Ranching For Sylvia Volume-554 by Harold Bindloss (chrome ebook reader .TXT) 📕

Striking The Fallow."

"It's Doubtful," Edgar Persisted.  "Let The Letters Wait Until

To-Morrow."

"No," Said George, Resolutely.  "I've Waited A Week Already; The Mail

Is Late.  Besides, We'll Have Worse Snow Before Morning."

Seeing That He Had Made Up His Mind, Edgar Raised No More Objections,

And In Another Few Moments George Disappeared Into A Haze Of Driving

Snow.  When He Left The Trail He Found Walking More Difficult Than He

Had Expected, But Though It Was Hard To See Beyond A Few Yards, He Had

The Bluff To Guide Him And He Kept Along The Edge Of It Until The Trees

Vanished Suddenly.  Then He Stopped, Buffeted By The Wind, To Gather

Breath And Fix Clearly In His Mind The Salient Features Of The Open

Space That He Must Cross.

If He Could Walk Straight For Half A Mile, He Would Strike A Small

Hollow And By Following It He Would Reach A Tract Of Cultivated Ground.

This, He Thought, Should Be Marked By The Absence Of The Taller Clumps

Of Grass And The Short Willow Scrub Which Here And There Broke Through

The Snow.  There Would Then Be A Stretch Of About Two Hundred Acres To

Cross Before He Found The Little Shack, Whose Owner Had Gone Away To

Work On The Railroad During The Winter.  He Expected To Have Some

Trouble In Reaching It, But He Must Get The Letters, And He Set Off

Again, Breaking Through The Snow-Crust In Places, And Trying To

Estimate The Time He Took.

A Quarter Of An Hour Passed And, As There Was No Sign Of The Ravine, He

Began To Wonder Whether He Had Deviated Much From His Chosen Line.  In

Another Few Minutes He Was Getting Anxious; And Then Suddenly He

Plunged Knee-Deep Into Yielding Snow.  It Got Deeper At The Next Step

And He Knew That He Had Reached The Shallow Depression, Which Had Been

Almost Filled Up By The Drifts.  He Must Cross It, And The Effort This

Entailed Left Him Gasping When He Stopped Again On The Farther Side.

It Was Still Possible To Retrace His Steps, Because He Could Hardly

Fail To Strike The Bluff He Had Left, But There Was No Doubt That To Go

On Would Be Perilous.  If He Missed The Shack, He Might Wander About

The Prairie Until He Sank Down, Exhausted; And After A Day Of Fatiguing

Labor He Knew That He Could Not Long Face The Wind And Frost.  There

Was, However, Every Sign Of A Wild Storm Brewing; It Might Be Several

Days Before He Could Secure The Letters If He Turned Back, And Such A

Delay Was Not To Be Thought Of.

He Went On, Following The Ravine Where He Could Trace Its Course, Which

Was Not Always Possible, Until He Decided That He Must Have Reached The

Neighborhood Of The Farm.  There Was, However, Nothing To Indicate That

He Had Done So.  He Could See Only A Few Yards; The Snow Had All Been

Smooth And Unbroken Near The Hollow, He Could Distinguish No Difference

Between Any One Part Of It And The Rest; And He Recognized The Risk He

Took When He Turned His Back On His Last Guide And Struggled Forward

Into The Waste.

Walking Became More Difficult, The Wind Was Getting Stronger, And There

Was No Sign Of The Shack.  Perhaps He Had Gone Too Far To The South.

He Inclined To The Right, But That Brought Him To Nothing That Might

Serve As A Guide; There Was Only Smooth Snow And The White Haze

Whirling Round Him.  He Turned More To The Right, Growing Desperately

Afraid, Stopped Once Or Twice To Ascertain By The Way The Snow Drove

Past Whether He Was Wandering From His Course, And Plodded On Again

Savagely.  At Last Something Began To Crackle Beneath His Feet.

Stooping Down, He Saw That It Was Stubble, And He Became Sensible Of A

Vast Relief.  He Could Not Be More Than A Few Minutes Walk From The

Shack.

It Was Only Three Or Four Yards Off When He Saw It, And On Entering He

Had Difficulty In Closing The Rickety Door.  Then, When He Had Taken

Off His Heavy Mittens, It Cost Him Some Trouble To Find And Strike A

Match With His Half-Frozen Hands.  Holding Up The Light, He Glanced

Eagerly At A Shelf And Saw The Two Letters He Had Expected; There Was

No Mistaking The Writing And The English Stamps.  He Thrust Them Safely

Into A Pocket Beneath His Furs When The Match Went Out And Struck

Another, For His Next Step Required Consideration.

The Feeble Radiance Traveled Round The Little Room, Showing The Rent,

Board Walls And The Beams Rough From The Saw That Supported The Cedar

Roofing Shingles.  A Little Snow Had Sifted In And Lay On The Floor;

There Was A Rusty Stove At One End, But No Lamp Or Fuel, And The Hay

And Blankets Had Been Removed From The Wooden Bunk.  Still, As George

Was Warmly Clad And Had Space To Move About, He Could Pass The Night

There.  The Roar Of The Wind About The Frail Building Rendered The

Prospects Of The Return Journey Strongly Discouraging.  He Might,

However, Be Detained All The Next Day By The Snow; But What Chiefly

Urged Him To Face The Risk Of Starting For The Homestead Was His

Inability To Read His Letters.  The Sight Of Them Had Sent A Thrill

Through Him, Which Had Banished All Sense Of The Stinging Cold.  He Had

Eagerly Looked Forward To A Brief Visit To The Old Country, And Sylvia

Had, No Doubt, Bidden Him Come.  It Was Delightful To Picture Her

Welcome, And The Evenings They Would Spend In Muriel Lansing's Pretty

Drawing-Room While He Told Her What He Had Done And Unfolded His Plans

For The Future.  He Could Brook No Avoidable Delay In Reading Her

Message, And, Nerving Himself For A Struggle, He Set Out Again.

