“We are not going to leave you,” she said.
CHAPTER XIII
“OLD FRIENDS AND OLD TIMES”
A riderless brown pony, very cautious and very wise, stepping carefully from ledge to ledge, testing his footing and picking his way with the greatest of skill, was the messenger upon whom depended all hope of safety for Beatrice, Nancy, and John Herrick. Tucked under his stirrup leather was a note that Beatrice had scrawled hastily on the scrap of paper that had wrapped their sandwiches. It was addressed to Dr. Minturn and told where they were and how desperate was their need. She had knotted the bridle reins on Presto’s neck, turned up the stirrups over the saddle, given him a slap on the flank and told him to “go home.” Every well-trained Western horse knows that order, and will find his way over the steepest trails back to his own stable, nor will he allow himself to be stopped or molested on the way.
“It is lucky we had Presto,” Beatrice said to her sister. “Buck or your horse would have taken twice as long to get home, and Hester and Aunt Anna would be so frightened, though Olaf would have known what to do. As it is, they won’t worry, for I said I might stay another day. I wonder how soon help can come.”
John Herrick, lying very still among the blankets, made no comment. They began to realize that he had summoned all his strength to pretend he was not much hurt and to persuade them to leave him. It was plain that he was suffering intensely, and was resting before trying to go on with what he had to say.
“Unsaddle Nancy’s pony,” he directed at last, “and turn him loose. Without his saddle he will know he is turned out to graze and will not go home. He will drift down the mountain and find shelter somewhere in the timber, for he could not go through the storm here on the hill.”
The sides of the tent flapped and quivered in the eddies of the wind as the gale began to blow heavier. Under John Herrick’s direction, they rolled stones on the edge of the canvas to keep the blast from creeping under it, and laid larger logs of wood at the back of the fire to make a slower, steadier blaze.
The smoke of the fire, with most of its heat also, was tossed and whirled out into the void, but they were able finally to hang up a spare tarpaulin to reflect the warmth into the tent. The site of the camp had been chosen wisely, being sheltered by a high shoulder of rock, with a nook between two stones to hold the fire, and a small stream pouring over a cliff near by. Yet, even in this corner, there was not complete protection from the roaring blast that was beginning to carry the first flakes of snow. More than once Beatrice saw the injured man’s eyes turn anxiously toward the pile of fuel, gathered in abundance for ordinary purposes, but pitifully small for the need that had arisen now. She knew that he would not tell them of the necessity for gathering more, since to seek fire-wood on that windswept mountain was a dangerous and difficult task.
“Go into the tent and talk to him, Nancy. Keep him looking another way,” she whispered as she fed the blaze. “I am going down the trail a little way to cut some brush.”
Taking up the small ax from where he had left it beside the fire and turning her coat collar up to her ears, she slipped away before her sister could protest.