Blizzard: Colorado, 1886 (7 page)

Rusty stood solidly, his head lowered, his eyes closed against the wind. Ice clotted his eyelashes and the insides of his shaggy ears. He had stopped in front of a fallen log and refused to step over it. Maggie threw her weight against the reins, leaning to one side, trying to pull Rusty off balance, to force him to take a step. When he would not, she pretended to give up. The instant she saw him relax, Maggie heaved on the reins again.

To keep from falling, Rusty took a step toward her, then ambled a few paces forward. But he balked again and would go no farther. His ears were pinned back now and he shook his head, his eyes stubbornly on the ground. Maggie collapsed against his side. The gusts slammed at her, driving the cold through her coat, into her heart. Her hands were numb; her feet ached with cold. Still pressed close to Rusty for warmth, she put her back to the wind and looked up the mountainside.

She was closer to timberline than she had thought. In the distance, she could see krummholz trees, beaten into dense thickets, shaped by the constant winds. She had always admired their toughness, growing where almost nothing else could grow. Their trunks were always twisted and they rarely got taller than a man. It was so strange—her father said some of them were hundreds of years old.

Among the krummholz, a flicker of movement caught Maggie's eye. Against the unbroken white of the icy ground, and blurred by the curtain of driven snow, someone was running wildly, arms outflung, coattails flying. Maggie blinked, narrowing her eyes, trying to see more clearly. For another instant, the
form was visible, then some trick of the wind, or the lay of the land, erased it and she could see only endless white again.

For a moment, Maggie could do no more than stand, staring. Then she managed to free her voice. “Hadyn!” she shouted, but the wind muted her cry and she knew that even if it was Hadyn, he would never be able to hear her at this distance.

She dragged at the reins, trying to make Rusty follow her. He raised his muzzle to ease the pressure on the bit in his mouth, but he would not move.

Maggie faced him, frantic, her eyes squeezed almost shut against the wind. She doubled the reins and lashed at his flanks, but he continued to stand still. Furious, she got behind him and shoved at his rump, slapping and berating him, then pleading again. None of it did any good—Rusty would not budge.

Shaking with urgency, glancing upslope, Maggie unsaddled Rusty, then tethered him to the fallen log. She could not leave him for long—not here where a cat or wolves could so easily find him. But she had to tie him; there was nothing else she could do. At least he would be free of the tight-cinched saddle for a while, and could rest.

Rusty raised his head and looked straight into her eyes. “I'll be back,” she told him. The red mule nosed at her sleeve, obviously confused. She patted his forehead. “I'm sorry, Rusty, but I have to go after Hadyn.”

Maggie bent to untie her father's bedroll from the back of the saddle. Hadyn could use it as a cape if he was chilled through. Or maybe they could sit down on it and eat something before they started back down. Her hands were clumsy with cold and she had to pull off her right glove to loosen the latigos. Then she untied her knapsack and slid it up over her shoulder. When she straightened, the wind ballooned her coat and she shuddered as the cold air worked its way through her heavy cotton shirt.

Maggie carried the saddle and saddle blanket to an aspen stump. She placed them as high off the ground as she could. Then she started walking. It was easier going uphill without Rusty. Still, Maggie went slowly, placing her feet carefully, leaning back against the impatient rush of the wind. She clutched the bedroll first under one arm, then the other. Finally, she stopped to tie it across the top of her knapsack. It hung awkwardly and flopped up and down, but at least her hands were free.

Turning, Maggie looked back toward Rusty. He had slipped his bridle and was picking his way carefully downhill. She caught her breath. He was far enough away that Maggie knew she would never catch him. Helpless to do anything else, Maggie watched him take tiny, mincing steps as he recrossed the burn. She said a little prayer for his safety, then one for her own—and Hadyn's. Then she started walking again.

As she climbed, Maggie frowned. Where did Hadyn think he was going? She lowered her head and trudged along, making the best speed she could. The higher she got, the more frightening the force of the wind became. Even the dwarfed krummholz trees seemed overwhelmed by it. They swept the snow, their deformed branches arcing wildly back and forth.

At the top of the ridge, Maggie paused. The gusts were nearly lifting her off her feet. The land sloped upward toward a series of rocky ledges on one side—but to her right, it looked as if there was nothing between the ridge she stood on and a clifflike drop-off.

