even waitin' until dark?"
"No. As you say, it may begin to snow. Art, if they come around asking questions tell them I said something about driving out to Schmitt's to pick up some clothes for the boy."
It required only a few minutes to pack, and Loomis took the trunk down the back stairs himself. Then Reilly bundled Val into the seat and tucked a buffalo robe around him.
"Good luck, Will," Loomis said. "You'd better look sharp until you're over the pass."
"Thanks."
"Will?" Art Loomis was staring at him. "Why,Will? Will you just tell me why?"
Will Reilly looked at the horses' backs for a moment and then he told the truth. "Art, I never had a kid. I never had anybody, never in my whole life. This is a fine boy, Art, and I figure he came to me for a reason."
He slapped the reins on the horses' backs and the buckboard started off fast.
He did not turn down the main street, but circled the livery barns and left by the back way. It was bitterly cold, and it was thirty miles to the nearest shelter of any kind.
Chapter Two.
The horses were grain-fed and strong, and in the intense cold they moved off at a good clip. Reilly glanced back only once. Somebody was standing in the street looking after them as they mounted the rise outside of town. When he had put three miles behind them, he drew up and broke open the package containing the boy's clothing.
"Put these on, Val. No, put them on right over what you're wearing. Then get into this sheepskin coat."
It was wide-open country, without landmarks except for the trail left by the stage and several freight wagons. The ground was covered by only an inch or two of snow, but the temperature was hovering around ten below zero.
He trotted the horses, walked them, trotted them again. From time to time as they went on he glanced back.
Bunker was the kind of man to organize a pursuit, and the sheriff was under his thumb, but the sheriff was also a very lazy man who would have no desire to get out in the cold.
Three hours, and perhaps twelve miles out of town, it began to snow. Only a few fine flakes at first, drifting slowly down. Then it began to fall faster and faster, and soon the horses were white with it.
He was not more than fifteen miles out when the snow became so thick he could scarcely see. The going was heavier, and the horses slowed down. For some time they had been climbing steadily, and now they had left the flat land behind them and were in the low foothills.
Reilly looked down at the boy. Val was awake and sitting up, peering into the snow.
"Cold, Val?"
"No, sir."
"We're in trouble, Val. The snow is getting too deep for the buckboard, and the horses are tired. We'll have to find a place to hole up until the storm is over."
"Is there a place?"
"There's an old cabin, if I can find it. It was off the road to the right, and among the trees. But that's a few miles further on, almost at the top of the pass."
Val huddled in his warm clothes and the buffalo robe. Only his nose was cold, but he succeeded in keeping it back of the sheepskin collar most of the time. The horses were making hard work of it now. Several times they stopped and had to be whipped to make them move.
"Have to do it, Val. If they stop here they'll freeze, but they don't know any better."
They were almost to the crest of the ridge and the wind was rising when the horses stopped again. Will Reilly got down from the buckboard and, taking them by the bridles, he led them on.
Once, screened from the worst of the wind and snow by a wall of pines, he came back to the buckboard.
"How are you making it, boy?" he asked. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, sir. Can I help?"
"Just stay warm. And Val, remember this. If you stop pushing on, you lose. If we keep going, there will be shelter. It is always a little further to the top than you think."
For what seemed like a long while they plodded on. They seemed to be lost in time; in the blowing snow there was no perspective, no way of judging time or space,
"No. As you say, it may begin to snow. Art, if they come around asking questions tell them I said something about driving out to Schmitt's to pick up some clothes for the boy."
It required only a few minutes to pack, and Loomis took the trunk down the back stairs himself. Then Reilly bundled Val into the seat and tucked a buffalo robe around him.
"Good luck, Will," Loomis said. "You'd better look sharp until you're over the pass."
"Thanks."
"Will?" Art Loomis was staring at him. "Why,Will? Will you just tell me why?"
Will Reilly looked at the horses' backs for a moment and then he told the truth. "Art, I never had a kid. I never had anybody, never in my whole life. This is a fine boy, Art, and I figure he came to me for a reason."
He slapped the reins on the horses' backs and the buckboard started off fast.
He did not turn down the main street, but circled the livery barns and left by the back way. It was bitterly cold, and it was thirty miles to the nearest shelter of any kind.
Chapter Two.
The horses were grain-fed and strong, and in the intense cold they moved off at a good clip. Reilly glanced back only once. Somebody was standing in the street looking after them as they mounted the rise outside of town. When he had put three miles behind them, he drew up and broke open the package containing the boy's clothing.
"Put these on, Val. No, put them on right over what you're wearing. Then get into this sheepskin coat."
It was wide-open country, without landmarks except for the trail left by the stage and several freight wagons. The ground was covered by only an inch or two of snow, but the temperature was hovering around ten below zero.
He trotted the horses, walked them, trotted them again. From time to time as they went on he glanced back.
Bunker was the kind of man to organize a pursuit, and the sheriff was under his thumb, but the sheriff was also a very lazy man who would have no desire to get out in the cold.
Three hours, and perhaps twelve miles out of town, it began to snow. Only a few fine flakes at first, drifting slowly down. Then it began to fall faster and faster, and soon the horses were white with it.
He was not more than fifteen miles out when the snow became so thick he could scarcely see. The going was heavier, and the horses slowed down. For some time they had been climbing steadily, and now they had left the flat land behind them and were in the low foothills.
Reilly looked down at the boy. Val was awake and sitting up, peering into the snow.
"Cold, Val?"
"No, sir."
"We're in trouble, Val. The snow is getting too deep for the buckboard, and the horses are tired. We'll have to find a place to hole up until the storm is over."
"Is there a place?"
"There's an old cabin, if I can find it. It was off the road to the right, and among the trees. But that's a few miles further on, almost at the top of the pass."
Val huddled in his warm clothes and the buffalo robe. Only his nose was cold, but he succeeded in keeping it back of the sheepskin collar most of the time. The horses were making hard work of it now. Several times they stopped and had to be whipped to make them move.
"Have to do it, Val. If they stop here they'll freeze, but they don't know any better."
They were almost to the crest of the ridge and the wind was rising when the horses stopped again. Will Reilly got down from the buckboard and, taking them by the bridles, he led them on.
Once, screened from the worst of the wind and snow by a wall of pines, he came back to the buckboard.
"How are you making it, boy?" he asked. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, sir. Can I help?"
"Just stay warm. And Val, remember this. If you stop pushing on, you lose. If we keep going, there will be shelter. It is always a little further to the top than you think."
For what seemed like a long while they plodded on. They seemed to be lost in time; in the blowing snow there was no perspective, no way of judging time or space,
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