The Silent Barrier
said. "Stampa and I had a lot of it last week. It's as easy as walking
down stairs when you know how."
"I don't think I am afraid," she answered; "but I should have
preferred to walk up stairs first. This is rather reversing the
natural order of things, isn't it?"
"Nature loves irregularities. That is why the prize girl in every
novel has irregular features. A heroine with a Greek face would kill a
whole library."
"_Vorwaertz--es geht!_"
Barth's gruff voice sounded hollow from the depths. Karl, in his turn,
went over the lip of the crevasse. Helen, conscious of an exaltation
that lifted her out of the region of ignoble fear, looked down. She
could see now what was being done. Barth was swinging his ax and
smiting the ice with the adz. His head was just below the level of her
feet, though he was distant the full length of two sections of the
rope. He had cut broad black steps. They did not seem to present any
great difficulty. Helen found herself speculating on the remarkable
light effects that made these notches black in a gray-green wall.
"Right foot first," said Spencer quietly. "When that is firmly fixed,
throw all your weight on it, and bring the left down. Then the right
again. Hold the pick breast high."
"So!" cried Karl appreciatively, watching her first successful effort.
As Spencer was lowering himself into the crevasse, he heard something
that set his nimble wits agog. Stampa, the valiant and light hearted
Stampa, the genial companion who had laughed and jested even when they
were crossing an ice slope on the giant Monte della Disgrazia,--a
traverse of precarious clinging, where a slip meant death a thousand
feet below,--was muttering strangely at Bower.
"_Schwein-hund!_" he was saying, "if any evil befalls the _fraeulein_,
I shall drive my ax between your shoulder blades."
There was no reply. Spencer was sure he was not mistaken. Though the
guide spoke German, he knew enough of that language to understand this
comparatively simple sentence. Quite as amazing as Stampa's threat was
Bower's silent acceptance of it. He began to piece together some
fleeting impressions of the curious wrangle between the two outside
the hut. He recalled Bower's extraordinary change of tone when told
that a man named Christian Stampa had followed him from Maloja.
Helen was just taking another confident step forward and down,
balancing herself with graceful assurance. Spencer had a few seconds
in which to steal a backward glance, and a flash of lightning happened
to glimmer on Bower's features. The American was not given to fanciful
imaginings; but during many a wild hour in the Far West he had seen
the baleful frown of murder on a man's face too often not to recognize
it now in this snow scourged cleft of a mighty Alpine glacier. Yet he
was helpless. He could neither speak nor act on a mere opinion. He
could only watch, and be on his guard. From that moment he tried to
observe every movement not only of Helen but of Bower.
The members of the party were roped at intervals of twenty feet.
Allowing for the depth of the crevasse, the amount of rope taken up in
their hands ready to be served out as occasion required, and the
inclination of Barth's line of descent, the latter ought to be
notching the opposing wall before Stampa quitted the surface of the
glacier. Though Spencer could not see Stampa now, he knew that the
rear guide was bracing himself strongly against any tell-tale jerk,
with the additional security of an anchor obtained by driving the pick
of his ax deeply into the surface ice. It was Bower's business to keep
the rope quite taut both above and below; but the American was sure
that he was gathering the slack behind him with his right hand while
he carried the ax in his left, and did not use it to steady himself.
Spencer assumed, from various comments by Helen and others, that Bower
was an adept climber. Therefore, the passage of a schrund, or large,
shallow crevasse was child's play to him. This departure from all the
canons of the craft as imparted by Stampa during their first week on
the hills together, struck Spencer as exceedingly dangerous. He
reflected that were it not for the words he had overheard, he would
never have known of this curious proceeding. Indeed, but for those
words, with their sinister significance augmented by Bower's devilish
expression, had he even looked back by chance, the maneuver might not
have attracted his attention. What, then, did it imply? Why should a
skilled mountaineer break an imperative rule that permits of no
exceptions? He continued to watch Bower even more closely. He devoted
to the task every instant that consideration for Helen's safety and
his own would allow.
There was not much light in the crevasse. Heavy clouds and the
smothering snow wraiths hid the travelers under a dense pall that
suggested the approach of night, although the actual time was about
half past one o'clock in the afternoon. The wind seemed to delight in
torturing them with minute particles of ice that stung with a peculiar
sensation of burning. These were bad enough. To add to their miseries,
fine, powdery snowflakes settled on eyes and eyelids with blinding
effect.
During a particularly baffling gust Helen uttered a slight
exclamation. Instantly Spencer stiffened himself, and Barth and Karl
halted.
"It is nothing," she cried. "For a second I could not see."
Barth's ax rang out again. The vibrations of each lusty blow could be
felt distinctly along the solid ice wall. After a last downward step
he would begin to notch his way up the other side, where the angle was
much more favorable to rapid progress. Spencer stole another glance
over his shoulder. Bower had fully ten feet of the rearmost section of
rope in hand. His head was thrown well back. Standing with his face to
the ice, he was striving to look over the lip of the schrund. Stampa,
feeling a steady tension, must be expecting the announcement
momentarily that Barth was crossing the narrow crevice at the bottom.
