As “Billy” Brackett turned and missed the companion whom he supposed was close behind him, his heart sank like lead.  In vain did he shout.  Not even an echo answered him.  His loudest tones were snatched from his lips by the wind, torn into fragments, and indistinguishably mingled with its mocking laughter.  It was barely possible that Glen might have turned back; and, with the slender hope thus offered, the engineer retraced his perilous way across the snow-field to the place where they last stood together.  It was empty and awful in its storm-swept loneliness.  A great terror seized hold upon the man’s stout heart; and, as he again crossed the treacherous snow, he trembled so that his reaching the rocky shelf beyond was little short of a miracle.

Then he hastened to the place where Binney Gibbs anxiously awaited the return of his friends.  He had kept up a roaring fire, knowing that it would be a welcome sight to them, especially since the setting-in of the storm.  Its coming had filled him with anxiety and uneasy forebodings, so that he hailed “Billy” Brackett’s appearance with a glad shout of welcome.  It died on his lips as he noted the expression on the engineer’s face; and, with a tremble of fear in his voice, he asked, “Where is Glen?”

“I don’t know,” was the answer.

“Do you mean that he is lost on the mountain in this storm?” cried Binney, aghast at the terrible possibilities thus suggested.

“Not only that, but I have not the faintest hope that he will ever be found again,” replied the other; and then he told all he knew of what had happened.

Although, for their own safety, they should already be hurrying towards camp, Binney insisted on going to the place where his friend had last been seen.  The snow-squall had passed when they reached it, but the clouds still hung thick about them; and Binney shuddered as he saw the smooth white slide that vanished in the impenetrable mist but a few rods below them.  In vain they shouted.  In vain they fired every shot contained in the only pistol they had brought with them.  There was no answer.  And, finally, without a hope that they would ever see Glen Eddy again, they sadly retraced their steps and reached camp just as the complete darkness, that would have rendered their farther progress impossible, shut in.

No one was more loved in that camp than Glen, and no loss from the party could have been more keenly felt.  It was with heavy hearts that they sought their blankets that night; and, the next evening, when the search-party, that had been out all day without finding the faintest trace of the missing boy, returned, they talked of him in low tones as of one who had gone from them forever.

The following morning the camp in the pass was broken, and two days later a line had been run down the western slope of the mountains, to the edge of the San Luis Valley, near Fort Garland ­one of the most charmingly located military posts of the West.

In the meantime Glen Eddy was not only alive and well, but, at the very minute his companions were approaching Fort Garland he was actually assisting to prepare the quarters of its commandant for a wedding that was to take place in them that evening.

For a moment, after he missed his foothold on the upper edge of the treacherous snow-field, and began to shoot down the smooth surface of its long slope, he imagined that he was about to be dashed in pieces, and resigned all hope of escape from the fearful peril that had so suddenly overtaken him.  Then the thought of the blue-black lake, with its walls of purple and red-stained granite, that he had seen lying at the foot of this very slope, flashed into his mind.  A thrill shot through him as he thought of the icy plunge he was about to take.  Still, that was better than to be hurled over a precipice.  The boy had even sufficient presence of mind to hold his feet close together, and attempt to guide himself so that they should strike the water first.

He might have glided down that slope for seconds, or minutes, or even hours, for all that he knew of the passage of time.  He seemed to be moving with great speed, and yet, in breathless anticipation of the inevitable plunge that, in fancy, he felt himself to be taking with each instant, his downward flight seemed indefinitely prolonged.

At length the suspense was ended.  Almost with the quickness of thought the boy passed into a region of dazzling sunlight, was launched into space, and found himself sinking down, down, down, as though he would never stop, in water so cold that its chill pierced him like knives, and compressed his head as with a band of iron.

Looking up through the crystal sheet, he could see an apparently endless line of bubbles rising from where he was to the surface, and, after a while, he began to follow them.  With a breathless gasp he again reached the blessed air, and, dashing the water from his eyes, began to consider his situation.  He was dazed and bewildered at finding himself still alive and apparently none the worse for his tremendous slide.  Although he was in bright sunlight, the mountain-side down which he had come was hidden beneath dense folds of cloud, out of which he seemed to have dropped.

