She tried to shout, but the howling wind drowned even her powerful and far-reaching voice. It was blowing fearfully now. Each gust nearly tore her from the saddle by its violence, benumbed as she was by the cold. Again the friendly rifle-crack sounded its peal of deliverance in her ears. And farther away she heard, more faintly, a second sound, like an echo, respond.
“They are searching for us, and it must be—Donald!� she thought. Good Donald, whom she had treated so illy! If she ever lived through this terrible time—but how cold it was. She must not die now, so near, almost within sound of his voice. The horse, animated by the nearness of the deliverer, was struggling ahead, not swiftly, but desperately, in the persistent, whirling phalanx of snow. Again, a third time, the friendly rifle spoke, and its tone rang sweetest music to the nearly paralyzed and helpless girl. She felt her faithful horse turn, guided by the sound; she felt his heaving flank, against which her feet were placed for warmth, sway, as he pressed onward, and then she heard him neigh, loud and strong. Good creature! She tried to pat his neck with her numb fingers. His voice was stronger than hers. Hark! Is that an answering neigh borne to her? She cannot shout, for her voice is spent; but Tempest, good Tempest, is calling for her. She clings with desperate grip to his mane. Is that a voice coming out of the darkness of the snow-world? A roar, deeper than the roar of the storm, sounds in her ears, and she feels herself sinking, sinking, down, down.
“Tibby, Tibby!�
She hears a voice at her side and Donald is clasping her and enveloping her in something woolen and warm. She tries to reach to him her poor frozen hands as she sobs “Don, Don!� and then in a thankfulness too deep for words she snuggles down in the warm folds of the blanket and again drops her head upon the neck of her noble horse.
“That is right, keep your head down! I will lead Tempest,� she hears Donald say, shouting in his strong voice to her, and again Tibby realizes they are yet in the clutches of the merciless blizzard; but her fear is gone, for Donald is with her and will save her.
“Now don’t be frightened. I must discharge the gun to get my direction,� he shouts again when he has tucked her comfortably in the blankets. Tibby hears the detonation answered by a fainter sound at their left.
“We are all right, child. Alice is signaling us. Try and hold out a little longer.� And Tibby feels the motion of the horse as it sways beneath her, and is dimly conscious of a sense of warmth and relief unutterable. And she forgets the storm, the danger, the oppression of death which was upon her, and sinks away into a half-sleeping state, from which she is aroused only when, at the door of Mark’s home, Donald lifts her from the saddle and carries her into shelter somewhere. She hears, as though far away, the repeated echoes of the rifle; she hears murmured words of encouragement from her rescuer, and then she opens her eyes in bewildered uncertainty as to her surroundings and feels that she has awakened from a harassing dream to find herself safely at home, and with a sigh of relief she lays her head more heavily upon Donald’s shoulder and sinks away to sleep again.
Not until afterwards did she realize the struggle Donald had undergone while bringing her home. Not until the neighbors had gathered about her, days later, and commented on the terrible severity and destruction of the storm, which had lasted three days and brought death and sorrow to many homes. Then Tibby heard of those who but a stone’s-throw from their own doors had perished; of others who, like herself, had been lost and wandered about to finally lie down and die; of horses and cattle, in large numbers, frozen to death; of a whole school of children who, headed by the teacher, had tried to make their way through the impenetrable snow and fallen to be gathered in the icy embrace of the blizzard, and delivered into the arms of Death.
And as Tibby reflected upon her narrow escape from the grim harvester, she turned in horror from her wilful self, as she stood with the light of recent experiences upon her. How nearly fatal had been that foolish ride across the prairie which she had wilfully persisted in taking in the face of better counsel. But for Donald, whom she had snubbed and abominably ill-treated, she would have perished. Ah, she was punished, and yet she would not be willing to owe so much to any other man. Donald had been forced to remain at Mark’s until the storm lessened in its severity, but he had gone away before Tibby had fully recovered from her lethargy. He had aided in caring for her frost-bitten ears and hands, but he had not returned to make inquiry concerning her since then. Tibby was becoming restless at his continued absence. Was he thoroughly disgusted with her behavior that day of the storm? she questioned.
Could any one have been more exasperating and unladylike? Yes, she merited his contempt—and he had saved her life, saved her from such a terrible death. Ah, if she could blot out the memory of that morning. How she despised herself, her foolish, egotistical self. He would be divine if he ever forgave her. She had tried to make him angry, and how she had been punished. She had even mocked at him when he paid her the highest compliment a man can pay a woman. Why had she acted thus? Why must a woman always be false to herself?