The White Desert | Page 5

brilliance of mountain sunshine radiated about him, cheering him,
exhilarating him, only to give way to the dimness of damp, drifting
mists, which closed in upon him like some great, gray garment of
distress and held him in its gloomy clutch until the grade should carry
him above it and into the sun or snow again.
Higher! The machine was roaring like a desperate, cornered thing now;
its crawling pace slackening with the steeper inclines, gaining with the
lesser raises, then settling once more to the lagging pace as steepness
followed steepness, or the abruptness of the curve caused the great,
slow-moving vehicle to lose the momentum gained after hundreds of
feet of struggle. Again the engine boiled, and Barry stood beside it in

shivering gratitude for its warmth. The hills about him were white now;
the pines had lost their greenness to become black silhouettes against
the blank, colorless background Barry Houston had left May and
warmth and springtime behind, to give way to the clutch of winter and
the white desert of altitude.
But withal it was beautiful. Cold, harassed by dangers that he never
before knew could exist, disheartened by the even more precipitous
trail which lay ahead, fighting a battle for which he was unfitted by
experience, Houston could not help but feel repaid for it all as he
flattened his back against the hot radiator and, comforted by the
warmth, looked about him. The world was his--his to look upon, to
dissect, to survey with the all-seeing eyes of tremendous heights, to
view in the perspective of the eagle and the hawk, to look down upon
from the pinnacles and see, even as a god might see it. Far below lay a
tiny, discolored ribbon,--the road which he had traversed, but now only
a scratch upon the expanse of the great country which tumbled away
beneath him. Hills had become hummocks, towering pines but blades
of grass, streams only a variegated line in the vast display of Nature's
artistry. And above--
Barry Houston looked upon it with dazzled eyes. The sun had broken
forth again, to stream upon the great, rounded head of Mount Taluchen,
and there to turn the serried snows to a mass of shell-pink pearl, to
smooth away the glaring whiteness and paint instead a down-like
coverlet of beauty. Here and there the great granite precipices stood
forth in old rose and royal purple; farther the shadows melted into
mantles, not of black, but of softest lavender; mound upon mound of
color swung before him as he glanced from peak to peak,--the colors
that only an artist knows, tintings instead of solid grounds, suggestions
rather than actualities. Even the gnarled pines of timber line, where the
world of vegetation was sliced off short to give way to the barrenness
of the white desert, seemed softened and freed from their appearance of
constant suffering in the pursuit of life. A lake gleamed, set, it seemed,
at an upright angle upon the very side of a mountain; an ice gorge
glistened with the scintillation of a million jewels, a cloud rolled
through a great crevice like the billowing of some soft-colored crepe

and then--
Barry crouched and shivered, then turned with sudden activity. It all
had faded, faded in the blast of a shrilling wind, bringing upon its
breast the cutting assault of sleet and the softer, yet no less vicious
swirl of snow. Quickly the radiator was drained and refilled. Once more,
huddled in the driver's seat, Barry Houston gripped the wheel and felt
the crunching of the chain-clad wheels in the snow of the roadway. The
mountains had lured again, only that they might clutch him in a tighter
embrace of danger than ever. Now the snow was whirling about him in
almost blinding swiftness; the small windshield counted for nothing; it
was only by leaning far outside the car that he could see to drive and
then there were moments that seemed to presage the end.
Chasms lurked at the corners, the car skidded and lurched from one
side of the narrow roadway to the other; once the embankment
crumbled for an instant as a rear wheel raced for a foothold and gained
it just in time. Thundering below, Barry could hear the descent of the
dirt and small boulders as they struck against protruding rocks and
echoed forth to a constantly growing sound that seemed to travel for
miles that it might return with the strength of thunder. Then for a
moment the sun came again and he stared toward it with set, anxious
eyes. It no longer was dazzling; it was large and yellow and free from
glare. He swerved his gaze swiftly to the dashboard clock, then back to
the sun again. Four o'clock! Yet the great yellow ball was