Helen and Karl, intent on the operations of the leader, paid heed to
nothing else; but Spencer was fascinated by Bower's peculiar actions.
At last, Barth's deep bass reverberated triumphantly upward.
"_Vorwaertz!_"
"_Vorwaertz_, Stampa!" repeated Bower, suddenly changing the ice ax to
his right hand and stretching the left as far along the rope and as
high up as possible. Simultaneously he raised the ax. Then, and not
till then, did Spencer understand. Stampa must be on the point of
relaxing his grip and preparing to descend. If Bower cut the rope with
a single stroke of the adz, a violent tug at the sundered end would
precipitate Stampa headlong into the crevasse, while there would be
ample evidence to show that he had himself severed the rope by a
miscalculated blow. The fall would surely kill him. When his corpse
was recovered, it would be found that the cut had been made much
closer to his own body than to that of his nearest neighbor.
"Stop!" roared Spencer, all a-quiver with wrath at his discovery.
Obedience to the climbers' law held the others rigid. That command
implied danger. It called for an instant tightening of every muscle to
withstand the strain of a slip. Even Bower, a man on the very brink of
committing a fiendish crime, yielded to a subconscious acceptance of
the law, and kept himself braced in his steps.
The American was well fitted to handle a crisis of that nature. "Hold
fast, Stampa!" he shouted.
"What is wrong?" came the ready cry, for the rear guide had already
driven the pick of his ax into the ice again after having withdrawn
it.
Then Spencer spoke English. "I happen to be watching you," he said
slowly, never relaxing a steel-cold scrutiny of Bower's livid face.
"You seem to forget what you are doing. Follow me until you have taken
up the slack of the rope. Do you understand?"
Bower continued to gaze at him with lack-luster eyes. All he realized
was that his murderous design was frustrated; but how or why he
neither knew nor cared.
"Do you hear me?" demanded Spencer even more sternly. "Come along, or
I shall explain myself more fully!"
Without answering, the other made shift to move. Spencer, however,
meant to save the unwitting guide from further hazard.
"Don't stir, Stampa, till I give the order!" he sang out.
"All right, monsieur, but we are losing time. What is Barth doing
there? _Saperlotte!_ If I were in front----"
Bower, who owned certain strong qualities, swallowed something, took
three strides downward, and said calmly: "I was waiting to give
Stampa a hand. He is lame, you know."
Helen, of course, heard all that passed. She had long since abandoned
the effort to disentangle the skein of that day's events. Everybody
was talking and acting unnaturally. Perhaps the ravel of things would
clear itself when they regained the commonplace world of the hotel. In
any case, she wished the men would hurry, for it was unutterably cold
in the crevasse.
At last, then, there was a movement ahead.
Barth began to mount. Muttering an instruction to Karl that he was to
give the girl a friendly pull, he cut smaller steps more widely apart
and at a steeper gradient. Soon they were on the floor of the ice and
hurrying to the next bridge. Not a word was spoken by anyone. The fury
of the gale and the ever gathering snow made it imperative that not a
moment should be wasted. The lightning was decreasing perceptibly,
while the occasional peals of thunder were scarcely audible above the
soughing of the wind. A tremendous crash on the right announced the
fall of another avalanche; but it did not affect the next broad
crevasse. The bridge they had used a few hours earlier stood firm.
Indeed, it was new welded by regelation since the sun's rays had
disappeared.
The leader kept a perfect line, never deviating from the right track.
Helen, who had completely lost her bearings, thought they had a long
way farther to go, when she saw Barth stop and begin to unfasten the
rope. Then a thrust with the butt of her _pickel_ told her that she
was standing on rock. When she cleared her eyes of the flying snow,
she saw a well defined curving ribbon amid the white chaos. It was the
path, covered six inches deep. The violent exertions of nearly three
hours since she left the hut had induced a pleasant sense of languor.
Did she dare to suggest it, she would have liked to sit down and rest
for awhile.
Bower, who had substituted reasoned thought for his madness, addressed
Spencer with easy complacence while Barth was unroping them. "Why did
you believe that I was doing a risky thing in stopping to assist
Stampa?" he asked.
"I guess you know best," was the uncompromising answer.
"Yes, I think I do. Of course, I could not argue the matter then, but
I fancy my climbing experience is far greater than yours, Mr.
Spencer."
His sheer impudence was admirable. He even smiled in the superior way
of an expert lecturing a novice. But Spencer did not smile.
"Do you really want to hear my views on your conduct?" he said.
"No, thanks. The discussion might prove interesting, but we can
adjourn it to the coffee and cigar period after dinner."
His eyes fell under Spencer's contemptuous glance. Yet he carried
himself bravely. Though the man he meant to kill, and another man who
had read his inmost thought in time to prevent a tragedy, were looking
at him fixedly, he turned away with a laugh on his lips.
"I am afraid, Miss Wynton, you will regard me in future as a broken
reed where Alpine excursions are concerned," he said.
"You were mistaken--that is obvious," said Helen frankly. "But so was
Barth. He agreed that the storm would be only a passing affair. Don't
you think we are very deeply indebted to Mr. Spencer and Stampa for
coming to our assistance?"