Weird Tales/Volume 9/Issue 1/Drome

by John Martin Leahy

"Down he came plunging. There was a glimpse of a blood-covered visage; then he was past."

 

Chapter 1

The Mysterious Visitor

The forenoon of that momentous August day (how momentous Time, like unto some spirit-shaking vision, was soon and swiftly to show us) had been bright and sunny. Snowy cumuli sailed along before a breeze from the north. When the wind comes from that quarter here in Seattle, it means good weather. But there was something sinister about this one.

As the day advanced, the clouds increased in number and volume; by

noon the whole sky was overcast. And now? It was midafternoon now; a gale from the south was savagely flinging and dashing the rain against the windows, and it had become so dark that Milton Rhodes had turned on one of the library lamps. There was something strange, unearthly about that darkness which so suddenly had fallen upon us.

"Too fierce to last long, Bill," observed Milton, raising his head and listening to the beating of the rain and the roar of the wind.

He arose from his chair, went over to one of the southern windows and stood looking out into the storm.

"Coming down in sheets, Bill. It can't keep this up for very long."

I went over and stood beside him.

"No," I returned; "it can't keep this up. But, rain or sun, our trip is spoiled now."

"For today, yes. But there is tomorrow, Bill."

But, in the sense that Milton Rhodes meant, there was to be no tomorrow: at that moment, in the very midst of the roar and rage of the elements, Destiny spoke, in the ring of a telephone bell—Destiny, she who is wont to make such strange sport with the lives of men. Certainly stranger sport no man had ever known than she was to make with ours.

"Wonder who the deuce 'tis now," muttered Rhodes as he left the room to answer the call.

I remained there at the window. Of that fateful conversation over the wire, I heard not so much as a single syllable. I mast have fallen into a deep revery; at any rate, the next thing I knew there was a sudden voice, and Milton Rhodes was standing beside me again, a quizzical expression on his dark features.

"What is it, Bill?" he smiled. "In love at last, old tillicum? Didn't hear me until I spoke the third time."

"Gosh," I said, "this is getting dreadful! But——"

"Well?"

""What is it?"

"Oh, a visitor."

I regarded him for a moment in silence.

"You don't seem very enthusiastic."

"Why should I be? Some crank, most likely. Mast be, or he wouldn't set out in such a storm as this is."

"Great Pluvius, is he coming through this deluge?"

"He is. Unless I'm mighty badly mistaken, he is on his way over right now."

"Must be something mighty important."

"Oh, it's important all right—to him," said Milton Rhodes. "But will it interest me?"

"I'll tell you that before the day is done. But who is the fellow?"

"Name's Scranton—Mr. James W. Scranton. That's all I know about him, save that he is bringing us a mystery—a terrible, horrible, scientific mystery he called it."

"That," I exclaimed, "sounds interesting."

It was patent, however, that Milton Rhodes was not looking forward to the meeting with any particular enthusiasm.

"It may sound interesting," he said; "but will it prove so? That is the question, Bill. To some people, you know, some very funny things constitute a mystery. We must wait and see. Said he had heard of me, that, as I have a gift (that is what he called it, Bill, a gift) of solving puzzles and mysteries, whether scientific, psychic, spooky or otherwise—well, he had a story to tell me that would eclipse any I ever had heard, a mystery that would drive Sherlock Holmes himself to suicide. Yes, that's what he said, Bill—the great Sherlock himself to suicide."

"That's coming big!" I said.

Rhodes smiled wanly.

"We haven't heard his yarn yet. We can't come to a judgment on such uncertain data."

"Scranton," said I. "Scranton. Hold on a minute!"

"What is it now?"

"Wonder if he belongs to the old Scranton family."

"Never heard of it, Bill."

"Pioneers," said I. "Came out here before Seattle was ever founded. Homesteaded down at Puyallup or somewhere, about the same time as Ezra Meeker. It seems to me——"

"Well?" queried Milton Rhodes after some moments, during which I tried my level best to recollect the particulars of a certain wild, gloomy story of mystery and horror that I had heard long years before—in my boyhood days, in fact.

"I can not recollect it," I told him. "I didn't understand it even when I heard the man, an old acquaintance of the Serantons, tell the story—a story of some black fate, some terrible curse that had fallen upon the fam-ily."

"So that's the kind of mystery it is! From what the man said—though that was vague, shadowy—I thought 'twas something very different. I thought it was scientific."

"Maybe it is. We are speculating, you know, if one may call it that, on pretty flimsy data. One thing: I distinctly remember that Rainier had something to do with it."

"What Rainier?"

"Why, Mount Rainier."

"This is becoming intriguing," said Milton Rhodes, "if it isn't anything else. You spoke of a black fate, a horrible curse: what has noble Old He, as the old mountain-men called Rainier, to do with such insignificant matters as the destinies of us insects called humans?"

"According to this fellow I mentioned, this old acquaintance of the Serantons, it was there that the dark and mysterious business started."

"What was it that started?"

"That's just it. The man didn't know himself what had happened up there."

"Hum," said Milton Rhodes.

"That," I went on, "was many years ago—just, I believe, after Kautz climbed the mountain. Yes, I am sure he said 'twas just after that. And this man who told us the story—his name was Simpson—said 'twas something that Scranton learned on Kautz's return to Steilacoom that had led to his (Scranton's) visit to Old He. Not from Kautz himself, though Seranton knew the lieutenant well, but from the soldier Dogue."

