"It’s gonna look mighty different with all this snow down," he warned himself.
"Yeah," he replied, "but if it really opens up, so I can see any distance at all, see just one big peak, for instance, I’ll have a pretty fair notion where I’m at. And if I get a look at the sun," he added.
"Take it slow and easy, just the same," the cautious self insisted. "You’re wore down plenty now, boy, plenty. Take it slow and steady." He understood that the warning referred to the little, sudden elations as well as to weariness.
"Left, right, and in," he said.
The formula began to repeat itself after all, slowly and monotonously, to the slow swinging of the bear-paws. "Left, right, in; left, right, in; left, right, in." Finally he checked it by a direct, wordless effort of his slumberous will, and then he was advancing in that same dogged, unchanging pace, with a mind very nearly as blank as the world around him.
The floor of the pass began to slope downward before him, and the white domes, of the timberline trees with here and there the dark, agonized branches breaking out through them, appeared around him and grew more numerous as he advanced.
Here’s them damn spook trees again, he thought mildly, and then thought, And I’m going down some, and experienced a faint revival of his elation because his reasoning had been sustained.
The wings of the canyon mouth appeared, vast and insubstantial through the falling snow, their tops invisible. He felt that the trees were watching his retreat as neutrals, approving of it as the performance of the cleverer contestant, although perhaps mocking him a little too, in the dry, silent way of old inhabitants, because it was a retreat. It seemed they had somehow been informed of his boast and of his vow. They wouldn’t harbor the cat, however, as they had the night before. The snow in the pass was too deep and too light. The bear-paws had become a great advantage. The cat would have to stick to the wind-swept heights and ledges now, and could be kept at a distance by the simple expedient of staying where the snow was deep. It might even be shaken off behind the screen of flakes, during one of its extended detours. It wouldn’t do to trust to such a hope, however. He continued to feel that the cat was not far from him, and this made it impossible to believe that it wasn’t being guided by a sense of neighborhood at least as strong as his, and probably much stronger. It was likely, indeed, if he was able to maintain this vague but constant sensation of its presence somewhere above him, and on the left, that it knew exactly where he was all the time. This was no cause for alarm, or wasteful caution. The storm in its third day had become his ally in retreat, as, in its first day, it had been his ally in pursuit. Only he mustn’t get careless or absent-minded; he mustn’t trust too much to its protection. He must remember to avoid overhangs of any kind, and slopes where the snow was shallow.
When he came between the great wings of the canyon mouth, where the slope became wider and went down more steeply in front of him, he stopped and peered all around, and then stared for some time downslope and then, finally, straight out before him into the falling snow. He believed that he could make out the ghostly, whitened spires of big trees below, but looking straight out, he could see nothing at all but curtain behind curtain of the falling snow. There was a choice to be made there. The alternative had occurred to him almost every time he had repeated his set directions knowingly, and now he had to choose. Slowly he brought his ponderous mind to bear upon the problem. Here he might either turn north, and go back the way he had come, or he might venture straight ahead, crossing whatever was there, and do a good part of his distance north in the security of the Aspen Creek itself.
There was something to be said each way. If he went north along the ridge again, there would be many stretches of shallow snow, which would allow the cat to draw nearer, and to charge if it got within range. Down below there, where the big trees had broken the wind, the snow must be very deep by now. The cat would almost certainly have to stay well above him, and follow him by wide circlings.
On the other hand, he could see a reassuring distance around him up here, as long as no wind came up, fifty yards or more, while down there he’d be shut in by the trees, and if any cliff or boulder or close line of trees did let the cat get near him, or over him, he might never even see it, and certainly he wouldn’t see it in time to do much good.
Also, he had come so far south that he couldn’t trust his summer memories of what the region was like. He was probably clear south of the lower end of the Aspen Creek Valley by now, and it was a confusing country down there, full of little, broken hills, all alike, and the timber thick on them. It was easy to get lost down in there, even without a blizzard. For that matter, the upper valley, between the two ranges, didn’t go nearly as far south as the Aspen Creek Valley did, and the section south of it was pretty well tangled itself, ridges and canyons slanting every direction. He found that he couldn’t even make a general map of them in his mind, and knew that unless he had the sun to go by, he might never get out of them before dark. His margin of time was enough, if he knew where he was going, but there wasn't any to spare for just running in circles.
No, back by the ridge was surer, just as he’d thought all the time. Even if the storm increased instead of breaking, or the wind began to blow again, he couldn’t lose his general direction up there. He had only to remember to keep the downslope on his right, and he could hardly fail to do that. There’d be no mistaking the top of the ridge if he got up too high, and there’d be timber to stop him below. The ridge and the timber would keep him pretty near straight between them. The simple pattern of the mountains up north, just the one open meadow between the two ridges and the one lower range, would make a lot safer crossing too, one he could do in the dark, if he had to. More than that, if he stuck to the upper ridge, and the storm did thin out, he’d stand a much better chance to spot landmarks even the snow couldn’t disguise. There was maybe a little to be said for going down to get away from the cat, but there was a lot to be said for sticking to the heights to beat the storm and the darkness. If he kept his eyes open, the balance was all for the ridge.
