The sun had gone out in a smother of ashy clouds, and the trees seemed to be crowding closer. Pluff! pluff! a mass of snow slid from the wide fan of a cedar, and breaking, dropped softly in the snow beneath.
Barney quickened his stride. A single flake, coming out of the blind nothingness above, drove slanting down and sparkled on his leather mitten. Then came another and another, till the green-fringed vista down which he trudged was suddenly curtained with whirling white. The going became heavier. The will to overcome the smothering softness that gave so easily to the forward thrust, yet hung a clogging burden on each lift of the hide-laced ash-bows, redoubled itself as he plunged on. Presently the trail widened, the forest seemed to draw back, and he found himself on the wide, white-masked desolation of Lost Lake.
Panting, he stopped. Instantly the rising wind struck freezing through his sweat-dampened shirt. He jerked on his coat. “I’ll make her yet—but I guess I’ll stick to the shore. How in tarnation I come to miss the road gets me, but this is Lost Lake all right, and a dum’ good name fur it.”
He turned toward the forest that loomed dimly through the hurtling white flakes. When he reached its edge he looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. He had been traveling six hours without food or rest. He followed the shore line, frequently stumbling and falling on the rocks that lay close to the surface of the snow. The wind grew heavier, thrusting invisible hands against him as he leaned toward it. It was not until after his third fall that the possibility of his never reaching Lost Farm overtook him. Before he realized it, night was upon him, and he could scarcely see the rim of his snowshoes as he drew them up, each step accomplished by sheer force of will. He thought of the men who had left the camp above and had never been heard from. It was bad enough, when a man’s light went out in a brawl, or on the drive; but to face the terror of the creeping snow, lost, starving, dragging inch by inch toward a hope that was treason to sanity. Finally, raving, cursing, praying, dying, alone—
Well, it was “up to him” to walk. He struggled on in the darkness. Had he known it, he was almost opposite the trail that crossed the dam at the foot of Lost Lake and wound up the hillside to Avery’s camp. Again he stumbled and fell. The fury of despair seized him and he struggled in the resistless snow. His foot was caught in some buried branches. Had it been daylight he would have reached down and carefully disentangled himself, but the terror of night and uncertainty was on him. He jerked his leg out and was free, but the dangling web of a broken snowshoe hung about his ankle. The ash-bow had snapped.
“Done!” His tone commingled despair and anger. Then the spirit, which had buoyed on the lashing current of many a hazardous enterprise, rallied for a last attempt.
“What! Quit because I think I’m done? The dam’ snowshoe is busted, but I ain’t—yet.”
He hobbled toward the trees, fighting his slow way with terrible intensity. Beneath a twisted cedar he rested. The cold took hold upon him and lulled him gently.
“I’ll fix her up and plug along somehow.” He examined the shoe. “Take a week to fix that,” he muttered. “Guess I’ll start a fire and wait till mornin’.”
He felt in his pockets. He had used his last match in lighting his pipe. “Wal, I was a fool to fly off the handle ’thout grub or matches or nothin’. Wal, I kin cool off now, I reckon.”