"What was it he learned?"

"There it is again!" I told him. "Simpson said he could tell what that something was, but that he would not do so."

"A very mysterious business," smiled Milton Rhodes. "I hope, Bill, that our visitor's story, whatever it is, will prove more definite."

"Wasn't it," I asked, "in the fifties that Kautz made the ascent?"

"In July, 1857. And pretty shabbily has history treated him, too. It's always Stevens and Van Trump, Van Trump and Stevens—why, their Indian, Sluiskin, is better known than Kautz!'

"But," I began, "I thought that Stevens and Van Trump were the very first——"

"Oh, don't misunderstand me, Bill!" said Milton Rhodes. "All honor to Stevens and Van Trump, the first of men to reach the very summit; but all honor, too, to the first. white man. to set foot on the mountain, the discoverer of the great Nisqually Glacier, the first to stand upon the top of Rainier, though adverse circumstances prevented his reaching the highest point."

"Amen!" said I—as little dreaming as Kautz, Stevens and Van Trump themselves had ever done of that discovery which was to follow, and soon now at that.

For a time we held desultory talk, then fell silent and waited.

There was a lull in the storm; the darkness lifted, then suddenly it fell again, and the rain began to descend with greater violence than ever.

Milton Rhodes had left his chair and was standing by one of the eastern windows.

"This must be our visitor, Bill," he said suddenly.

I arose and went over to his side, to see a big sedan swinging in to the curb.

"Yes!" exclaimed Rhodes, his face beginning to brighten. "There is Mr. James W. Scranton. Let us hope, Bill, that the mystery which he is bringing us will prove a real one, real and scientific."

If we had only known the truth! The next moment a slight figure, collar up to ears, stepped from the car and headed swiftly up the walk, leaning sidewise against the wind and rain.

"'Now is the dramatic moment of fate, Watson,'" quoted Milton Rhodes with a smile as he started toward the door, "'when you hear a step upon the stair which is walking into your life, and you know not whether for good or ill.'"

 

Chapter 2

What He Told Us

A few moments, and Milton Rhodes and his visitor entered the room.

"My friend Mr. Carter," Rhodes remarked to Mr. James W. Scranton as he introduced us, "has assisted me in some of my problems; he is my colleague, so to say, and you may speak with the utmost confidence that your story, if you wish it so, will be held an utter secret."

"For the present, I wish it a secret," returned Scranton, seating himself in the chair which Rhodes had pushed forward, "and so always if no discovery follows. If, however, you discover things—and I have no doubt that you will do so—why, then, of course, you may make everything public where, when and in whatsoever manner you wish."

"And so," said Milton, "you bring us a mystery—a scientific mystery, I believe."

"Yes, Mr. Rhodes. And it is very probable that it will prove stranger than any mystery any man on this earth has ever known."

There was not the slightest change on Milton Rhodes' features, and yet I could have sworn that a slight fleeting smile had touched them. I turned my look back to our visitor and saw upon his face an expression so strange that I stared at him in astonishment. What horrible, mysterious thing was it that this man had to tell us?

Soon the look was gone, though its shadow still rested on his thin, pale features.

"The mystery," said he suddenly, "is an old, old one."

I glanced at Milton Rhodes.

"Then why," he asked, "bring it to me?"

An enigmatic smile flitted across Scranton's face.

"Because it is new as well. You will soon see what I mean, Mr. Rhodes—why, after all these years, I suddenly found myself so anxious to see you that I couldn't even wait until this storm and deluge ended."

From the inside pocket of his coat he drew a leather-covered note-book, much worn and evidently very old.

"This," said he, holding the book up between thumb and forefinger, "is the journal kept by my grandfather, Charles Scranton, during his journey to, and partial ascent of, Mount Rainier in the year 1858."

Milton glanced over at me and said: "Our little deduction, Bill, wasn't so bad, after all."

Scranton turned his eyes from one to the other of us with a questioning look.

"Mr. Carter," Rhodes explained, "was just telling me about that trip, and he wondered if you belonged to the old pioneer Scranton family."

"This," exclaimed the other, "is something of a surprize to me! Few people, I thought, even knew of the journey."

"Well, Mr. Carter happens to be one of the few."

"May I ask," said Scranton, addressing himself to me, "how you knew my grandfather had visited the mountain? And what you know?"

"When I wag a boy, I heard a man—his name was Simpson—tell about it."

"Oh," said Scranton, and it was as though some fear or thing of dread had suddenly left him.

"His story, however," I added, "was vague, mysterious. Even at the time I couldn't understand what it was about."

"Of course. For, though Simpson knew of the journey, he knew but little of what had happened. And more than once I have heard my grandfather express regret that he had told Simpson even as much as he had. I suppose there was something of that I-could-tell-a-lot-if-I-wanted-to in Simpson's yarn."

"There was," I nodded.

"The man, however, knew virtually nothing—in fact, nothing at all about it. I have no doubt, though, that he did a lot of guessing. I don't believe that my grandfather, dead these many years now, ever told a single soul all. And, as for all that he told me—well, I can't tell everything even to you, Mr. Rhodes."

