CHAPTER XII
THE ICY HILL
Two days before Thanksgiving, it began snowing in the late afternoon,going about the business of carpeting the earth in white with suchstubborn determination that weatherwise folk were surprised when thefollowing morning marked the end of the storm. The sun peeped forth;the snow packed into a soggy, slushy mass, only to freeze that nightunder the grip of a bitter wind from the northland. As a result,Thanksgiving was ushered in to the merry jingle of sleigh bells, withcutters crisping their way over the icy surfaces of the roads.
Breakfast over and chores done, Bonfire Cree strolled forth thatmorning to take a look at the new winter world. He was whistlingcheerfully, like a true Boy Scout, and he was keeping his eyes alertfor some opportunity to do a good turn before the day emerged from itsswaddling clothes.
His chance came at the top of "Old Forty Five Hill", where a group ofwhat Bonfire decided must be the littlest and the most shopworn boys intown were staring forlornly at the broken runner of a bobsled. Theirages ranged from perhaps eight to eleven, and they were clad in acollection of last year's mufflers, sweaters and overcoats that wouldhave made a ragman frown.
"Hello, Mr. Raggedy Tatters!" Bonfire greeted a youngster who appearedto be the leader. "How did you break your sled?"
"I didn't break it. Petey Flack did; he coasted over a rock. And myname isn't Raggedy Tatters, either; it's Jimmie White."
"Thanks!" said Bonfire. "Glad to know you, Jimmie White. Let's take alook at that sled." He turned it over and ran a practiced eye over therunner. "H'm! Can't patch that without iron braces, and the blacksmithshop is closed to-day. 'Fraid you'll have to call off this coastingparty till to-morrow."
"Aw, the snow'll melt by then," objected the youngster. He dug the toeof his torn shoe into a little drift and kicked disconsolately. "Let'snail on a brace and try it."
"Your grandchildren will always be sorry if you try that," Bonfiretold him gravely. And then, somehow, his mood changed; he began tounderstand the disappointment of the little boys, and to sympathizewith them, and to search his mind for ways to help. "Look here, JimmieWhite," he said abruptly, "know where the Scouts' clubhouse is?"
"Sure!"
"Well, you take this key, trot over there, unlock the door, and--"
"--and what?"
"And bring back the long bobsled you'll find inside. Here," he called,as Jimmie grabbed the key and sped away, "don't forget to lock the dooragain."
"No," flung the boy over his shoulder; and, as if that were inadequateto such a benefactor, "No, sir, I won't, Mister."
"What's the idea, Cree?" asked a voice behind him.
Bonfire turned quickly. In the seat of a sleigh that had driven up satPeter Barrett, while the head of a little chap of five or six, too likePeter's to belong to anybody but his little brother, barely showedabove the snug fur lap-robe.
"Morning, Barrett!" Bonfire called. "Oh, I'm just going to take myfriends coasting."
"Your friends?" repeated Peter Barrett, studying the group of littleboys.
"Of course," said Bonfire easily. "Aren't you my friends, fellows?"
They were. They said so emphatically and loudly.
"You see," grinned Bonfire. "Oh, I'm just getting acquainted withthem, if that's what you mean. But we're going to like each other.Their sled's busted; so I sent Jimmie White over to the clubhouse forthe Scouts' bob. We went over that last night; put in a new slat,sand-papered the runners, and so forth. Want to go down the hill withus, Peter?"
"I don't mind," admitted the farmer boy. He tied his horse to a treeand tucked the fur cover more snugly about his little brother. "Say,I--I'd like to steer once, if you'll let me."
"Come ahead!"
By this time Jimmie White had arrived with the bobsled. Almost beforeit had been straightened for the start, the youngsters were scramblingaboard, with Peter Barrett in front, Bonfire just behind him, and theothers piled on hit-and-miss to the very last inch of the broad plank.
