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THE GOLDEN AGE FOR JULY 3, 1913
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS-A Nevada Sketch
COME at once. He is much worse.’’
That was all. As brief as a telegram.
IWI Yet not a telegram, for the electric
wires had not then sent the slightest
pulsation of the great world throbbing through
this lonely little camp in the wild mountains of
Eastern Nevada.
She locked very pale—his sister —as she read
those few words. She did not look frightened,
for women in the “mines” learn to meet mis
fortune with action, and are seldom timid. She
put a shawl around her and over her head, and
walked quickly cut on the icy path worn
through the even snow diagnolly across the
roadway, and quietly swinging open a door,
half glass, confronted half a dozen men loung
ing round a stove in the center cf a room that
was used simultaneously as a postoffice, a bar
room, a grocery store, a dry goods store in a
limited way, and general loafing place for all
the idle men in camp. In connection with this
establishment was a hotel and boarding house
for travelers and “bachelors-resident,” also a
“feed stable.”
“Is there any one here who is going to Bill
ville today?” Miss Milson asked the question
without any apparent excitement, yet in a tone
that compelled prompt attention.
“Vel, I couldn’t say about! dot,” said the
proprietor. “Sam, are you going back today?”
“Gue-s not,” responded the individual ad
dressed. “We’ll let the team rest tcday, and
try it tomorrow. Jim Condit was going over
today if you want to send a message.”
“He schanged his blans, and vent across’d
valley this morning to Silveropolis. ”
“What’s up?” demanded a fine deep voice,
as its owner appeared at the back door open
ing toward the stables.
“Why, Miss Milson wants to find somebody
going over to Billville.”
“I’m going right new. What’s the matter?
Got anything to send over?”
“I’d like tc go myself,” replied the girl, “if
anybody would take me 1 got word this moan
ing that Charley was worse and for me to come
over, and all our horses are turned out, and
I must go if I walk,” ending with an excited
tremble in the controlled voice.
“All right, you can go with me if you don’t
freeze. I’ll start in an hour. Will that be time
enough for you to get ready?”
“You’re very good, and I’ll be ready in half
the time.” The door closed with a bang, and
she sped back to the log-house she called home
to make hurried preparations, leaving a sym
pathetic crowd around the stove.
“Well, that’s too bad, poor girl. Charley
stands a mighty slim show, I guess.” And the
speaker pulled at his rough brown whiskers and
expectorated at a knot-hole in the floor.
“Charley’s a fine boy, and if he does go it’ll
be awful hard lines for his sister,” said ex
pectorant No. 2.
“Wonder if she don’t want some help, or
somebody to look after the place while she’s
gone,” said a non-expectorant. “I’ll go over
and see, and, Dick, you’d better get an extra
lot of blankets, or hot bricks, or something, so
she won’t freeze;” and he strode out into the
biting wind, and in a moment knocked at Miss
Milson’s door.
Miss Milson saw him through the window, and
called out, “Come in, Mr. Austin, I’m most
ready. Is Mr. Lind waiting?”
“Oh, no, he ain’t hitched up yet. I thought
BY MATTIE GALLY.
I’d come over and seo if I could do anything
for you. Who’s gein’ to run the place while
you’re gone?”
“It won’t need much. If somebody’ll feed
the chickens and milk the cow. If you’ll look
after the chickens, you’ll find the wheat in a
sack under the shed and I’ll stop as we go by
and ask Mrs. McGoodle to milk the cow, and
she can have the milk.”
Just here a noise was heard, and a medium
pair of grey horses, prancing and snorting with
the cold, were drawn up in front of the gate by
the medium-sized, rather handsome fellow who
was to be Miss Milson’s escort.
Frank Austin threw open the door to carry
out and stow away her hand-bag, and dispose
her wrappings, so she could manage them in the
hard, ccld wind that was showering the snow
crystals across the frozen pathway.
In a moment Miss Milson came out with, it
seemed, all the clothing in the house about her,
locked the door, and put the key in her pocket.
Frank Austin helped her into the high spring
wagon, while the driver checked in the fretful
horses, and in a second she was off shouting
her request to Mrs. McGood’e about the cow,
and watched by most of the men in camp who
had congregated, with their hands in their
pockets, in front of the ‘ ‘ store.
“It’s a rough day fcr a woman to travel in,
and bad enough for anybody.”
“Let’s see —it’s nine o’clock, and we won’t
get into Billville before dark, with the best of
luck, and if the snows drifted on the summit
Lord knows when we’ll get over.”