A strange look came into the eyes of Milton Rhodes, but he remained silent.

Scranton raised the note-book again.

"Nor is everything here. Nor do I propose to read everything that is here. Just now the details do not matter. It is the facts, the principal facts, with which we have to do now. This record, if you are interested—and I have no doubt you will be—I shall leave in your hands until such time as you care to return it to me. Now for my grandfather's journey.

"With three companions, he left the old homestead, near what is now Puyallup, on the 16th of August, 1858. At Steilacoom, they got an Indian guide, Sklokoyum by name. The journey was made on horseback to the Mishawl Prairie. There the animals were left, with one man to guard them, and my grandfather, his two companions and the Indian—this guide, however, had never been higher up the Nisqually than Copper Creek—set out on foot for the mountain."

"One moment," Milton Rhodes interrupted. "According to that Simpson, it was something that your grandfather heard from the soldier Dogue, and not from Kautz himself, that led to his making this journey to Rainier. Is that correct?"

"Yes; it is correct."

"May I ask, Mr. Scranton, what it was that he learned?"

Again that enigmatic smile on Scranton's face. He tapped the old journal.

"You will loam that, Mr. Rhodes, when you read this record."

"I see. Pray proceed."

 

Chapter 3

The Mystery of Old He

"It was about 3 o'clock in the afternoon of the 24th," said Scranton, "that they reached the foot of the Nisqually Glacier, called Kautz Glacier by my grandfather. As for what followed, I shall give you that in my grandfather's own words."

He opened the book, at a place marked with a strip of paper, and read from it the following:

"August 24th, 10 p. m.—At last we are on the mountain. And how can I set it down—this amazing thing that has happened? What I write here must be inadequate indeed, but I shall not worry about that, for a hundred years could never dim the memory of what I saw. I have often wondered why the Indians were afraid of Rainier; I know now. And what do I really know? I know what I saw, I know what happened; but only God in heaven knows what it means.

"Got started early. Still following the river. Going very difficult. Crossed stream a number of times and once had to take to the woods. Reached the glacier about 3 o'clock—an enormous wall of dirty ice, four or five hundred feet in height, with the Nisqually flowing right out of it. Day had turned dark and threatening. Climbed the eastern wall of the canyon. Clouds suddenly settled down—a fog cold and thick and dripping—and we made camp by a tiny stream, near the edge of the canyon cut by the glacier. Soon had a good fire burning, and it was not long before it came—the shrouded figure and with it that horrible shape, 'if,' as old Milton has it in Paradise Lost, 'shape it might be called that shape had none.'

"At times the fog would settle down so thick we could see no farther than fifty feet. Then of a sudden objects could be made out two or three hundred feet away. At the moment the fog was about us thicker than ever. We were sitting there by the fire, warming ourselves and talking—White, Long and myself. Of a sudden there was an exclamation. I looked at Long, and what I saw on his face and in his eyes brought me to my feet in an instant and whirled my look up in that direction in which he was staring.

"And, there on the top of the bank, not more than forty feet from us, stood a tall, white, shrouded figure, a female figure, and beside it, seemingly squatting like a monstrous toad, was that dark, fearful shape that had no shape. But, though shape it had none, it had eyes—small eyes that burned at us with a greenish, hellish fire.

"White snatched up his rifle and thrust it forward, but I stepped over and shoved the muzzle aside. When we looked up there again, the woman—for a woman, a white woman too, it certainly was—well, she was gone, and with her that formless thing with the hellish fire in its eyes.

"'What was it?' exclaimed White.

"He rubbed his eyes and stared up there again, then this way and that, all about into the thick vapor.

"'Was it only a dream?'

"'It was real enough,' I told him. 'It was a woman, a white woman.'

"'Or,' put in Long, 'the spirit of one.'

"'I know one thing,' said White: 'she may be a flesh-and-blood creature, and she may be a spirit; but that thing that crouched beside her was not of this world of ours!'

"He shuddered.

"'Men, what was that thing?'

"That, of course, was a question that neither Long nor myself could answer.

"Of a sudden White exclaimed: 'Where's Sklokoyum?'

"'Not far,' I told him. 'Come, let's look into this.'

"I sprang up the bank. They followed. A moment, and we were in that very spot where the woman and the thing had stood so brief a space before.

"'It was no dream,' observed Long, pointing to the crushed purple flowers—a species, I believe, of aster.

"'No,' I returned; 'it was no dream.'

"'Maybe,' said White, peering about, 'we'll wish, before this business is ended, that it had been a dream.'

"Came a loud scream from above—silence—and then the crash of some body through the branches and shrubs.

"'Sklokoyum!' I cried.

"White's hand closed on my arm with the grip of a vise.

"'Hear that!'

"I heard it—the voice of a woman or girl!

"'She's calling,' said Long, "calling to it.'

"Great heaven!' I exclaimed; 'it's after the Indian! Come!'

"I started up, but I had taken only a half dozen springs or so when Sklokoyum came leaping, plunging into view. I have seen fear, horrible fear, that of cowards and the fear of brave men; but never had I seen anything like that fear which I saw now. And Sklokoyum, whatever his faults, has a skookum tumtum—in other words, is no coward.