A second later, after some left-over boy had given them a push, the bigsled was coasting over the icy trail, gathering speed with every foot.The hill had been nicknamed "Old Forty Five" because of its steepness;so sheer was the drop of the road in places that the suggestion of anangle of forty-five degrees was not altogether ridiculous. It seemedeven steeper to Bonfire. He sucked in his breath gaspingly.
"Don't be scared," Peter Barrett flung back over his shoulder.
"I'm not scared," protested Bonfire, but he knew his voice was far fromconvincing.
Near the foot of the long hill, a railroad track cut across the trail.Bonfire was peering at it over the steerer's right shoulder when thebob veered sharply to the left. In spite of himself, the Scout gruntedaudibly. A moment later, when the long sled straightened out again,swishing along a road parallel to the track, he would have givenanything in the world to have recalled that sound.
They ground to a full stop. Bonfire piled off with the others,pretending not to see Peter Barrett's superior grin.
"I think it would be best," he offered, "to take that turn with a longsweep."
"And sink the runners into the soft snow at the side?" asked Barrettscornfully. "Why, that would slow the sled to a walk, and it wouldn'trun more than fifty feet farther. I know how to steer, and I am willingto take a chance. You Scouts--" But he thought better of it, and leftthe accusation unsaid.
During the long climb up the hill, Bonfire was silent. But at the top,when the bobsled had been turned for the next trip, he took the forwardposition.
"Sure you can manage it?" asked Barrett. "Can you make the turn thisside of the railroad track, where the road branches?"
"Of course."
"Because, if you can't, you'd better let me steer again. You see,the other branch goes straight ahead over the track and then arounda corner with a big drop to the creek on the outside edge. It'sdangerous."
"I can turn this side of the track," said Bonfire doggedly.
"All right," decided Barrett. "I'm ready."
So, it seemed, were the raggedy-taggedy youngsters. Bonfire braced hisfeet on the crossbar and gripped the steering lines. Another left-overboy, not the same one this time, pushed them off.
"Clear!" he shouted the warning down the road after them. "Clear forcoasters!"
Halfway down the slide, round the first bend, the long bobsled spuninto a straightaway that was partially blocked. A heavy wagon onrunners seemed to occupy the entire road. Bonfire saw it instantly.There was a chance--just a bare, scant chance--that he might steer byon the right, grazing the ponderous wagon. But there would be only afoot or two to spare, and at the terrific speed they were traveling acollision might mean serious accident.
His quick eye told him something else, too. On either side of theroad, the snow was banked high in great cushions. He made his decisioninstantly. Jerking desperately on one line, he steered the bob off itscourse and into the drift, turning it completely over and spilling itshuman load into the soft mattress of snow.
Nobody was hurt in the least. The little fellows picked themselves up,righted the long sled, and dragged it back into the road. Two or threeof them stared solemnly at Bonfire, but only Jimmie White ventured anycomment.
"A good steerer could have slipped past that wagon, I guess," he saidslowly. "Your--friend here could."
Bonfire shut his lips tightly. What was the use? Perhaps, after all, hehad been too cautious. It didn't matter much now, one way or the other,for he knew very well what Peter Barrett was thinking of him.
They dragged the bobsled to the top of the hill again. At the verycrest, while they were stooping to turn it about, little Jimmie Whiteuttered a sudden cry. As the others whirled, startled, Jimmie pointeda trembling finger down the hill. Ten yards away, gaining momentum asthe first runway of the trail fell sharply downward, was a single sled.Upon it lay a tiny figure. Too small to know anything about steering,the child was simply allowing the sled to carry him along in the grooveworn by the coasters.
For a long
moment, the little group stared in stunned bewilderment.Then, all at once, three of them spoke.
"He'll go across the railroad track to the turn of the creek," saidBonfire, with queer huskiness, "and--"
"--and tumble into the creek," wailed little Jimmie White. "The rocksthere--"
"Catch him!" shouted Peter Barrett. "Catch him! Stop him! It--Cree,it's my kid brother!"
