THE Canadian miner was the first of the men to finish “washing up,” on his return from the mine.
“Where’s Barbara?” he asked, tossing his towel at a peg.
“She has a little cold and I put her to bed,” replied Mrs. St. Clair.
The anxiety in the mother’s voice kept him from asking any more questions. He followed the other men in to supper.
“It seems lonesome without Barbara,” said McGill, the mining engineer.
The rough men had made a pet of the laughing, blue-eyed little girl, and they missed her. She had slipped into their lives so quietly that they did not realize how much they looked forward to seeing her at the end of the day. And Barbara returned their love. A mining camp is hardly the place for a child, but Barbara’s father was dead, and her mother became the cook at the Little Bear Mine.
After supper the men sat in a grave, silent circle before the great open fireplace. There seemed to be nothing to talk about. Other evenings these big, rough men had had Barbara to romp with, all except Gloomy Gus.
But then Gloomy Gus never showed any interest in anything. He was a big, gruff Swede, whose name appeared on the company’s books as Gustavus Schwarstun. To the men, however, he was “Gloomy Gus.”
“This will give me a chance to finish her snowshoes,” the Canadian finally said, with an assumed air of gayety. “Christmas is almost here.”
He went to the bunk room and returned with a pair of small snowshoes he was making.
Every one of the men was making Barbara a present—every one but Gloomy Gus. McGill eyed him sharply.
The big Swede did something which at another time would have met with a roar of laughter; but not a man smiled when he pulled a ball of red yarn and a half-knitted mitten out of his pocket.
“I learned how to do it in the old country,” he said as he busied his rough, calloused fingers with the crude pine knitting needles he had made. He had unraveled the sleeve of a new red sweater to get the yarn he needed.
The men found it hard to work that evening, and trooped off to their bunks earlier than usual.
McGill remained. He went down the hall to Mrs. St. Clair’s room, where a light was still burning, and tapped gently.
“I’m going to put a cot in the mess room and sleep in there to-night,” he told her. “You may need me.”
It was after midnight when she called him. McGill found the little patient’s fever high. He listened to Barbara’s labored breathing and counted her pulse.
When he looked up, he found Mrs. St. Clair watching him anxiously. He knew from her eyes that she shared his fear—the fear that Barbara might have pneumonia. McGill had helped the doctor fight several cases of the disease in those mountains. They had generally been losing fights, but he set to work.
The big, hobnailed boots of the men fell softly on the rough floors as their wearers slipped in for breakfast. They had prepared it themselves and ate it silently. During the meal McGill came in. He looked worried and did not eat. After they had finished the men waited for him to speak.
“It’s pneumonia,” he said briefly.
That was all. Soon the men slipped off quietly to the mine, and McGill went back to Barbara.
By night Barbara was delirious.
“It looks bad,” McGill admitted to the men. “She is fretting over that cat.”
When Barbara came to the Little Bear Mine, she had brought with her a small Maltese kitten, her dearest possession. The death of the little kitten a week before had been the greatest tragedy in her young life.
After supper the men tried to work on their presents, but somehow the work dragged. The hours passed, but the men did not leave the mess room. Toward midnight McGill came out to them. “Mrs. St. Clair says you had better come in now if you want to see her. She’s—she’s going!”
The whole crew, from mucker to foreman, tiptoed down the hall—all except Gus. He didn’t seem to notice that they went.
Into the sick room they filed and stood in a little embarrassed group by the door. Barbara tossed fretfully on the bed, her eyes glowing with unnatural brightness.
“I want a kitty, Santa Claus! I want my kitty!” she wailed feebly.
The Canadian miner, tears rolling down his cheeks, left the room. The others followed.
Gus was still in his place by the fire when they returned.
“I can’t stand it to see her begging for that kitten,” said the Canadian. “I would risk my life to get one for her. I’d try to get to Telluride, if I thought I could get back in time to do any good.”
A minute afterwards Gus got up slowly and went out to the bunk room.
But Gus did not stop there long. He drew on an extra sweater, rubber coat and furs, snatched his skis and pole, and slipped from the house.
It was after midnight. The thermometer registered way below zero. The wind swirled down from the mountain tops with the lash of a gale. But Gus did not mind the storm; a master of the ski, he swung down the trail with a speed that mocked the wind at his back.
