The White Desert | Page 2

as he
stood waiting until his machine should be made ready for the
continuance of his journey. The eyes were dark and lustrous with
something that closely approached sorrow, the lips had a tightness
about them which gave evidence of the pressure of suffering, all
forming an expression which seemed to come upon him unaware, a
hidden thing ever waiting for the chance to rise uppermost and assume
command. But in a flash it was gone, and boyish again, he had turned,
laughing, to survey the gas tender.
"Did you speak?" he asked, the dark eyes twinkling. The villager was
in front of the machine, staring at the plate of the radiator and
scratching his head.

"I was just sayin' I never seed that kind o' car before. Barry Houston,
huh? Must be a new make. I--"
"Camouflage," laughed the young man again. "That's my name."
"Oh, is it?" and the villager chuckled with him. "It shore had me
guessin' fer a minute. You've got th' plate right where th' name o' a car
is plastered usually, and it plum fooled me. That's your name, huh?
Live hereabouts--?"
The owner of the name did not answer. The thought suddenly had come
to him that once out of the village, that plate must be removed and
tossed to the bottom of the nearest stream. His mission, for a time at
least, would require secrecy. But the villager had repeated his question:
"Don't belong around here?"
"I? No, I'm--" then he hesitated.
"Thought maybe you did. Seein' you've got a Colorado license on."
Houston parried, with a smile.
"Well, this isn't all of Colorado, you know."
"Guess that's right. Only it seems in th' summer thet it's most o' it, th'
way th' machines pile through, goin' over th' Pass. Where you headed
for?"
"The same place."
"Over Hazard?" The villager squinted. "Over Hazard Pass? Ain't daft,
are you?"
"I hope not. Why?"
"Ever made it before?"
"No."

"And you're tacklin' it for the first time at this season o' th' year?"
"Yes. Why not? It's May, isn't it?"
The villager moved closer, as though to gain a better sight of Barry
Houston's features. He surveyed him carefully, from the tight-drawn
reversed cap with the motor goggles resting above the young, smooth
forehead, to the quiet elegance of the outing clothing and well-shod feet.
He spat, reflectively, and drew the back of a hand across
tobacco-stained lips.
"And you say you live in Colorado."
"I didn't say--"
"Well, it don't make no difference whether you did or not. I know--you
don't. Nobody thet lives out here'd try to make Hazard Pass for th' first
time in th' middle o' May."
"I don't see--"
"Look up there." The old man pointed to the splotches of white,
thousands of feet above, the swirling clouds which drifted from the icy
breast of Mount Taluchen, the mists and fogs which caressed the
precipices and rolled through the valleys created by the lesser peaks. "It
may be spring down here, boy, but it's January up there. They's only
been two cars over Hazard since November and they come through last
week. Both of 'em was old stagers; they've been crossin' th' range for th'
last ten year. Both of 'em came through here lookin' like icicles 'an'
swearing t' beat four o' a kind. They's mountains an' mountains, kid.
Them up there's th' professional kind."
A slight, puzzled frown crossed the face of Barry Houston.
"But how am I going to get to the other side of the range? I'm going to
Tabernacle."
"They's a train runs from Denver, over Crestline. Look up there--jest to

the right of Mount Taluchen. See that there little puff o' smoke? That's
it."
"But that'd mean--."
"For you t' turn around, go back to Denver, leave that there chariot o'
your'n in some garage and take the train to-morrow mornin'. It'd get
you t' Tabernacle some time in the afternoon."
"When would I get there--if I could make the Pass all right?"
"In about five hours. It's only fourteen mile from th' top. But--"
"And you say two other cars have gone through?"
"Yep. But they knowed every crook an' turn!"
For a long moment, the young man made no reply. His eyes were again
on the hills and gleaming with a sudden fascination. From far above,
they seemed to call to him, to taunt him with their imperiousness, to
challenge him and the low-slung high-powered car to the combat of
gravitation and the elements. The bleak walls of granite appeared to
glower at him, as though daring him to attempt their conquest; the
smooth stretches of pines were alluring things, promising peace and
quiet and contentment,--will-o-the-wisps, which spoke only their
beauty, and which said nothing of the long stretches of gravelly mire
and