It was too late to whirl the bob about and begin the chase with that.Two of the youngsters were tugging at it, but precious seconds werebeing lost. There was just one thing to do, and the three who hadspoken seemed to recognize it the same instant.
Each grabbed a light, single sled from its dazed owner. Each lifted itclear from the icy trail, ran for perhaps twenty feet, and then flunghimself and sled headlong upon the slide.
Luckily, the road was wide. The three sleds, already racing dizzilyfrom the running start, sped along side by side, with Peter Barrett'son the right, little Jimmie White's in the middle, and Bonfire Cree'son the left. Far ahead now--hopelessly far, it seemed to Bonfire--therunaway, with its precious human cargo, jounced and jolted its way downOld Forty Five.
Weight told at the outset. In the first hundred yards, little JimmieWhite dropped slowly behind the other two, despite his frantic effortsto keep up. This left only Peter Barrett and Bonfire actively in thechase, and they raced along as if some invisible link yoked themtogether.
At the first bend, Barrett swung a little wide. Bonfire took the turnat a sharp angle, shutting his eyes for a moment as his sled ran on onerunner, and leaning inward till half his body was over the side. Itseemed to him the sled would never right itself again. But it did. Witha welcome clank, the soaring iron came back to the surface. When theystraightened out once more, beyond the turn, he was a full length ahead.
The memory of the wagon that had blocked the bob made him shudder.Suppose another should be on the road! But when he saw that it wasclear, with only the black dot of the runaway sled blotting its whitesurface, he drew in a long breath of thanks and relief. He could forgetthe danger of a possible collision now; he could give to his mad coastevery shred of his skill.
He flattened himself low on the sled; that would lessen the windfriction. He steered almost wholly by swaying his body; to shift thecourse by digging a toe into the trail would mean a tiny loss ofspeed. He swerved around cloying drifts of snow, he avoided holdingruts, he picked the icy sweeps of the road. As the sled answered toeach trick of jockeying, he wondered grimly what Peter Barrett thoughtof his coasting ability now. He might be too cautious, perhaps, whenrecklessness meant danger to others, but Peter could never again sneerat the way he steered.
But even with all these aids, he gained slowly on the sled ahead. Hehad hoped to catch it halfway down the hill. But as he whizzed past therock that marked this point, he was still far behind. Well, there wasstill a long stretch before the runaway reached the railroad track. Hemight catch it yet; might--no, must!
Under him, the runners rasped and sang. Tiny particles of ice and snowpelted, sleet-wise, in his face. Rocks and bumps in the road seemedto leer at him. They hid from sight till he was fairly upon them;then tried to upset his sled. Once, in steering about a particularlydangerous clod, he barely skimmed it; and it tore the mitten halffrom his hand, and knocked the skin from his knuckle. The hurt bled alittle, but his fingers did not relax.
He was going like the wind now. The distance between pursued andpursuer was being eaten up in great bounds. If only he had a littlemore time! If only the railroad track, with its fatal turn beyond, werea little farther away!
Mingled with the _scratch-scratch_ of the iron-shod runners cameanother sound,--loud, long, mournful. He wondered vaguely what it was.Perhaps Peter's sled behind was sending out that doleful wail. Then,like a flash, came the explanation.
It was the whistle of an engine. A train was coming over the railroadtrack. If the child on the sled crashed into it--
In a frenzy of alarm, Bonfire lifted the forepart of his sled from thesurface. It skewed and tipped. One runner creaked ominously. Forcinghimself to think only of the business of steering, he flung it back onthe trail, till the runners pointed dead ahead once more.
He could see the railroad now. A scant half-mile away a heavy freighttrain was ploughing forward toward the intersection of trail and track.And as nearly as he could calculate, runaway sled and engine wouldreach it together.
"I must catch it before it gets to the track!" he told himself. "Imust!"
