CHAPTER XIV.
LOST IN THE SNOW.
Mr. Morton and Cyril rode on briskly, Blackie keeping up most cleverly with the larger horse, until when they were about eight miles on their way the snow which Ben Davidson had prognosticated began to fall heavily and in the most bewildering manner.
"I never saw such snow in my life!" exclaimed Mr. Morton. "It does not come down straight, it whirls all about and rises again and beats upon one in such a blinding fashion. Stay near me, Cyril, my boy. Can you keep your pony up?"
"Yes, father. He stumbles rather, but he won't fall. He's such a good pony, isn't he, father?"
"Splendid! And you're a capital rider!"
They pushed on as rapidly as possible, but it soon became exceedingly difficult for their horses to advance. The newly fallen snow was so much softer than the hard iced snow covering the track, it rolled into balls under the horse's hoofs, making them stumble and flounder sadly. At last Mr. Morton's horse fell down, slightly crushing his foot, which he had not time to release from the stirrup. He turned very white with the pain, and it was a few moments before he could extricate himself from the horse. Cyril was in an agony of apprehension.
"Oh, father, are you hurt?" he cried. Then, as Mr. Morton made no reply, he jumped off his pony and caught hold of him by the arm.
"I shall be all right soon," his father replied with an effort, leaning heavily on him. "My foot is sprained, I think. It rather pains me, that's all." But he grew pale to the lips.
His horse stood by, hanging his head and looking quite ashamed.
"My Blackie wouldn't have done that!" cried Cyril, and as if the pony understood him he came poking his nose into his master's hands.
All the time the snow was falling fast, whirling round, and beating in their faces. It had covered the track now, so that except for the opening in the trees they could not tell where it was.
Mr. Morton endeavoured to mount his horse again, but in vain. Frightened by his fall and the bewildering snow the animal jumped about and would not stand still, whilst the pain his master's foot gave him when he stood upon it crippled all his efforts.
Letting go Blackie's bridle—the pony would not stir without him—Cyril held his father's horse, patted his neck, and endeavoured to pacify him, but in vain.
It grew darker; the snow rose in great drifts now, and flung itself upon them with stinging force.
Mr. Morton struggled hard against the faintness and drowsiness which was stealing over him. "My boy," he said, "it is no use. I cannot ride. The horse would only fall again."
"But, father, what shall we do?" cried Cyril. "I've heard of people in this country being buried in the snow whilst yet alive, and of their being starved to death too."
"If only there were some shelter!" sighed his father, "a hollow tree, or a cave, or something. Look round, Cyril, can't you see anything?"
Cyril endeavoured to look through the snow, but could see nothing except snow—snow in all directions, whirling about, drifting high, covering the trees till it made them look gigantic cloud-like mountains, and piling itself up against them as they stood until it really seemed to be trying to bury them all alive.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle! The sound of sleigh bells, proceeding slowly in their direction, was the most welcome music to their ears that they had ever heard.
"Thank God!" exclaimed Mr. Morton, making a renewed effort to resist the faintness stealing over him, "thank God!"
"Oh, father, it's a sleigh! I know the sound of sleigh bells!" exclaimed Cyril, "and there will be people, and they will take us somewhere!" In his glad excitement he let go of the bridle he was holding, upon which the horse immediately turned tail and bolted, floundering through the snow.
"Oh, dear! I couldn't help it!" cried the boy.
"Never mind; he was of no use. Who—who is coming?" faltered his father, still struggling with the deadly weakness.
"Hullo! Hey! What's up?" exclaimed a sharp, girlish voice, as a two-horse sleigh came up with frantic plunges and great difficulty on the part of the horses. A girl, warmly clad in furs, who was shovelling snow off the sleigh with one hand, whilst with the other she held the reins, peered through her wraps at the obstruction on the road.
"We've had an accident," answered Cyril, in shrill tones of excitement. "We were riding to the station at Iron Mountain when my father's horse fell. He's badly hurt and faint. My pony didn't fall!" he added quickly, in spite of his trouble, still proud of Blackie. "But I don't know what to do about my father. His horse finished off with bolting, you know."
The girl was staring through the blinding snow at Cyril as he spoke. "Why, it's only a child!" she ejaculated.
Cyril thought her rude, and felt hurt she should imagine he was small, but that was no time for thinking of himself. He was alarmed because his father did not speak, though he stood swaying in first one direction and then another as the snow beat upon him.
"Bless me!" cried the girl. "We must get your dad on my sleigh, though I doubt whether the horses can pull him." She jumped off the sleigh as she spoke and towered above Cyril, being a fine, tall young woman, as she offered her arm to his father. "You must rouse yourself, sir," she said commandingly, "and get into this sleigh. See! I'll help you! Make a great effort. For your life, sir!"
Her loud voice reached the injured traveller in the far-away region into which he seemed to have sunk; he made a great effort, and with the help of the girl and Cyril succeeded in getting on the sleigh. There he sank down unconscious, and the girl pulled a big skin rug over him.
"Now, little one," she cried sharply, "jump on your pony and show us what stuff you are made of! If you can ride on in front my horses will follow you!"
It was no time to resent the freedom of her speech. Cyril knew their lives depended upon getting through that terrible snow as speedily as possible.
"Blackie, Blackie," he cried in his pony's ear. "My dear old Blackie, do your best!"
The pony neighed and struggled on as best he could, but it was terribly hard work and he floundered about miserably. It was all Cyril could do to stick on. Once he thought it would be impossible to do so any longer, and looked back.
Then he saw the girl who had come so opportunely to their aid had a still harder task than his. Leaving the horses to follow his pony, she was working hard with both hands at shovelling the snow off the sleigh, which jumped about and jolted up and down owing to the plunges of the horses and the drifts of snow it encountered.
"I don't care if she does call me a little one!" said Cyril to himself, forgiving her everything at that moment. "She's a heroine, a real, splendid heroine!" And again he urged Blackie forward.
He was absorbed in the difficulties of the way, and so blinded by the snow that he was quite unconscious they had passed the place where the track parted in two directions, and were now pursuing the left one instead of the right. But the girl knew what she was doing, and when at last even Blackie fell on his knees and Cyril alighted on his hands and feet, unhurt, on the snow and a yard ahead of his pony, she called out encouragingly—
"It's all right. We're just close to a house. You're a brave lad, for all you are so small!"
Cyril got up, leaving Blackie to recover his feet as he could, and made his way to her side.
"Do you say there is a house?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes; through those trees. Do you see that narrow opening? There. Look! 'Tis a path that leads to the door. It isn't many yards."
"Hurrah!" cried Cyril. "How can we get father there?" he asked.
"I don't know. We must be sharp. I guess you had better run to the house and see if there's anybody there. It's just a chance there may be. And bring them back to help us carry your father. Woa!" she cried to the horses, which, stung by the snow, were plunging about again. "Steady there! Look sharp, boy."
Cyril made his way as fast as he could over the snow-path through the trees; fortunately for him it was so sheltered that not much new snow had fallen upon it. After proceeding a few yards he stepped out of the shelter of the trees into what seemed a great snow-drift, which at first appeared impassable; by degrees, however, he perceived a way round it, which eventually brought him suddenly to the window-frame of a wooden house.
Looking in Cyril perceived a man dressed as a hunter kneeling on the floor, apparently digging a hole in the earth about the centre of the room; some boards he had taken up lay beside him.
"Come," cried Cyril to him, "come, my father——"
He was interrupted by a great cry, as the man, springing to his feet, flung up his arms in extreme terror.