"Down he came plunging. There was a glimpse of a blood-covered visage; then he was past. The next instant a shock, a savage oath from White, and he and the Siwash fell in a heap, went over the edge and rolled down the bank and clean to the fire.

"Long and I followed, keeping a sharp lookout behind us, and, indeed, in every direction. But no glimpse was caught of any moving thing, nor did the faintest sound come to us from out that cursed vapor, settling on the trees and dripping, dripping, dripping.

"Sklokoyum's right cheek was slashed as though by some great talon, and he had been terribly bitten in the throat.

"'A little more,' observed Long, 'and it would have been the jugular, and that would have meant klahowya, Sklokoyum.'

"The Indian declared that he had been attacked by a demon, a klale tamahnowis, a winged fiend from the white man's hell itself. What was it like? Sklokoyum could not tell us that. All he knew was that the demon had wings, teeth a foot in length, and that fire shot out of its eyes and smoke belched from its nostrils. And surely it would have killed him (and I have no doubt that it would) if an angel, an angel, from the white man's heaven, had not come and driven it off. What was the angel like? Sklokoyum could not describe her, so wonderful was the vision. And her voice—why, at the very sound of her voice, that horrible tamahnowis flapped its wings and slunk away into the fog and the gloom of the trees.

"Poor Sklokoyum! No wonder he gave us so wild an account of what happened up there! And, said he, to remain here would be certain death. We must go back, start at once. Well, we are still here, and we are not going to turn back at this spot, though I have no doubt that Sklokoyum himself will do so the very first thing in the morning.

"The fog is thinning. Now and again I see a star gleaming down with ghostly fire. We came here seeking a mystery; well, we certainly have found one. I wonder if I can get any sleep tonight. Long is to relieve me at 12 o'clock. For, of course, we can not, after what has happened, leave our camp without a guard. And I wonder if—what, though, is the good of wondering? But what is she, Sklokoyum's angel? And where is she now?"

 

Chapter 4

"Voices!"

Scranton closed the journal on the forefinger of his right hand and looked at Milton Rhodes.

"Well," said he, "what do you think of that?"

Rhodes did not say what he thought of it. I thought I knew—though I had to acknowledge that I wasn't sure just what I thought of this wild yarn myself.

After a little silence, Milton asked: "Is that all?"

"All? Indeed, no!" returned Scranton.

He opened the book and prepared to read from it again.

"This adventure I have just read to you," he said, looking over the top of the journal at Milton Rhodes, "took place in what is now known as Paradise Park—a Paradise where there is sometimes twenty-five feet of snow in the winter."

"Of course," Milton nodded, "for they had climbed the eastern wall of the canyon and camped near the edge."

"And the one that followed," Scranton added, "on the Cowlitz Glacier. I suppose, Mr. Rhodes, that you have visited Rainier?"

"Many times. Few men, I believe, know the great mountain better than I do—and I never followed in the footsteps of a guide, imported or otherwise, either."

"Then you know the Tamahnowis Rocks in the Cowlitz?"

"I have been there a dozen times."

"Did you ever notice anything unusual at that place?"

"Nothing whatever. I found the ascent of the rocks rather difficult and the crevasses there interesting, but nothing more."

"Well," said Scranton, "it was there that what I am going to read to you now took place. Yes, I know that it was there at the Tamahnowis Rocks, though I never could find anything there. And now, after all these long years, once more it is in that spot that——"

He broke off abruptly and dropped his look to the old record.

Milton Rhodes leaned forward.

"Mr. Scranton," he asked, "what were you going to say?"

Scranton tapped the journal with a forefinger.

"This first," he said. "Then that."

"The story begins to take shape," observed Milton Rhodes—and I wondered what on earth he meant. "Pray proceed."

Whereupon the other raised the book, cleared his throat and started to read to us this astonishing record:

"August 25th.—I was right: the very first thing in the morning the Indian left us. Nothing could induce him to go forward, or even to remain at the camp. The demons of Rainier would get us, said he, if we went on—the terrible tamahnowis that dwelt in the fiery lake on the summit and in the caverns in the mountainside—caverns dark and fiery and horrible as the caves in hell. Had we not had warning? One had come down here, even among the trees, and undoubtedly it would have killed us all had it not been for that angel. He, Sklokoyum, would not go forward a single fpot. He was going to klatawah hyak kopa Steilacoom. How the old fellow begged us to turn back, too! It was quite touching, as was his leave-taking when he finally saw that we were determined to go on. Old Sklokoyum acted as though he was taking leave of the dead—as, indeed, he was! And at last he turned and left us, and in a few minutes he had vanished from sight. How I wish to God now that we had gone back with him!"

At this point, Scranton paused and said: "The Indian was never seen or even heard of again."

The account went on thus:

"Fog disappeared during the night. A fairer morning, I believe, never dawned on Rainier. Sky the softest, loveliest of blues. A few fleecy clouds about the summit of the mountain, but not a single wisp of vapor to be seen anywhere else in all the sky.

"Proceeded to get a good survey of things. From the edge of the canyon, got a fine view clear down the glacier and clear up it, too. Ice here covered with dirt and rock fragments, save for a strip in the middle, showing white and bluish. Badly crevassed. It must have been right about here that Kautz left the glacier. He climbed the cliffs on the other side, and then, the next morning, he started for the top. It seemed to us, however, that the ascent could be made more easily on this side. But we were not headed for the summit; we had a mystery to solve, and we immediately set about doing it.