The ice-drive filled his mouth as he spoke, half choking him. Alreadyhis eyes were encrusted with a film of frozen sleet, and objects aheadwere blurring into an indistinct white mass. For the first time, too,he began to realize the doubt that he might reach the child in time.A cowardly desire to swerve into the snow-bank at one side, as he haddone with the bob, fought for a place in his mind. He knew now that hecould never pull up even before they reached the railroad track.
But he fought back the temptation. "'A Scout,'" he told himself, "'isbrave. A Scout is brave. A Scout is brave.'"
Another sound dinned into his ears. It swept back from the frozen trailahead of him, and presently he came to know that it was the frightenedcry of the child on the other sled. So near it sounded that he couldnot believe the distance between them was more than the reach of hisarm. But it was. When he lifted his head, he saw that a full ten feetstill separated them.
The sled ahead was already taking the slight rise to the railroadtrack. It would clear the onrushing engine by a few precious feet.But in another second or two, the path of the coasting slide would beeffectually blocked by the train. This child would cross in time; hehimself had no such margin of safety. In all probability, he wouldstrike the very prong of the cow-catcher.
"Too late!" he moaned. "I can't do it!" Then, abruptly, his mind jerkedback to what lay beyond: to the turn they had told him about, and thecreek below, and the rocks. Resolutely, he held his sled to the course.
As he swept upon the upgrade to the track, he heard from behind PeterBarrett's shout.
"_Don't!_" it rang out. "Don't try it! You can't--"
The whole world seemed to roar at him. There was the clang of a bell,the hoarse whistle of the engine, the hiss of steam, the rasp of brakeshard-set. To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monster ofiron and steel, with a sharp-pointed triangle skimming low to destroyhim.
To his left, bearing down upon him, was a great monsterof iron and steel. _Page 135._]
He shut his eyes. Beneath him, the sled snapped angrily over a steelrail. He was upon the railroad track. He waited for the secondclick of the far rail--waited--waited--waited. Would it never come?Then--_snap!_--he felt it. A flurry of wind sucked behind him. A shadowdarkened the white snow. With a scream, as of terror, the monster ofiron crossed the trail a second after he had cleared the track. He wasover safely.
A little decline slanted from the railroad. At its very foot was someobstacle; and he jerked his sled to one side, angry over the forcedloss of speed. The big rock, or whatever it was, appeared to be callingto him. He jerked his head savagely to clear his eyes, wondering dullywhy he did not pass it. Then he laughed hysterically. It was the sledwith Peter Barrett's little brother, running over the icy road at hisvery side.
He swerved toward it, reached out a shaking hand, and closed hisfingers upon the flare of the runner. The two sleds were one now.
The dangerous turn was just beyond. It led to the left, and he dug hisleft toe savagely into the trail, holding it there like a brake, tillthe double-sled pivoted to its friction and swung where the road led.But there was no room to spare. Before they were around, they hadclimbed the bank overhanging the creek, balanced perilously a moment onits brink, and dashed back to the middle of the road.
Afterward--some minutes afterward--when the locked sleds had ground toa standstill, and the train had passed, and Peter Barrett and littleJimmie White had come coasting gingerly and frightenedly to the foot ofOld Forty Five, they found Bonfire sitting weakly on the sn
owy ground,with one arm about the child. The latter was talking happily, butBonfire was too exhausted to speak.
"I never saw anything like it," said little Jimmie White. There washonest hero-worship in his eyes. "No, never!"
It was harder for Peter Barrett. "I--I did a lot of thinking backthere," he began awkwardly, "trailing you down Old Forty Five. I--Iguess I've been blind, Rodman, when I looked at you Scouts. I thoughtyou were--well, stuck on yourselves, and too good for poorer people.But this morning--" He waved a comprehensive hand toward the top ofthe hill, where the ragged little band of boys had been left behind,and did not complete the sentence. "When that train cut me off--Doyou know, I think you Scouts have the right idea of things, mostly.I--Well, it--it's Thanksgiving." He winked his eyes rapidly as theyturned toward his little brother.
"Yes, Peter," said Bonfire understandingly, "it's Thanksgiving."
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