And she looked up incredulously to find Gerald Ainley looking down at her.
CHAPTER XXI
CHIGMOK'S STORY
When Stane set his face to the storm he knew there was a difficult task before him, and he found it even more difficult than he had anticipated. The wind, bitingly cold, drove the snow before it in an almost solid wall. The wood sheltered him somewhat; but fearful of losing himself, and so missing what he was seeking, he dared not turn far into it, and was forced to follow the edge of it, that he might not wander from the lake. Time after time he was compelled to halt in the lee of the deadfalls, or shelter behind a tree with his back to the storm, whilst he recovered breath. He could see scarcely a yard before him, and more than once he was driven to deviate from the straight course, and leave the trees in order to assure himself that he had not wandered from the lake side.
The bitter cold numbed his brain; the driving snow was utterly confusing, and before he reached his objective he had only one thing clear in his mind. Blistering though it was, he must keep his face to the wind, then he could not go wrong, for the storm, sweeping down the lake, came in a direct line from the bluff in the shadow of which the tragedy which he had witnessed, had happened. As he progressed, slowly, utter exhaustion seemed to overtake him. Bending his head to the blast he swayed like a drunken man. More than once as he stumbled over fallen trees the impulse to sit and rest almost overcame him; but knowing the danger of such a course he forced himself to refrain. Once as he halted in the shelter of a giant fir, his back resting against the trunk, he was conscious of a deadly, delicious languor creeping through his frame, and knowing it for the beginning of the dreaded snow-sleep which overtakes men in such circumstances, he lurched forward again, though he had not recovered breath.
He came to a sudden descent in the trail that he was following. It was made by a small stream that in spring flooded down to the lake but which now was frozen solid. In the blinding snow-wrack he never even saw it, and stepping on air, he hurtled down the bank, and rolled in a confused heap in the deep snow at the bottom. For a full minute he lay there, out of the wind and biting snow-hail, feeling like a man who has stumbled out of bitter cold to a soft couch in a warm room. A sense of utter contentment stole upon him. For some moments he lost all his grip on realities; time and circumstances and the object of his quest were forgotten. Visions, momentary but very vivid, crowded upon him, and among them, one of a girl whom he had kissed in the face of death. That girl—Yes, there was something. His mind asserted itself again, his purpose dominated his wavering faculties, and he staggered to his feet.
"Helen!" he muttered. "Helen!"
He faced the bank of the stream on the other side from that which had caused his downfall. Then he paused. There was something—twenty seconds passed before he remembered. His rifle! It was somewhere in the snow, he must find it, for he might yet have need of it. He groped about, and presently recovered it; then after considering for a moment, instead of ascending to the level, he began to walk downstream, sheltered by the high banks. It was not so cold in the hollow, and though a smother of sand-like particles of snow blew at the level of his head, by stooping he was able to escape the worst of it. His numbed faculties began to assert themselves again. The struggle through the deep soft snow, out of reach of the wind's bitter breath, sent a glow through him. His brain began to work steadily. He could not be far from the bluff now, and the stream would lead him to the lake. How much time he had lost he did not know, and he was in a sweat of fear lest he should be too late after all. As he struggled on, he did not even wonder what was the meaning of the attack that he had witnessed; one thing only was before his eyes, the vision of the girl he loved helpless in the face of unknown dangers.