Free Norton, Andre - Novel 15 by Stand to Horse (v1.0) Page B

weed over that!" Seeing Ritchie's bewilderment he
explained. "Jimson weed in a man's pipe makes him see what ain't thar, or
ain't never gonna be thar. Injuns use it for makin' medicine. Time to start the
rounds, son—"
                  Ritchie stamped his cold feet in the snow and
set off around the camp, visiting the improvised picket line where the mules
and horses stirred uneasily and then quieted as they caught his familiar scent.
Beyond the immediate circle of the camp the snow was a great unbroken expanse
of white. Diamond crystals in it caught the moonlight and made cold fire along
the wind-carved ridges. The frost was worse than Ritchie had ever felt before.
                   And the cold did not break at daylight when
they dug themselves out, swallowed the few mouthfuls Herndon doled out, and
started on. Within fifteen minutes they all knew only too well what
back-breaking task lay before them.
                   There was no firm crust on that snow, and the
animals sank into it almost belly-deep, thrashing as if they were engulfed in
quicksand. The men went into the only action which could fight such stuff.
Three abreast they attacked the snow on foot, another three following close
behind to pack it tighter. They sank to their waists and flailed out with their
arms when and if an unwary step sent them off balance and floundering. It was
an agonizing job, pulling the strength out of them in the unequal struggle. At
first they dug in with some show of confidence; then it became a dull weary
round when sometimes they fell to hands and knees trying to beat the snow down
with the sheer weight of their bodies.
                   You had to fasten on some landmark ahead, Ritchie
discovered, and watch that, saying to yourself that you could hold out until
you reached that reddish rock or snow-drowned bush. But even Velasco's wiry
strength and Herndon's dogged endurance could not last through more than fifty
continuous yards of such labor.
                   When the lead man or men could go no farther,
they flopped aside and, their places taken, they puffed and blew and beat their
hands together until the animals came up and they had to crawl to their feet
and shuffle on until their turn came once more to face the eternal drifts.
                   The stuff was a nightmare. From apprehension
and discomfort, the mood of those who fought it became red hate and flaming
anger and then just a weary apathy, during which their fatigue-drugged bodies
went mechanically through motions which their minds no longer reasoned. When
they halted for the noon rest, Ritchie looked back. He could have
moaned aloud. They were still within sight of the morning camp!
                   But the worst was not yet. The clouds cleared,
and the sun broke through to make a blazing mirror of the snow. They stopped
and broke open cartridges, blackening their faces with powder—the only remedy
they knew against snow blindness. Scarves were pulled over faces, leaving only the
merest slit through which to peep. But then the fight
    for a path must begin again.
    ^ against snow blindness. Scarves were pulled over faces, leaving only
the merest slit through which to peep. But then the fight for a path must begin
again.
                   Ritchie was almost too exhausted that night to
eat. He sat staring at the portion of hardtack and the lump of mescal which had
been allotted to him without really seeing it —sat there until someone shook
his shoulder and ordered him sharply to eat. He obeyed as Herndon moved on to
bully the next man into eating, all of them into making the beds that would
save them in the cold, into hunting wood for the miserable fire that at least allowed
them to warm their hands.
                   It was the sight of the fire which aroused
them the most. Here and there a man made himself clumsy mittens of blanket to
protect his hands during the snow crawl