"We started to trail them—the angel and that thing with the eyes that burned with a greenish, hellish fire. Where they had crushed through the flower-meadows, this was not difficult. At other places, however, no more sign than if they had moved on through the air itself. One thing: they had held steadily upward, never swinging far from the edge of that profound canyon in which flows that mighty river of ice.

"The ground became rocky—no sign. Then at last, in a sandy spot, we suddenly came to the plain-prints left by the feet of the angel as she passed there, and, mingled with those prints, there were marks over which we bent in perplexity and then utter amazement.

"These marks were about eight inches in length, and, as I looked at them, I felt a shiver run through me and I thought of a monstrous bird and even of a reptilian horror. But that squatting form we had seen for those few fleeting moments—well, that had not been either a bird or a reptile.

"'One tiling,' said Long, 'is plain: it was leading and the angel was following.'

"White and I looked closely, and saw that this had certainly been so.

"'It appealr,' Long remarked, 'that the fog didn't interfere any with their journey. They seem to have gone along as steadily and surely as if they had been in bright sun-shine.'

"I wonder,' White said, 'if the thing was smelling the way back like a dog.'

"'Back where?' I asked. 'And I see no sign of a down trail.'

"'Lord,' exclaimed Long, looking about uneasily, 'the Siwashes say that queer things go on up here, that the mountain is haunted; and blame me if I ain't beginning to think that they are right! Maybe, before we are done, we'll wish we had turned back with old Sklokoyum.'

"I didn't like to hear him talk like that. He spoke as though he were jesting, but I knew that superstitious dread had laid a hand upon him.

"'Nonsense!' I laughed. "Haunted? That woman and that thing—well, we know that they were real enough, even when we didn't have these footprints to tell us.'

"'Oh, they are real,' said Long. 'But real what?'

"Not long after that, we came to a snowfield, an acre or two in extent, and there we made a strange discovery. The trail led right across it. And it was plain that it had still been leading and the angel had been following. Of a sudden White, who was in advance, exclaimed and pointed.

"'Look at that,' he said. 'Its tracks end here.'

"And that is just what they did! But the tracks of the angel went right on across the snow.

"'Where did it go?' I wondered. "'Perhaps,' suggested Long, 'she picked it up and carried it.'

"But I shook my head.

"'A woman—or a man either, for the matter of that—carrying that thing!' White exclaimed. 'And you can see for yourself: die never even paused here. Had she stopped to pick the thing up—what a queer thought!—we would have the story written here in the snow.'

"'Then,' said Long, 'it must have gone on through the air. '

"'Humph!' White ejaculated.

'Well, Sklokoyum said that the thing has wings—the bat wings of the devil. '

"'But,' I objected, 'Sklokoyum was so badly scared that he didn't know what he saw.'

"'I wonder,' said White.

"Beyond the snowfield, the place was strewn in all directions with rock-fragments. It was comparatively level, however, and the going was not difficult. A tiny stream off to the right, a steep rocky mass before us. Were soon (having crossed the stream) ascending this. It was a steep climb, but we were not long in getting up it. At this place we passed the last shrub. We figured that we must be near an altitude of 7,000 feet now. Dark clouds forming. At times, in a cloud shadow, the place would have a gloomy and wild aspect. No trail, though at intervals we would find a disturbed stone or faint marks in the earth. Our route lay along a broken ridge of rock. On our left the land fell away toward Kautz's Glacier [the Nisqually] while on the right, coming up close, was another glacier [the Paradise] white and beautiful.

"Ere long we reached a point where the ridge had a width of but a few yards, a small glacier on the left, the great beautiful one on the other side. And here we found it—the trail of the thing and Sklokoyum's angel. They had come up along the edge of the ice on our left (to avoid the climb up over the rocks) crossed over the ridge (very low at this point) and held steadily along the glacier, keeping close to the edge. And in that dense fog! And just to the right the ice went sweeping down, like a smooth frozen waterfall. A single false step there, and one would go sliding down, down into yawning crevasses. How had they done it? And where had they been going, in this region of barren rock and eternal snow and ice, through that awful fog and with night drawing on?

"There was but one way to get the answer to that, and that was to follow. And so we followed.

"And how can I set down the weird mystery, the horror that succeeded? I can not. Not that it matters, for it can never, in even the slightest feature, fade from my mind.

"Clouds grew larger, thicker, blacker. The change was a sudden, sinister one; there was something uncanny about it even. Our surroundings became gloomy, indescribably dreary and savage. We halted, there in the tracks of the thing and the angel, and looked about us, and we looked with a growing uneasiness and with an awe that sent a chill to the heart—at any rate, I know that it did to mine.

"White and Long wanted to turn back. Clouds had fallen upon the summit of Rainier and were settling lower and lower. Viewed from a distance, they are clouds, but, when you find yourself in them, they are fog; and to find our way back in fog would be no easy matter. However, so I objected, it would be by no means impossible. There would be no danger if we were careful.

"'There's that pile of rocks,' said I, pointing ahead. 'Let's go on to that at any rate. The trail seems to lead straight toward it. I hate even to think of turning back now, when we are so near.'

