Riders of the Silences by John Frederick Read Free Book Online Page A

high and tender, come
whistling down the wind. He could almost catch the words. For a little moment he
lingered still. Then he turned and fought his way into the strong arms of the
storm.
    Every now and then he paused and crouched to the snow. Usually there was only
the shriek of the wind in his ears, but a few times the singing came to him and
urged him on. If he had allowed the idea of failure to enter his mind, he must
have given up the struggle, but failure was a stranger to his thoughts.
    He lowered his head against the storm. Sometimes it caught under him and
nearly lifted him from his feet. But he clung against the slope of the hill,
sometimes gripping hard with his hands. So he worked his way to the right, the
sound of the singing coming more and more frequently and louder and louder. When
he was almost upon the source of the music it ceased abruptly.
    He waited a moment, but no sound came. He struggled forward a few more yards
and pitched down exhausted, panting. Still he heard the singing no longer. With
a falling heart he rose and resigned himself to wander on his original course
with the wind, but as he started he placed his hand once more against the cross,
and it was then that he saw her.
    For he had simply gone past her, and the yelling of the storm had cut off the
sound of her voice. Now he saw her lying, a spot of bright color on the snow. He
read the story at a glance. As she passed this steep-sided hill the loosely
piled snow had slid down and carried with it the dead trunk of a fallen tree.
    Pierre came from behind and stood over her unnoticed. He saw that the
oncoming tree, by a strange chance, had knocked down the girl and pinned her
legs to the ground. His strength and the strength of a dozen men would not be
sufficient to release her. This he saw at the first glance, and saw the bright
gold of her hair against the snow. Then he dropped on his knees beside her.
     
     
     
CHAPTER VIII
BELIEF
    The girl tossed up her arms in a silent ecstasy, and Pierre caught the small
cold hands and saw that she was only a child of twelve or fourteen, lovely as
only a child can be, and still more beautiful with the wild storm sweeping over
her and the waste of snow around them.
    He crouched lower still, and when he did so the strength of the wind against
his face decreased wonderfully, for the sharp angle of the hill's declivity
protected them. Seeing him kneel there, helpless with wonder, she cried out with
a little wail: "Help methe treehelp me!" And, bursting into a passion of
sobbing, she tugged her hands from his and covered her face.
    Pierre placed his shoulder under the trunk and lifted till the muscles of his
back snapped and cracked. He could not budge the weight; he could not even send
a tremor through the mass of wood; He dropped back beside her with a groan. He
felt her eyes upon him; she had ceased her sobs, and looked steadily, gravely,
into his face.
    It would have been easy for him to meet that look on the morning of this day,
but after that night's work in Morgantown he had to brace his nerve mightily to
withstand it.
    She said: "You can't budge the tree?"
    "Yesin a minute; I will try again."
    "You'll only hurt yourself for nothing. I saw how you strained at it."
    The greatest miracle he had ever seen was her calm. Her eyes were wide and
sorrowful indeed, but she was almost smiling up to him.
    After a while he was able to say, in a faint, small voice: "Are you very
cold?"
    She answered: "I'm not afraid. But if you stay longer with me, you may
freeze. The snow and even the tree help to keep me almost warm; but you will
freeze. Go for help; hurry, and if you can, send it back to me."
    He thought of the long miles back to Morgantown; no human being could walk
that distance against this wind; not even a strong horse could make its way
through the storm. If he went on with the wind, how long would it be before he
reached a house? Before him, over range after range of