Gently paddling with his hands, just enough to keep himself afloat, Glen looked anxiously about for some beach or other place at which he might effect a landing, but could discover none.  The upper edge of the snow-field, that bounded the lake on one side, projected far over the water, so that, while he might swim under it, there was no possibility of getting on it.  On all other sides sheer walls of rock rose from the water, without a trace of beach, or even of boulders, at their base.

In all this solid wall there was but one break.  Not far from where Glen swam, and just beyond the snow-field, a narrow cleft appeared; and from it came an indistinct roar of waters.  Glen felt himself growing numbed and powerless.  He must either give up at once, and tamely allow himself to sink where he was, or he must swim to that cleft, and take his chances of getting out through it.  He fully expected to find a waterfall just beyond the gloomy portal, and he clearly realized what his fate would be if it were there.  But whatever he did must be done quickly.  He knew that, and began to swim towards the cleft.

As he approached it, he felt himself impelled onward by a gentle current that grew stronger with each moment.  Now he could not go back if he would.  He passed between two lofty walls of rock, and, instead of dashing over a waterfall, was borne along by a swift, smooth torrent that looked black as ink in the gloom of its mysterious channel.

Ere the swimmer had traversed more than fifty yards of this dim waterway, the channel turned sharply to the left, and the character of the lower portion of its wall, on that side, changed from a precipice to a slope.  In another moment Glen’s feet touched bottom, and he was slowly dragging his numbed and exhausted body ashore.

Although the sun was still shining on the mountain-side, far above him, it was already twilight where he was, and he had no desire to explore that stream farther in darkness.  It would be bad enough by daylight.  In fact, he was so thankful to escape from that icy water that, had the light been increasing instead of waning at that moment, he would probably have lingered long on those blessed rocks before tempting it further.

Now, as he gazed about him in search of some place in which, or on which, to pass the long hours of darkness, his eye fell on a confused pile of driftwood not far away.  Here was a prize indeed.  He had matches, and, thanks to “Billy” Brackett, they were still dry.  Now he could have a fire.  He found the driftwood to be a mass of branches and tree-trunks, bleached to the whiteness of bones, and evidently brought down by some much higher water than the present.  They were lodged in the mouth of a deep water-worn hollow in the rock, and converted a certain portion of it into a sort of a cave.  Creeping in behind this wooden wall of gnarled roots, twisted branches, and splintered trunks, the shivering boy felt for his hatchet; but it had disappeared.  His knife still remained in its sheath, however, and with it he finally managed, though with great difficulty on account of the numbness of his hands, to cut off a little pile of slivers and shavings from a bit of pine.

In another moment the cave was illumined with a bright glow from one of his precious matches, and a tiny flame was creeping up through the handful of kindling.  With careful nursing and judicious feeding the little flame rapidly increased in strength and brightness, until it was lighting the whole place with its cheerful glow, and was leaping, with many cracklings, through the entire mass of driftwood.

Before starting that fire, it seemed to Glen that no amount of heat could be unwelcome, or that he could ever be even comfortably warm again.  He discovered his mistake, however, when he was finally forced to abandon his cave entirely, and seek refuge in the open air from the intense heat with which it was filled.  Not until his pile of wood had burned down to a bed of glowing coals could he return.

His couch that night was certainly a hard one, but it was as warm and dry as a boy could wish.  If he only had something to eat!  But he had not; so he went to sleep instead, and slept soundly until daylight ­which meant about an hour after sunrise in the world beyond that narrow canon.

If he was hungry the night before, how ravenous he was in the morning.  He even cut off a bit of the raw-hide lariat which he still retained, and tried to chew it.  It was so very unsatisfactory a morsel that it helped him to realize the necessity of speedily getting out of that place and hunting for some food more nourishing than lariats.