As Maggie hesitated, the force of the wind escalated. She could barely stand. She squeezed her
eyes shut, then forced them open again, trying to see where Hadyn had gone. She glanced toward the precipice. If he had gotten close just as a big gust came . . . She shuddered and took a single step forward, angling to her left, toward the rocks.

Another blast of wind knocked Maggie down. Her knapsack slid awkwardly askew. Instinctively, she grabbed at a rock and held on as the wind somehow found its way beneath her body and lifted her for a second, like swift water lifting a swimmer. Unable to get to her feet in the violent gale, Maggie hung on through the gust, then relaxed her hold a little.

Another pounding surge blew her upward along the slope and she scrabbled for a handhold. Fear beating in her chest, Maggie waited for the wind to subside again. The instant it did, she leapt to her feet and sprinted toward the rocks, her knapsack and bedroll thumping against her back with every labored step. The next gust caught her within a few strides and knocked her flat.

On her belly, Maggie pressed against the earth, anchoring herself on a jutting rock. When the wind paused to take a breath, Maggie leapt up again. This time, she managed to position herself almost in line
with the rock ledges before the next gust slammed her back down.

The gale held steady this time, surging around Maggie like a river. It lifted her again and she could only hang on, gripping jagged rocks with both hands. Her fingers were numb and her left hand began to slide on the snow-slick stone. Fighting to keep her hold, Maggie cried out in terror as the force of the wind lifted her a little higher off the ground. An instant later, her hand slipped free.

For a horrifying instant, Maggie was sure she was going to be blown over the edge. Frantic, aiming for the ledges, she clawed at the ground, searching for a new handhold. Because her body was no longer aligned with the wind, the next gust caught the slight angle of her legs.

Helpless to do anything but scramble for new grips on the frozen ground, Maggie felt herself swinging in a barely controlled circle. As her body reached the halfway point, the roaring gale very nearly tore her loose from the ground, but she managed to hang on. A few seconds later, she felt the full force of the next surge. She was still on her belly, but now she was facing downslope, her feet leading the way uphill.

Maggie could not keep her eyes open. Wind-borne sand and tiny bits of ice cut into her skin. She lifted her head, craning back over her shoulder to try to see the outcroppings above. She got only a second's glimpse, but it was enough. She wasn't far off now. If she could follow a slanting path, she would be safe from the drop-off.

It was easier feet first. The wind still snaked its way beneath her and would have ripped her free if she hadn't held on strongly, but now she could use both her hands—and both her feet. Fighting the screaming gale, inching upward, opening her eyes only when she had to, Maggie got closer to the rocky outcropping.

Her mind focused on what she had to do, Maggie felt time slow down. There was nothing in her world beyond the rocks she gripped, then released, easing herself upward. The roar of the wind and the constant stinging pain of the sand and ice in her face seemed to have been there always. When her feet butted against the first of the low rock ledges, it took her a moment to understand that she had made it.

Crawling along the jagged ledges, Maggie finally found her way into a narrow fissure deep enough
to shelter her. For a long time, she lay still, dragging in deep breaths of the freezing air. Then she managed to sit up. The screaming of the wind made her tremble. It was like a wild animal, angry that she had escaped.

Maggie untied her father's bedroll and sat on it to protect herself from the chill of the rock. She slapped her hands together, trying to warm up. She flexed her toes and rubbed her legs. After a long time, she began to feel the painful tingling that meant life was coming back into her hands. A few minutes later, her feet began to warm up enough to ache.

Exhausted, and grateful beyond words to be out of the wind, Maggie opened her knapsack. She held the canteen in trembling hands and took big, greedy swallows of the sugary coffee. It was so cold that it hurt her teeth, but was delicious and she began to feel a little strength returning to her body—and a little hope.

Hurriedly, Maggie ate a biscuit and drank more coffee. Then she repacked her things and got cautiously to her feet, staying bent over far enough to remain out of the wind. The sky had darkened, but whether it was late afternoon or simply a false
dusk created by thickening clouds, she wasn't sure. Following the fissure, Maggie made her way forward.

