British -- Canada -- Fiction; Love stories; Ranchers -- Canada, Western -- Fiction
Then she turned away, and left him sitting somewhat limply in his chair
and staring vacantly at the sea. He saw no more of her during the rest
of the voyage, but when two hours later the steamer reached Victoria he
went straight to the cable company's office and sent his kinsman in
England a message which somewhat astonished him.
"Buy Dayspring on my account as far as funds will go," it read.
XXIV.
ALLONBY STRIKES SILVER.
Winter had closed in early, with Arctic severity, and the pines were
swathed in white and gleaming with the frost when Brooke stood one
morning beside the crackling stove in the shanty he and Allonby occupied
at the Dayspring mine. A very small piece of rancid pork was frizzling
in the frying-pan, and he was busy whipping up two handfuls of flour
with water, to make flapjacks of. He could readily have consumed twice
as much alone, for it was twelve hours since his insufficient six
o'clock supper, but he realized that it was advisable to curb his
appetite. Supplies had run very low, and the lonely passes over which
the trail to civilization led were blocked with snow, while it was a
matter of uncertainty when the freighter and his packhorse train could
force his way in.
When the flour was ready he stirred the stove to a brisker glow, and,
crossing the room, flung open the outer door. It was still an hour or
two before sunrise, and the big stars scintillated with an intensity of
frosty radiance, though the deep indigo of the cloudless vault was
paling in color, and the pines were growing into definite form. Here and
there a sombre spire or ragged branch rose harshly from the rest, but,
for the most part, they were smeared with white, and his eyes were
dazzled by the endless vista of dimly-gleaming snow. Towering peak and
serrated rampart rose hard and sharp against a background of coldest
blue. There was no sound, for the glaciers' slushy feet that fed the
streams had hardened into adamant, and a deathlike silence pervaded the
frozen wilderness.
Brooke felt the cold strike through him with the keenness of steel, and
was about to cross the space between the shanty and the men's log
shelter, when a dusky figure, beating its arms across its chest, came
out of the latter.
"Are the rest of the boys stirring yet?" he said.
The man laughed, and his voice rang with a curious distinctness through
the nipping air.
"I guess we've had the stove lit 'most an hour ago," he said. "They've
no use for being frozen, and that's what's going to happen to some of us
unless we can make Truscott's before it's dark. Say, hadn't you better
change your mind, and come along with us?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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