"Still the others hesitated, their minds, I suppose, a prey to feelings for which they could not have found a rational explanation. That, however, was not strange, for it was truly a wild and weird place and hour. At length, in an evil moment, we moved forward.

"Yes, soon there could be no doubt about it: the trail led straight toward those rocks. What would we find there? If we had only known that—well, we would never have gone on to find it. But we did not know, and so we moved forward.

"So engrossed were we that we did not see it coming. There was a sudden exclamation, we halted, and there was the fog—the dreaded fog that we had forgotten—drifting about us. The next moment it was gone, but more was drifting after. We resumed our advance. It was not far now. Why couldn't the fog have waited a little longer? But what did it matter? It could affect but little our immediate purpose; and, though I knew that it would be difficult, surely we could find our way back to the camp.

"The fog thinned, and the rocks loomed up before us, dim and ghostly but close at hand. Then the vapor thickened, and they were gone. We were in the midst of crevasses now and had to proceed with great caution.

How it happened none of us knew; but of â sudden we saw that we had lost the trail. But we did not turn back to find it. It didn't matter, really. The demon and the angel had gone to those rocks. Of that we were certain. And the rocks were right before us, though we couldn't see them now.

"We went on. Minutes passed. And still there were no rocks. At length we had to acknowledge it: in the twistings and turnings we had been compelled to make among those cursed crevasses, we had missed our objective, and now we knew not where we were.

"But we knew that we were not far. White and Long cursed and wanted to know how we were ever going to find our way back through this fog, since we had failed to find the rocks when they had been right there in front of us. 'Twas the crevasses, I told them, that had done it. But it was nothing; we would find that rock mass. We started. Of a sudden Long gave a sharp but low exclamation, and his hand clutched at my arm.

"'Voices!' he whispered.

 

Chapter 5

"Drome!"

"We listened. Not a sound. Suddenly the glacier cracked and boomed, then silence again. We waited, listening. Not the faintest sound. Long, we decided, must have been deceived. But he declared that he had not.

"'I heard voices, I tell you!' "We listened again.

"'There!' he said. 'Hear them?'

"Yes, there, coming to us from out the fog, were voices, plain, unmistakable, and yet at the same time—how shall I say it?—strangely muffled. I wondered if the fog did that; but it couldn't be the fog. One voice was silvery and strong—that of Sklokoyum's angel doubtless; the other deep and rough, the voice of a man. The woman (or girl) seemed to be urging something, pleading with him. Once we thought there came a third voice, but we could not be. sure of that. But of one thing we were sure: they were not speaking in English, in Spanish, French, Siwash or Chinook. And we felt certain, too, that it was not Scandinavian, German or Italian.

"'They are over there,' said Long, pointing.

"'No, there!' whispered White.

"For my part, I was convinced that these mysterious beings were in still a different direction!

"We got in motion, uncertain, though, whether we were really going in the right direction; but we could not be greatly in error. Soon came to a great crevasse. White leaped across, and on the instant the voices ceased.

"Had they heard? We waited, White crouching there on the other side. Soon the sounds came again, whereupon White, in spite of my whispered remonstrance, began stealing forward. Long and I, being less active, did not care to risk that jump, and so we made our way along the edge of the fissure, seeking a place to cross. This we were not long in finding, but by this time, to my profound uneasiness, White had disappeared in the fog.

"We advanced cautiously, and as swiftly as possible. This, however, was not very swiftly. See! There it was—the ghostly loom of the rocks through the vapor. At that instant the voices ceased. Came a scream—a short, sharp scream from the woman. A cry from White, the crack of his revolver, and then that scream he gave—oh, the horror of that I can never forget! Long and I could not see him, or the others—only the ghostly rocks; and soon, too, they were disappearing, for the fog was growing denser.

"We heard the sound of a body striking the ice and knew that White had fallen. He was still screaming that piercing, blood-curdling scream. We struggled to reach him, but the crevasses—those damnable crevasses—held us up.

"The sound sank—of a sudden ceased. But there was no silence. The voice of the woman rang out sharp and clear. And I thought that I understood it: she was calling to it, to that thing we had seen, down at the camp, squatting beside her, its eyes burning with that demoniacal fire—calling it off.

"Came a short silence, broken by a cry of horror from the angel. The man's voice was heard, then her own in sudden, fierce, angry pleading; at any rate, so it seemed to me—she was pleading with him again.

"All this time—which, indeed, was very brief—Long and I were struggling forward. When we got out of that fissured ice and reached the place of the tragedy, the surroundings were as still as death. There lay our companion stretched out on the blood-soaked ice, a gurgle and wheezing coming from his torn throat with his every gasp for breath.

"I knelt down beside him, while Long, poor fellow, stood staring about into the fog, his revolver in his hand. A single glance showed that there was no hope, that it was only a matter of moments.

"'Go!' gasped the dying man. 'It was Satan, the Fiend himself—and an angel. And the angel, she said: "Drome!" I heal'd her say it. She said: "Drome."'

"There was a shudder, and White was dead. And the fog drifted down denser than ever, and the stillness there was as the stillness of the grave.

 

Chapter 6

Again!

"What was that? The angel's voice again, seeming to issue from the very heart of that mass of rocks. Then a loud cry and a succession of sharp cries—cries that, I thought, ended in a sobbing sound. Then silence. But no. What was that—that rustling, flapping in the air?