Again he was elated by the soundness of his decision, and because it agreed with what he’d felt all along, but this time, with the stability of a good start already made, he was able to resist voicing his triumph. He said aloud only, "Turn left, go half a day, and keep your eyes peeled."
He swung left out of the pass, climbed the gentle incline to the side of the ridge, and began to shuffle steadily forward between the gray shadow-wall of the ridge above him and the timber he couldn’t quite see, but knew must be below him.
After a little, his mind began to repeat, in rhythm with the webs again, the only advice immediately necessary: "Keep your eyes peeled." He had gone a good way comfortably to that count, before he realized, with a little, frightened start, that he hadn’t been keeping his eyes peeled at all, but rather had been entranced by the advice itself. He stopped and looked quickly up the gray shadow, and then more slowly the rest of the way around him. There was only the slow, uniform downpouring of the snow. He went ahead again, but now drove his floating mind to seek a method of preventing such lapses.
Say I can see seventy-five yards, he thought. I’d guess it’s more than that, but say seventy-five to stay on the safe side. It would take, say, five seconds for him to cover that much in this snow. It takes me, say, he thought, counting the steps he took and judging their rate, five seconds to take five steps. I’m giving myself margin on both those counts too.
"Take a look around you every five steps," he concluded aloud, "and he can’t catch you napping."
The counting will keep you awake, too, he thought. He began to count the slow, outswinging shuffles of the bear-paws, and to look upslope and behind him after every fifth step. He had only done this four times, however, when it occurred to him that each time he looked around that way, he left a blind spot behind the other shoulder. He began trying to look each way each time, and found that it broke his gait badly, practically stopped him, in fact. I
t was a process more tiring and more irritating than he could afford. His body warned him that it must work smoothly and steadily if it were to finish this job at all. He settled for looking over his left shoulder after the first five steps of every ten he counted, and over his right shoulder after the second five. It wasn’t much help, he had to turn so far to see out of the hood. He tried it with the hood back a couple of times, but the snow on his uncovered face blinded him more than the easier turning helped. Finally it occurred to him that there was practically no chance of an attack from below anyway, because the snow was too deep under the ledges and the slope so steep he didn’t think the cat would try it. After that he looked only over his left shoulder, and only every ten steps, and just once in a guessed-at while, about every hundred yards, he thought, stopped and looked carefully all around.
The step counting gradually became as dreamy as the repeated directions had been. Sometimes he counted to fifteen or twenty before he realized that he hadn’t looked over his shoulder. Twice he forced himself back into the pattern of count-and-look and kept it up for a while, but each time it finally got away from him again. When he brought himself back the third time, it came to his mind that with no sun, and nothing but a guess to go on as to what time he’d left the canyon, the only way he could estimate his half day north was by steps too.
"Two feet to a step," he said aloud, and stopped and looked back at his tracks. "Less," he said. He moved forward again.
"Say three thousand steps to the mile, and say fifteen miles before I turn down. That’s forty-five thousand steps. Make it forty thousand from now, for an even figure. I’ve done anyway a mile already."
He began to count his steps. He had counted, with a happy sense of progress, to three thousand and nineteen, before he was touched by panic because he had forgotten to look around at all.
"Geez," he said sharply, "wake up," and stopped, and turned completely around once, peering attentively into the falling snow. There was still nothing else moving, and he relaxed again. Then he believed that he’d been able to see farther than when he’d last looked around. He peered part way around again, and became sure of the improvement. Yessir, he thought exultantly, yessir, it’s thinning out. He began his rhythmical advance again, privately enjoying, down out of hearing of the jealous god, his certainty that the snow was thinning out. He had been moving for some time before he remembered that he should have been counting. Then he discovered that he couldn’t remember where he had dropped the count. He was flooded by angry despair.
"Oh, God damn this snow," he cried aloud.
The monitor pointed out at once that this burst of temper was extremely foolish.
It could’ve heard you a mile, it declared severely, and then added that the emotion had also cost him good strength. He could feel how it had cost him strength. His knees were even jumping a little.
"Take it easy, boy," he said aloud, but quietly, and shook his head at himself.
He moved forward again, saying, "Call it another mile; that’s close enough," and resumed his counting. From then on, he looked around only when the monitor spoke. His progress became almost entirely the rhythmical shuffle and count. Yet, for some reason, an independent uneasiness began to develop in him. It increased until he had to pay attention to it, and had trouble keeping his mind on the count. Still he couldn’t discover the cause of the uneasiness, and finally he tried to dismiss it.
"Now you’ve started fussing about nothing at all," he said loudly and scornfully. "Take it easy, will you?"
The uneasiness, however, refused to be dismissed by any such casual wave of the mind. It continued to nag at him increasingly as he shuffled and counted his way along.
