THE FIELD OF AMBER GOLD
By William Bigelow Neal
A remarkable story wherein the poignant drama of man’s eternal battle with the forces of Nature is impressively brought out: by the author of “Captain Jack” and “At Bay.”
John Grahame walked with shoulders stooped, head bent forward and down, until he was peering out at the storm through the half-inch slit between the visor of his cap and the top of a sheepskin collar. When he left the little prairie town of Barliton, two hours before, the sun had been shining, and although it was thirty below, he anticipated nothing worse than a cold drive, ending as usual by the big coal stove where he rocked and read the papers aloud to Jane as she prepared his supper. But he had covered little more than half of the fifteen miles to his home when a blue-gray wall of clouds arose in the west and came on with the terrifying speed of the genuine Dakota blizzard. There were several inches of loose snow on the ground, and John knew what the wind would do to those powdery flakes.
He looked about him and considered. There were two or three farms within sight, and he was minded to try and reach one ahead of the storm, but then he thought of Jane. He could see her standing, as thousands of pioneer women had stood before, her face pressed against the frost-laden glass, looking anxiously out into the impenetrable wall of whirling snow, and praying the God of Storms to guide her lover safely through; he thought of the wind and the stoves that might burn all too fiercely, and with this vision of fire came decision: he must go through.
Grahame settled his cap and pulled the earlaps well down over the sides of his face; he unbuttoned his heavy double-breasted overcoat and buttoned it again so that the opening would be downwind instead of against it; he turned up the wide collar and buttoned the tab across the front; and from a box of groceries and other supplies he took an extra pair of knitted gloves and put them on under his mittens. When the storm was almost upon him, he slipped from the load and began to walk. He was ready, but none too soon. Little whirlwinds were already lifting the light snow in small spirals which wandered aimlessly here and there, and when the blue wall passed under and obscured the sun, it seemed to him that the thermometer dropped ten degrees, so cold and piercing was the wind. From ahead came a low moaning which grew louder and louder—and then the storm struck.
The team at once stopped and began cramping the sled as they tried to back into the wind. Stepping up onto the tongue, Grahame placed a hand on the hip of either horse and spoke to them. His voice was lost in the rush of the wind, but they felt his touch, and it steadied them. They obeyed his pull on the line and turned into the wind again. There came a rippling of mighty muscles beneath his hand. The sharp steel calks bit deep into snow and ice, and the front runners were wrenched back into the road, and again the long steel shoes took up their whining song of protest against the cold.
For two long hours Grahame had been floundering beside the sled. Several times when he felt himself becoming chilled, he walked in deep snow until nearly exhausted; then he placed one hand on the box and allowed the team to pull him forward. He could see little of the horses and nothing on either side; nor did he look, for his eyes were fixed on the silver-white ribbon of hard-packed snow beneath the runner at his feet. The presence of that narrow sleigh track meant the difference between life and death. If he held it, he was safe; if he lost it even for a moment, it might mean the end.
The blinding white of late afternoon changed to the gray of sunset, and still the big team fought on. Their breath came in rapid puffs of white vapor, while long slender icicles hung from their nostrils. Grahame’s eyelashes froze to the lower lids and he rubbed them apart with his mitten. His collar had become a mass of ice, and a double handful of snow had driven through the tiny opening to pack solidly around his throat. Little by little the cold was driving through his clothing as well. He felt it first in his fingers, and he beat them against his sides, but the motion seemed to pump cold air up his sleeves for he felt it under his arms. The team stopped, and Grahame went to investigate. There was a dark shadow ahead, which as he approached resolved itself into another team and sled, evidently going the same way as himself; but the team had stopped and swung the tongue around until they stood back to the storm. The spring seat had fallen from its place, and now dangled from one clamp. In the bottom of the box was the huddled body of a man—a man whom he vaguely recognized by his strangely scarred face as Fred Kinear, a newcomer in the neighborhood.