"Long and I gazed about wildly—overhead, and then I knew a fear that sent an icy shudder into my heart.

"I cried out—probably it was a scream that I gave—and sprang backward. My soles were well calked, but this could not save me, and down I went flat on my back. The revolver was knocked from my hand and went sliding along the ice for many feet. I sprang up. At the instant the thing came driving down at Long.

"He fired, but he must have missed. The thing struck him in the throat and chest and drove him to the ice. I sprang for my weapon. Long screamed, screamed as White had done, and fought with the fury of a fiend. I got the revolver and started back. The thing had its teeth buried in Long's throat. So fierce was the struggle that I could not fire for fear lest I should hit my companion. As I came up, the monster loosened its hold and sprang high info the air. flapping its bat wings, then drove straight at me.

"I fired, but the bullet must have gone wild. Again, and it screamed and went struggling upward. I emptied my revolver, but I fear I missed with every shot—except the second. A few seconds, and that winged horror had disappeared.

"I turned to Long. I have seen some horrible sights in my time but never anything so horrible as what I saw now. For there was Long, my companion, my friend—there he was raised up on his hands, his arms rigid as steel, and the blood pouring from his throat. And I—I could only weep and watch him as he bled to death. But it did not last long. In God's mercy, the horror was ended soon.

"And then—well, what followed is not very clear in my mind. I know that a madness seemed to come over me. But I did not flee from that place of mystery and horror; the madness was not like that. It was not of myself that I was thinking, of escape. It was as though a bloody mist had fallen. Vengeance was what I wanted—vengeance and blood, vengeance and slaughter. I reloaded my revolver, picked up Long's and thrust it into my pocket, then caught up White's weapon with my left hand and started for the rocks, shouting defiance and terrible curses as I went.

"I reached the pile of stone, found the tracks of the angel and the man and of that winged horror; but, at the edge of the rocks, the tracks vanished, and I could not follow farther. But I did not stop there. I went on, clear around that pile, and again and yet again. I climbed it, clear to the summit, searched everywhere; but I could not find a single trace of them I sought. Once, indeed, I thought that I heard a voice, the angel's voice—thought that I heard that cursed word 'Drome.'

"But I can not write any more now. Why—oh, why—didn't we listen to Sklokoyum and keep away from this hellish mountain? That, of course, would have been foolish; but it would not have been this horror, which will haunt me to my dying hour."

 

Chapter 7

"And Now Tell Me!"

Scranton closed the journal, leaned back in his chair and looked ques-tioningly at Milton Rhodes.

"There you are!" he said. "I told you that I was bringing a mystery, and I trust that I have, at least in a great measure, met your expectations."

"Hellish mountain! Hellish mountain! Noble old Rainier a hellish mountain!" said Milton. Then suddenly: "Pardon my soliloquy, and I want to thank you, Mr. Scranton, for bringing me a problem that, unless I am greatly in error, promises to be one of extraordinary scientific interest."

Extraordinary scientific interest! What on earth did he mean by that?

"Still," he added, "I must confess that there are some things about it that are very perplexing, and more than perplexing."

"I know what you mean. And that explains why the story has been kept al secret all these years."

"Your grandfather, Mr. Scranton, seems to have been a well-educated man."

"Yes; he was."

Milton Rhodes' pause was a significant one, but Scranton did not enlighten him further.

"On his return from Old He, did he tell just what had happened up there?"

"He did not, of course, care to tell everything, Mr. Rhodes, for fear he would not be believed. And little wonder. He was cautious, very guarded in his story, but, at that, not a single soul believed him. Perhaps, indeed, his very fear of distrust and suspicion, and his consequent caution and vagueness, hastened and enhanced those dark and sinister thoughts and suspicions of his neighbors, and, indeed, of everyone else who heard the story. There was talk of insanity, of murder even. This was the crudest wound of all, and my grandfather carried the scar of it to his grave."

"Probably it would have been better," said Rhodes, "had he given them the whole of the story, down to the minutest detail."

"I do not see how. When they did not believe the little that he did tell, how on earth could they have believed the wild, the fantastic, the horrible thing itself?"

"Well, you may be right, Mr. Scranton. And here is a strange thing, too. It is inexplicable, a mystery indeed. For many years now', thousands of sightseers have every summer visited the mountain—this mountain that your grandfather found so mysterious, so hellish—and yet nothing has ever happened."

"That is true, Mr. Rhodes."

"They have found Rainer," said Milton, "beautiful, majestic, a sight to delight the hearts of the gods; but no man has ever found anything having even the remotest resemblance to what your grandfather saw—has ever even found strange footprints in the snow. I ask you: where has the mystery been hiding all these years?"

"That is a question I shall not try to answer, Mr. Rhodes. It is my belief. however, that the mystery has never been hiding,—using the word, that is, in its literal signification."

"Of course," Milton said. "But you know what I mean."

The other nodded.

"And now, Mr. Rhodes, I am going to tell you why I have this day so suddenly found myself anxious to come to you and give you this story."

Milton Rhodes leaned forward, and the look which he fixed on the face of Scranton was eager and keen.