The rock ledges had formed a complex maze. Maggie turned to the left, then to the right, then back again. Just above her head the wind shrieked over the stone. It was still snowing, and in places there were little drifts among the rock.

Maggie straightened up where the fissure deepened. It reminded her of the long gash in Old Man Mountain behind the Elkhorn Lodge. Along one side, a half cave had formed, angling beneath the rock. Maggie blinked, trying to see into the shadows.

A dark shape made her stop midstride. Anything might have taken shelter here—a lion, a wolf . . . But it wasn't. Almost weeping with relief, Maggie ran to Hadyn. An instant later, her relief froze back into fear. He wasn't conscious, and she wasn't sure he was breathing.

Hadyn was curled into a ball, like a child sleeping on a cold night. Maggie slid her knapsack off her shoulders. Fumbling with the ties on her father's bedroll, she crouched beside her cousin. Once she had the thick, quilted blankets unrolled, she spread them out.

Stooping, Maggie worked her hands beneath Hadyn's shoulders. It took her several tries, but she managed to get him onto the blankets. His scarf had come undone and Maggie rewrapped it, covering his head and neck. She chafed his cheeks and slapped him gently, but he did not respond.

Maggie pulled off Hadyn's boots and rubbed his feet, hard. Once the skin looked pink again, she
tucked the blanket around his legs and went to work on his hands. He took in a deep shuddering breath and she paused, waiting for him to open his eyes, but he didn't.

“Come on, Hadyn,” Maggie whispered. “Come on. You have to be all right.”

Maggie rocked back on her heels, reaching to pull the blankets up to Hadyn's chin. Working desperately, she rubbed his shoulders and chest through the quilts, then scooted around to work on his feet again. Switching back and forth, she kept trying to warm Hadyn, to rouse him. Twice she sipped a little of her sweet coffee, but she was conscious now that she should save most of it for Hadyn.

The roar of the wind had been so constant Maggie had stopped noticing it. Now it dropped a little and she looked up, startled. The sky was darkening. It was hard to tell through the thick clouds, but it looked like there was only an hour or so of daylight left.

“Oh, please God,” Maggie whispered.

She stood up slowly, cautiously. The wind was still strong, but nothing like it had been. She glanced upward again. As cold as it was now, it would be much worse before morning. They had to have a fire.

Maggie tucked the bedroll closely around Hadyn, then rummaged through her knapsack. The matches were safe in their waxed container and she set them carefully on the ground. She pulled out the flour sack that held the biscuits and venison. The smell of the meat made her mouth water, but she forced herself to put it down beside the matches. Hurrying, Maggie reached into the bottom of her knapsack and took out the two heavy cotton shirts and her spare pair of trousers.

Deciding quickly, Maggie kept out the two shirts and repacked everything else. She checked Hadyn once more, then stood up again. The wind caught at her coat and made her shudder as she clamped her arms against her sides, flattening the cloth close to her body.

As Maggie made her way down the fissure through the maze of low ledges, she stopped twice to build little cairns of stones to mark her way. Looking over the top, she spotted a clump of krummholz trees, the windward side brown and dead. She followed the last ledge and stepped cautiously into the open. The wind was still strong, but she kept her feet easily.

Going as fast as she could, Maggie doubled back,
crossing the open ground, following the lowest rock ledge. She found the krummholz easily, but she hadn't seen the sharp incline above it.

She slewed sideways, digging her heels into the frozen soil, and sledded downward. Shielding her face with her arms, she skidded into the sharp-needled boughs and sprawled to a stop. As she sat up, Maggie noticed that the air was still. A boulder as big as the cabin she lived in sheltered the stunted pine thicket on one side, and drifted snow stopped the wind from the other.

Standing up, Maggie pulled her gloves off. She laid the two shirts out on the ground side by side. She took one blue sleeve and one red and tied them together. Then she stepped around the shirts and made her way beneath the dead, brown-needled part of the krummholz closest to the boulder.

Once she had crawled through the lowest of the branches, Maggie found she could stand up. The old twisted limbs had rooted wherever they touched the earth and formed a rounded canopy that made the krummholz look less like a tree and more like a lopsided thicket. Snow had nearly buried the downhill side, the drift forming a wall that had held against
the worst winter winds. The lowest layer of snow was dirty gray—it had probably been there for several years.