. And still the old squawtended Dick, filling him with fearful herb-drinks, feeding him nobly,wrapping him close in soft skins. It was a fancy of hers that Deathshould not have the white boy; and once having become possessed withthe idea, she nursed Dick as if he had been her own son, to the wonderof the tribe. And at last her care was rewarded, and the cloudscleared from his brain, though he had little hold on life for a time.
But the days of weakness passed, and with them passed the last shadowof hesitation in Dick's mind. He had had long hours in which to repentand think as he lay in the corner of the smoky tepee--long hours inwhich to realise the fulness of that mercy which had shielded him indanger and saved him from death. And he went out into the sunshineagain, resolved that as soon as he was strong enough to travel he wouldgo back to that life in which his lot had been cast. He would gosouth, back to the Settlements, to work, and to Stephanie. And thewilds should thereafter call him in vain.