The Shack Vanished The Moment He Left It.  The Snow Was Thicker; And,

Floundering Heavily Through The Storm, George Had Almost Given Up The

Attempt To Find The Ravine, When He Fell Violently Into A Clearer Part

Of It.  Then He Gathered Courage, For The Bluff Was Large And Would Be

Difficult To Miss; But It Did Not Appear When He Expected It.  He Was

Breathless, Nearly Blinded, And On The Verge Of Exhaustion, When He

Crashed Into A Dwarf Birch And, Looking Up Half Dazed, Saw An

Indistinct Mass Of Larger Trees.  He Had Now A Guide, But It Was Hard

To Follow, With His Strength Fast Falling And The Savage Wind Buffeting

Him.  He Had Stopped A Moment, Gasping, When Something Emerged From The

Driving Snow.  It Was Moving; It Looked Like A Team With A Sledge Or

Wagon, And He Thought That His Companions Had Come In Search Of Him.

He Cried Out, But There Was No Answer, And Though He Tried To Run, The

Beasts Vanished As Strangely As They Had Appeared.

They Had, However, Left Their Tracks, Coming Up From The South, Where

The Settlement Lay, And This Convinced Him That They Had Not Been

Driven By Edgar Or Grierson.  He Made An Attempt To Overtake Them And,

Falling, Went On Again, Wondering A Little Who The Strangers Could Be;

Though This Was Not A Matter Of Much Consequence.  If They Had Blankets

Or Driving-Robes, They Might Pass The Night Without Freezing In The

Bluff, Where There Was Fuel; But George Was Most Clearly Conscious Of

The Urgent Need For His Reaching The Homestead Before His Strength Gave

Out.

At Last He Struck The Beaten Trail Which Had Fortunately Not Yet Been

Drifted Up, And After Keeping To It For A While He Saw A Faint Twinkle

Of Light In Front Of Him.  A Voice Answered His Shout And When He

Stopped, Keeping On His Feet With Difficulty And Utterly Worn Out, A

Team Came Up, Blurred And Indistinct, Out Of The Driving Snow.  After

That Somebody Seized Him And Pushed Him Toward An Empty Sledge.

"Get Down Out Of The Wind; Here's The Fur Robe!" Cried A Voice He

Recognized.  "We Came Back As Soon As We Had Thrown Off The Load."

George Remembered Very Little About The Remainder Of The Journey, But

At Last The Sledge Stopped Where A Warm Glow Of Light Shone Out Into

The Snow.  Getting Up With Some Trouble He Reached The Homestead Door

And Walked Heavily Into The Room Where He Sank, Gasping, Into A Chair.

He Felt Faint And Dizzy, He Could Scarcely Breathe; But Those

Sensations Grew Less Troublesome As He Recovered From The Violent

Change Of Temperature.  Throwing Off His Furs, He Noticed That Flett

Sat Smoking Near The Stove.

"Here's Some Coffee," Said The Constable.  "It's Pretty Lucky Grierson

Found You.  I Can't Remember A Worse Night."

George Drank The Coffee.  He Still Felt Heavy And Partly Dazed; His

Mind Was Lethargic, And His Hands And Feet Tingled Painfully With The

Returning Warmth.  He Knew That There Was Something He Ought To Tell

Flett, But It Was A Few Minutes Before He Could Think Clearly.

"I Met A Team Near The Bluff And Lost It Again Almost Immediately," He

Mumbled Finally.

Flett's Face Became Intent.

"Did The Men Who Were With It See You? Which Way Were They Going?"

"No," Said George Sleepily.  "Anyway, Though I Called I Didn't Get An

Answer.  I Think They Were Going West."

"And There's No Homestead For Several Leagues, Except Langside's Shack.

They'll Camp There Sure."

"I Don't See Why They Shouldn't," George Remarked With Languid

Indifference.

"Hasn't It Struck You Why Those Fellows Should Be Heading Into Waste

Prairie On A Night Like This?  Guess What They've Got In The Wagon's A

Good Enough Reason.  If The Snow's Not Too Bad, They'll Pull Out For

The Indian Reservation Soon As It's Light To-Morrow."

"You Think They Have Liquor With Them?" Asked George.

Flett Nodded And Walked Toward The Door, And George Felt The Sudden

Fall Of Temperature And Heard The Scream Of The Wind.  In A Minute Or

Two, However, The Constable Reappeared With Edgar.

"I'd Get Them Sure; They're In The Shack Right Now," Flett Declared.

"You Would Never Find It," Edgar Remonstrated.  "We Had Hard Enough

Work To Strike The Homestead, And We Were On A Beaten Trail, Which Will

Have Drifted Up Since Then.  You'll Have To Drop The Idea--It's Quite