“Sure, it’s a storm, but not too fierce for a strong man like Barney to brave for them that’s in trouble. And I’ve a can of good soup jelly and a fresh-baked loaf of bread and some eggs for ye to fetch with ye.”
“Oh!” David dug his two hands down deep in his pockets and smiled ecstatically. “I suppose—it’s too bad going for me.” He appealed to Barney.
“Aye, it is that! Wait till afternoon. The storm may break by then and ye could get out for a bit. But there’s too much weather afoot for a little lad just now.”
So David watched Barney make ready alone. Johanna’s things were bundled and strapped on his back that his two arms might be free. Then he made fast his snow-shoes—it was no day for skees—and pulling his fur parka down to cover all but his eyes he started off. He looked like a man of the northland. David watched him out of sight, and then he and Johanna fell to the making of a mammoth Christmas cake. There were nuts to be cracked and fruits to be chopped; all good boy work, as Johanna said, and he was glad to be busy.
At noon Barney returned with great news. He had left the South-Americans comfortable and happy. Alfredo was back on his open porch with a monstrous fire roaring up the outside chimney and wood enough stacked within their reach for them to keep it going for a week. The mother had wept over Johanna’s gifts. They had lived for days on canned things and stale bread; and she had blessed them all in what Barney had termed “Spanish lingo.”
“Sure, ye needn’t be fearing about them longer, laddy; they’ve the hearts back in them again, and, what’s more, they’ll stay there, I’m thinking.”
As Barney had prophesied, the snow stopped at noon; and after dinner David set forth on his last quest. Warnings from Johanna and Barney followed him out of the lodge: not to be going far—and to mind well his trail. All of which he promised. It was not so very far to the trapper’s and the trail was as plain as the hillside itself.
There was no sign of the locked-out fairy, and David expected none. There was but one path left to take. Why should any one come to show him the way? Although the trail lay down the hill David’s going was very slow. He sank deep at every step and where the drifts were high he had to make long detours, which nearly doubled the distance. When he reached the hut at last he met the trapper at his very door-sill. The pack on his back looked full, and David guessed he had just been down to the village for supplies. He eyed David with a grave concern through the opening in his parka; and David wondered whether the rest of the face would be grave, or kind, or forbidding.
“Nicholas Bassaraba has few visitors, but you are welcome.”
The voice was gruff but not unkindly, and the trapper pushed open the door of his hut and motioned David inside. They stood stamping the snow from their boots; and then the trapper lifted his hood and David saw that he was not at all like the Grimm picture of Bluebeard. He was dark and swarthy-skinned, to be sure, but he wore no beard—only a small mustache—and his eyebrows were not heavy and sinister-looking and his mouth was almost friendly. If the line of gravity should break into a smile David felt sure it would be a very friendly smile. The trapper proceeded to remove the rest of his outer garments and David did the same. When the operation was over they stood there facing each other solemnly—a very large, foreign-looking man and a small American boy.