It responded to the unwritten law that a
man must risk his own life to save others.
But if the wires had come down in the storm Kusiak would not know
they had not got through to Smith's Crossing. Swiftwater Pete spoke
cheerfully about mushing to the roadhouse. But Sheba knew the snow
would not bear the horses. They would have to walk, and it was not at
all certain that Mrs. Olson could do so long a walk with the thermometer
at forty or fifty below zero.
From a little knoll Sheba looked down upon the top of the stage three
hundred yards below her, and while she stood there the promise of the
new day was blazoned on the sky. It came with amazing beauty of green
and primrose and amethyst, while the stars flickered out and the heavens
took on the blue of sunrise. In a crotch between two peaks a faint
golden glow heralded the sun. A circle of lovely rose-pink flushed the
horizon.
Sheba had this much of the poet in her, that every sunrise was still a
miracle. She drew a deep, slow breath of adoration and turned away. As
she did so her eyes dilated and her body grew rigid.
Across the snow waste a man was coming. He was moving toward the cabin
and must cross the trench close to her.
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