Telluride, the nearest town, was thirteen miles away, the only route leading there being over a zigzag pack trail. From the mine this trail descends the crest of a ridge until it strikes the edge of the canyon, staggers back and forth down the steep face of the canyon, then for the rest of the way meekly follows the river.
It is only a pack trail, narrow and dangerous at best. During the summer a line of burros or donkeys winds along it, bringing down ore from the mine and carrying back provisions. But when winter sets in, the trail becomes very dangerous, and the zigzags have caused the death of many prospectors who have stayed too late in the mountains, or taken the trail too early in the spring.
Gus had little difficulty down the first part of the trail. In an hour he reached the zigzags. They were covered with hanging masses of snow that threatened with every blast to go grinding down the wall of the canyon.
By his pole Gus held himself on to the side of the canyon, moving cautiously across hanging drifts. He made his way only by grim, desperate effort.
At the end of thirty minutes of hard struggle he stood half-way down the trail. Then a savage blast tore a pile of clinging snow from the top and drove it at him. Gus saw it start, gathering speed and bulk as it came. The whole mountain side began to move. Tons of hard-packed snow were slipping, and he was directly in their path. There was no way of dodging the avalanche—he must outrace it.
There was no time to zigzag back and forth down the side of the canyon; he had to take as direct a route as the avalanche. He threw his pole from his grasp and shot ahead of the oncoming mass of snow. Death was behind him. Before him rocks jutted out to trip him, and jump-offs endangered his course.
But he rode his skis with reckless abandon, leaping, twisting, dodging down the slope. Behind him crashed the snow. He was veering to the left to escape its path.
A leap brought him to the bottom of the canyon. But before he could glide to safety, a mass of snow at the side of the slide caught and hurled him before it, bruised and half buried.
A desperate struggle freed him. His skis were broken, his muscles were bruised and twisted.
It was half-past three when he reached the outskirts of the town. Mounting the steps of the first house, he rained heavy blows upon the door. The owner stuck his head out of a window. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“Give me a cat!” Gus ordered in a rough voice.
“Are you crazy?” yelled the enraged man at the window.
“I’ve got to have a cat! I’m from the Little Bear! Cook’s little girl is sick—pneumonia! She’s goin’ to die if we don’t get her a cat!”
“From the Little Bear? Over the zigzags? Impossible!”
“Give me a cat or I’ll break your door in!”
Presently a light glimmered through the night and a hastily clad man joined Gus. A search of the neighborhood produced a cat and fresh skis. In half an hour Gus was on the trail back.
At the mine the men had not gone to their bunks that night. They huddled before the fireplace, awaiting the dreaded news. McGill slipped by now and then on some errand.
The night dragged through, and Christmas dawned.
Christmas! This was the first time they had planned a real Christmas since they left their homes years ago. But now the heart had been taken out of the day.
They sat down to a listless breakfast. McGill came in.
“She’s still fighting. She’s got to win or lose pretty soon,” he said.
They did not go to the mine that morning. It was the first Christmas the Little Bear Mine had not run.
At ten o’clock McGill came in to report.
“Boys, I can’t stand it any longer. She’s wearing her strength away fretting for that cat. I’m not sure that a cat would really quiet her, and I hardly believe any living man can make it to Telluride, but I’m going to try.”
“No, you’re not,” said the Canadian. “She needs you here. Besides, you’re worn out. I’ll get the cat.”
“We’ll draw for it,” said the men.
“No use. Gus and I are the only two good enough on skis to have a fighting chance.”
“Gus! That brute hasn’t got the heart of a mine mule! He wouldn’t go at the point of a gun! Where is he? I haven’t seen him since last night,” stormed the foreman.
Silently the men watched the Canadian prepare for the trail. They were rough men, who held life cheaply, but not one of them believed a man had a chance to make the trail and return safely.
Suddenly the door opened and Gus staggered in. He tried to cross the room, but his worn-out muscles refused to act, and he sank to the floor.
The men sprang to him, laid him on a cot, pulled off his furs, and unbuttoned his coat. Underneath the coat was an old sack. One of the men gave it a shake. Out on the floor rolled a half-frozen, half-smothered kitten. It told the story; it told them that Gus was a hero.
The next morning when consciousness returned to Gus, the men carried his cot into Barbara’s room. On the bed he could see a little figure, frail and worn, but sleeping the restful sleep of exhaustion. One little arm was outside the covers, hugging up closely a fluff of a kitten. Beside the bed, he saw the mother, smiling happily through her tears, for she knew that Barbara would get well.