The White Desert | Page 6

hovering on
the brim of Mount Taluchen; dusk was coming. A frightened glance
showed him the black shadows of the valleys, the deeper tones of
coloring, the vagueness of the distance which comes with the end of
day.
Anxiously he studied his speedometer as the road stretched out for a
space of a few hundred feet for safety. Five miles--only five miles in a
space of time that on level country could have accounted for a hundred.
Five miles and the route book told plainly that there were four more to
go before the summit was reached. Anxiously--with a sudden hope--he
watched the instrument, with the thought that perhaps it had broken,
but the slow progress of the mile-tenths took away that possibility. He

veered his gaze along the dashboard, suddenly to center it upon the oil
gauge. His jaw sagged. He pressed harder upon the accelerator in a vain
effort. But the gauge showed no indication that the change of speed had
been felt.
"The oil pump!" came with a half gasp. "It's broken--I'll have to--"
The sentence was not finished. A sudden, clattering roar had come from
beneath the hood, a clanking jangle which told him that his eyes had
sought the oil gauge too late,--the shattering, agonizing cacophony of a
broken connecting rod, the inevitable result of a missing oil supply and
its consequent burnt bearing. Hopelessly, dejectedly Barry shut off the
engine and pulled to one side of the road,--through sheer force of habit.
In his heart he knew that there could be no remedy for the clattering
remonstrance of the broken rod, that the road was his without question,
that it was beyond hope to look for aid up here where all the world was
pines and precipices and driven snow, that he must go on, fighting
against heavier odds than ever. And as he realized the inevitable, his
dull, tired eyes saw from the distance another, a greater enemy creeping
toward him over the hills and ice gorges, through the valleys and along
the sheer walls of granite. The last, ruddy rim of a dying sun was just
disappearing over Mount Taluchen.
CHAPTER II
Hazard Pass had held true to its name. There were yet nearly four miles
to go before the summit of nearly twelve thousand feet elevation could
be reached and the downward trip of fourteen miles to the nearest
settlement made. And that meant--
Houston steadied himself and sought to figure just what it did mean.
The sun was gone now, leaving grayness and blackness behind,
accentuated by the single strip of gleaming scarlet which flashed across
the sky above the brim of Mount Taluchen, the last vestige of daylight.
The wind was growing shriller and sharper, as though it had waited
only for the sinking of the sun to loose the ferocity which too long had
been imprisoned. Darkness came, suddenly, seeming to sweep up from

the valleys toward the peaks, and with it more snow. Barry accepted the
inevitable. He must go on--and that as swiftly as his crippled machine,
the darkness and the twisting, snow-laden, treacherous road would
permit.
Once more at the wheel, he snapped on the lights and huddled low, to
avail himself of every possible bit of warmth from the clanking,
discordant engine. Slowly the journey began, the machine laboring and
thundering with its added handicap of a broken rod and the consequent
lost power of one cylinder. Literally inch by inch it dragged itself up
the heavier grades, puffing and gasping and clanking, the rattling rod
threatening at every moment to tear out its very vitals. The heavy smell
of burnt oil drifted back to the nostrils of Barry Houston; but there was
nothing that he could do but grip the steering wheel a bit tighter with
his numbed hands,--and go on.
Slowly, ever so slowly, the indicator of the speedometer measured off a
mile in dragging decimals. The engine boiled and Barry stopped, once
more to huddle against the radiator, and to avail himself of its warmth,
but not to renew the water. No stream was near; besides, the cold blast
of the wind, shrilling through the open hood, accomplished the purpose
more easily. Again a sally and again a stop. And Barry was thankful, as,
huddled and shivering in his light clothing, he once more sought the
radiator. Vaguely there came to him the thought that he might spend
the night somewhere on the Pass and go on with the flush of morning.
But the thought vanished as quickly as it came; there was no shelter, no
blankets, nothing but the meager warmth of what fire he might be able
to gather, and that would fade the minute he nodded. Already the
temperature had sunk far beneath the freezing point; the crackling of
the