The moment came, some ten thousand steps later, when the uneasiness gained his complete attention, and in a manner against which he could mount no defense. It came to his eyes first, and then quickly to his mind, that there was a faint color in the light upon the fallen snow ahead of him. At first he thought exultantly, right in with his count, Breaking up sure, but in almost the same moment he understood that there was something wrong about the light, and the uneasiness rose swiftly from the dark animal region in which he had imprisoned it, and moved about swiftly in his middle and in his mind. He dropped his counting and came to a halt on the webs.
The trouble was that the light was coming down from the ridge.
He looked up, and could see the sun up there on his left. It was only a small, silver disc, with a wide, confused aura of pale light about it. The high fogs of the snow blew half-formed across it, and the closer flakes swarmed blackly before it, but it was nevertheless, and beyond any question, the sun. Even then he didn’t at once perceive what was wrong, but only knew that for some reason or other, the sight of the sun up there above the ridge was terrifying. It required what seemed like a long time of just standing there staring at the pale, emerging sun, for his mind to gather its forces and construct an explanation.
It turned out to be very simple, really. The sun just shouldn’t be up there, that was all; the sun just shouldn’t be up there on his left. There were only two possible explanations for a sun up there on his left. Either he had slept all morning in the cave, and it was afternoon now, and time running out on him fast, or he wasn’t going north at all; he was going south.
The whole of the orderly schedule by which he had steadied himself fell apart. He was unable to move in any direction because of the terrible doubts which arose to confront him whichever way he turned in his mind. He stared about him through the thinning snowfall. He could see much farther now. He could see that it was timber below him, all right; in fact he could see far down the slope of brightening, motionless spires. And he could make out distinctly the skyline of the ridge above him. This didn’t help, though; the place was entirely strange, and it might have been on either side of the ridge, all depending on which way he was facing, and whether it was morning or afternoon now. He was disastrously weakened by his inability to answer either of these large, simple questions, questions which just didn’t come up for a man, any more than he’d have to stop and think which hand was his right hand. Is it morning or afternoon? Am I facing north or south? Who’d ever think of arguing such things? He wished to burst into tears where he stood. He endured the first movement of that helplessness which at last leads men in a blizzard to lie down and go to sleep where they are, rather than to keep struggling on, perhaps in circles, and perhaps in exactly the wrong direction.
He protested against this desire to surrender. "Use your head, boy; use your head," he said aloud.
His voice was hasty and worried, but, even so, the sound of it in that pale, silent wildemess helped. The despair receded a little. It occurred to him that he really had only one answer to find; the answer to either of those big, simple questions would be the answer to both. Then he saw that he couldn’t guess which side of the ridge he was on, or which way he was headed, unless he knew whether that was a morning or an afternoon sun. That was the question then: What time is it?
The sun was nearly above the ridge. Say, roughly, then, very roughly, he thought, with another seizure of panic, about the same length of time one side or the other of noon. Say ten or eleven in the morning, or one or two in the afternoon.
"Two or three hours difference," he said aloud. "Not more than four, anyway."
He remembered how he had lain so carefully silent for so long in the little cave, waiting to be sure he saw daylight in the cracks of the wall before he broke out. It must have been early, then. His calculations of times and distances, his little, repeated plan of retreat, were no longer worth considering. There was not, there never had been, he felt now, a trustworthy figure or direction in the lot. There had been too many lapses and too many blind spots, and at least one enormous, tragic error which was enough all by itself to render the rest of his laborious thinking useless. But loosely, in a big general way that he could depend on even now, it had been early when he broke out of the cave. Even with the darkness of snow, it coul
dn’t have been much after six o’clock at the latest. And little as he could now trust all that counting of steps, even allowing for the fact that he hadn’t begun to count until he was out of the pass, he couldn’t have been moving the seven hours it would take to make it one o’clock. He’d have come at least twenty or twenty-five miles in seven hours, and he certainly hadn’t come that far.
"It’s morning," he declared, challenging the sun. "It’s still morning. It’s gotta be morning, goddam you."
The monitor at once added the awful corollary. You’ve been heading south all morning, then. The morning’s nearly gone, and you’ve got all that to make up. You’ve already used up your half a day, and you’ll need another half just to get back to where you started from.
The compass of his body was spinning wildly by now, but the compass of his mind, as if locked where it was, still insisted that north was ahead of him.
"How the hell could I be?" he asked aloud.
Once he dragged his attention from the whirling needle, it became evident that there was only one possible answer to that question too. He hadn’t got turned south, in the dark, among the spook trees in the pass, he’d got turned north. He believed he knew now just how it had happened too. He’d kept feeling he’d be turned south by the wind, when he wanted to get under the north wall, and he’d been stubbornly working against that happening all the time. So the cave had been in the north wall after all, not in the south, and that meant he’d come out of the west end of the pass, not the east. So he’d been going south on the west side of the range all this time. It was that simple. One mistake, and everything he’d done for hours had been exactly wrong. Still he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He’d seen the cat moving, small as a fly, across the south wall at a time when there wasn’t a chance that he’d mixed his directions yet, and with all the power of the night behind him, he remained convinced it had been the south wall he’d seen looming before him when the snow drapes parted in the dark.
The Track of the Cat Page 36