Novel 1978 - The Proving Trail (v5.0) Read Online Free Page B

Suddenly the roan slipped and almost fell. He scrambled, regained his feet, and stood trembling. Then I remembered. Just to the right of that opening there was a sort of gentle slope where the ground fell off several feet in a gradual slant. Was it there? Was that why the roan had slipped?
    Taking a chance, I pulled his head over and urged him forward. He took a tentative step, then another. Liking the level ground, he went on, and suddenly something black loomed beside us and I knew it was the big spruce. I urged him in close to it and swung down.
    Every bone in my body ached, every muscle was bruised and sore. I was in no shape to walk, yet I must save the roan. We needed each other, that horse and me, if we were to survive at all. From here I thought I could follow the trail, for it wound down along through the trees and rocks, narrow, tricky, but possible.
    Leading the roan, I walked on, stamping my feet from time to time to shake off the numbness from the cold. We could not go on like this. Somewhere, somehow, we had to find shelter. An overhanging cliff, a wind-hollowed cave, some fallen trees—anything. We had to find shelter and we had to have a fire.
    Pausing, I peered into the storm, turning my head slowly, trying to find something, anything. And there was only the snow, the staggered ranks of the spruce, and the howling wind that lashed the trees like a gigantic whip. We pushed on and on.
    Again I paused, trying to judge the distance we had come since finding the trail—if this was it. A quarter of a mile? A half mile? More…probably a little more. My brain seemed dull. It worked slowly, but I fought desperately to remember. Had there been a place in the part of the trail I knew, any place that offered shelter? A riding man in wild country naturally looks for such things, but I could remember nothing.
    We started on. I walked and walked. Then suddenly I slipped. My feet shot from under me, and I fell heavily. For a moment I lay there, ready to quit. The roan nudged me with his nose, urging me to get up. I put my hands down to push myself up.
    Ice. My hands were on ice. That was why I had slipped…ice under the snow. I struggled erect and stood there, my shoulders humped against the wind. Ice meant water. This must be the stream the old Indian had mentioned. The stream that flowed from a cave.
    A cave?
    I turned left up the mountain and walked gingerly on the ice, holding to the bed of the small stream. We walked on, the roan following meekly enough. The wind seemed to ease…or was that my imagination? We plodded on, one step at a time. The wind was easing off…or else we were in the lee of a cliff…something.
    No longer was I a thinking, reasoning being. The cold was numbing my brain as well as my feet and legs. Enough of intelligence left to tell me that either we found shelter quickly or we would both die.
    I slipped, almost fell. This time I gathered myself together more slowly. I took a step on. The ice was tilting ahead of me…or was tilted. It was a slope, a steep place in the drop of the stream. Working myself to the right, I tried to find an opening in the thick brush along the bank. It was a wall, stiff, frozen branches, closely intertwined. We climbed, and this time the roan slipped and fell.
    It was all both of us could do to get him back on his feet. I stood gasping with effort, pain stabbing my side. Something was black before me. There seemed a break in the wall of brush. I went into the narrow opening, pulling the horse after me. Suddenly we were out of the wind. I put my gloved hand to my face. It was stiff and cold.
    There was a path or opening. I followed along, and suddenly the cave was there, a black opening. I went in, leading the roan.
    It was dark and still. I peered around, seeing nothing. My hands were numb, feeling like thick clubs. I beat them against each other, against my legs, then tucked them into my armpits. Numb with cold, I began to move, stiffly, slowly, sweeping the snow