“I don’t care, so we only get there. Oh, Mr.
Lind, if Charley is so bad, what shall I do? If
he were only at home!” said Miss Milson, giv
ing way a little at last with a sob in her voice.
“Are you warm?” was the somewhat irrele
vant response.
It was an awful day. The wind sent the few
falling snowflakes cutting through Mi s Mil
son’s heavy doubled barege veil. The road up
the canon was not to be seen, as no wagon had
o-one along since the last snow-fall, which lay
about six inches deep on the level.
The little mountain brook crossing and re
crossing the road, and making in summer time
such pleasant drinking places for the horses,
was frozen over thick enough to hold up the
team for a moment, and then break and let it
through into four inches of icy water. Over all
the snow lay soft and fine, making it impossi
ble to detect the whereabouts of the stream.
“It’s rather hard on the horses,” remarked
Mr. Lind, after a long silence, looking at the
worried, weary animals as the moisture from
their wide-blown nostrils congealed rapidly in
little icicles cn the long hair about their noses,
“but I guess they’ll make it.”
By this time they had reached the first and
lesser moutnain, for they had two summits to
cross, and had paused a moment before begin
ning the ascent.
“Come, boys,” and the horses bent steadily
to their work, guided carefully up the trackless
mountain by sure hands long accustomed to per
ilous driving.
They make the first and easiest half of the as
cent and with one long pull, and stop, as Mr.
Lind puts on the brake, and says:
“Miss Milson, if you can drive a while I’ll
walk and make it lighter on the horses.”
“I’ll try.” And she takes the reins in her
cold hands, and, as he jumps out, moves over
to his side of the wagon.
He stands with his hand on the brake till
she is ready, and then says: “ ’Tis not easy to
find the road, but I’ll walk ahead and you fol
low me as near as you can. All right?” He
locsens the brake, speaks to the horses, and as
they strain forward he springs ahead through
the encrusted snow that lies near the summit,
and plods strongly upward, while she guided
the struggling horses after him.
At last the summit is gained, and they stand
in the wind-swept roadway to rest. Mr. Lind
pats the horses, examines them and the wagon,
stamps the snow off his feet, and resumes his
seat beside Miss Milson, who draw the heavy
robes up about herself and him, and tucks her
hands under her wraps with a long breadth
of relief at having the responsibility of the
panting team taken off of those same hands.
Mr. Lind speaks to the horses, looks at his
watch, glances at the quiet figure by his side,
frewns and settles himself for the descent,
which is a long, even sweep of untrodden snow.
It is noon when they leave the summit, but
they are both too anxious about the rest of their
journey to think of the lunch that is safely en
consed in a candle-box under the seat.
Tehy say very little until they reach the next
mountain, when Mr. Lind remarks that the
wind has died away, without any abatement of
the intense cold.
They pause at the foot as before, and Mr.
Lind resigned the reins and walks ahead until,
half way up, the rock-strewn mountain road be
gins to afford such insecure footing that the
horses stumble through the snow, and Miss Mil
son says, somewhat weakly:
“I don’t think I can manage them any lon
ger.” Then he conies back to drive again.
The snow gets deeper and deeper as they
go up, and becomes slightly crusted. It is
drifted across their way in some Ipaces to the
depth of three or four feet, and the horses
flounder through dragging their load after
them until, suddenly, just as the la t drift is
almost passed, a quick snap is heard, and one
horse plunges far ahead of the other and falls
on its knees
“My goodness!” says Mr. Lind, with start
ling energy; “the singletree’s broken.”
“Can you fix it?” says Miss Milson, so lan
guidly, that Mr. Lind turns to look at her a
moment, and asks, abruptly:
“Are you sleepy?”
“Not very,” she says, slowly.
He smiles almost fiercely, and remarks, sar
castically: “This is a heavenly place for a wo
man.” Then he says to her, very distinctly:
“Listen, Miss Milson. We’ve reached the sum
mit, and it is bare of snow, so you get out and
walk back and forth as fast as you can while
1 go down the mountain side for a singletree.
Miss Milson, with considerable reluctance,
lets him help her over the wheel on to the
ground, and proves to be too numb to walk
alone. He smiles again, and proceeds to al
most drag her up and down the brown strip
of earth on the bare, bleak summit. The re
turning circulation and her antagonism came
back together, and when she says ‘‘Don’t be so
rough!” he looks as delighted as if he had
received the best of news.
“Now,” he says, cheerfully, as she struggles
to her feet, “do you see those trees part way
(Continued on page 7.)
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