"I believe. Mr. Rhodes, I at one point said enough to give you an idea of what——"

"Yes, yes!" Mil ton interrupted. "And now tell me!"

"The angel," said Scranton, "has come again!"

 

Chapter 8

"DROME" AGAIN

Scranton produced a clipping from a newspaper.

"This," he told us, "is from today's noon edition of the Herald. The account, you observe, is a short one; but it is my belief that it will prove to have been (at any rate, the precursor of) the most extraordinary piece of news that this paper has ever printed."

lie looked from one to the other of us as if challenging us to doubt it.

"What," asked Rhodes, "is it about?"

"The mysterious death (which the writer would have us believe was not mysterious at all) of Miss Rhoda Dillingham, daughter of the well-known landscape painter, on the Cowlitz Glacier, at the Tamahnowis Rocks, on the afternoon of Wednesday last."

"Mysterious?" queried Milton Rhodes. "I remember reading a short account of the girl's death. There was, however, nothing to indicate that there had been anything at all mysterious about the tragedy. Nor was there any mention of the Tamahnowis Rocks even. It only said that she had been killed, by a fall, on the Cowlitz Glacier."

"But there was something mysterious, Mr. Rhodes, how mysterious no one seems to even dream. For again we have it, that word which White heard the angel speak—that awful word 'Drome'!"

"Drome!" Milton Rhodes exclaimed.

"Yes," said Scranton. "And you will understand the full and fearful meaning of what has just happened there on Rainier when I tell you that knowledge of that mysterious word has always been held an utter secret by the Scrantons. No living man but myself knew it, and yet there it is again!"

"This is becoming interesting indeed!" exclaimed Milton Rhodes.

"I was sure that you would find it so. And now permit me to read to you what the newspaper has to say about this poor girl's death."

He held the clipping up to get a better light upon it and read the following:

"The death of Miss Rhoda Dillingham, daughter of Francis Dillingham, the well-known painter of mountain scenery, on the Cowlitz Glacier on the afternoon of last Wednesday, was, it has now been definitely ascertained, a purely accidental one. Victor Boileau, the veteran Swiss guide, has shown that there is not the slightest foundation for the wild, weird rumors that began to be heard just after the girl's death. Boileau's visit to the Tamahnowis Rocks, the scene of the tragedy, and his careful examination of the place, have proved that the victim came to her death by a fall from the rocks; and so once again tragedy has warned visitors to the Park of the danger of venturing out on the mountain without a guide.

"There was no witness to the tragedy itself. Francis Dillingham, the father of the unfortunate girl, was on another part of the rocks at the time, sketching. On hearing the screams, he rushed to his daughter. He found her lying on the ice at the foot of the rock, and on the point of expiring. She spoke but once, and this was to utter these enigmatic words:

"'Drome!' she said. 'Drome!'

"This is one of those features which gave rise to the stories that something weird and mysterious had occurred at the Tamahnowis Rocks, as if the spot, indeed, was justifying its eery name. Another is that Dillingham declared that he himself, as he made his way over the rocks in answer to his daughter's screams, heard another voice, an unknown voice, and that he distinctly heard that voice pronounce that strange word 'Drome'.

"Victor Boileau, however, has shown that there had been no third person there at the occurrence of the tragedy, that Rhoda Dillingham's death was wholly accidental, that it was caused by a fall, from a height of about thirty feet, down the broken precipitous face of the rocky mass.

"Another feature much stressed by those who see a mystery in everything connected with this tragic accident was the cruel wound in the throat of the victim. The throat, it is said, had every appearance of having been torn by teeth; but it is now known that the wound was made by some sharp, jagged point of rock struck by the girl during her fall.

"It is sincerely to be hoped that this tragic occurrence will add emphasis to the oft-repeated warning that sightseers should not venture forth upon the mountain-without an experienced guide."

 

Chapter 9

"To My Dying Hour"

Scranton folded the clipping and placed it between the leaves of the journal.

"There!" he said. "My story is ended. You have all the principal facts now. Additional details may be found in this old record—if you are interested in the case and care to peruse it."

Milton Rhodes reached forth a hand for the battered old journal.

"I am indeed interested," he said. "And I wish to thank you again, Mr. Scranton, for bringing to me a problem that promises to be one of extraordinary interest."

"I suppose you will visit the mountain, the Tamahnowis Rocks, as soon as possible."

Rhodes nodded.

"It will take some time—some hours, that is—to make the necessary preparations; for this journey, I fancy, is going to prove a strange one and perhaps a terrible one, too. But tomorrow evening, I trust, will find us at Paradise. If so, on the following morning, we will be at the Tamahnowis Rocks."

"We?" queried Scranton.

"Yes; my friend Carter here is going along. Indeed, without Bill at my side, I don't know that I would-care to face this thing."

"Me?" I exclaimed. "Where did you get that? I didn't say I was going."

"That is true, Bill," Milton laughed; "you didn't say you were going."

A silence ensued, during which Scranton sat in deep thought, as, indeed, did Rhodes and myself. Oh, what was I to make of this wild and fearful thing?

"There is no necessity," Scranton said suddenly, "for the warning, I know; and yet I can't help pointing out that this adventure you are about to enter upon may prove a very dangerous, a very horrible one."

"Yes," Rhodes nodded; "it may prove a dangerous, a horrible adventure indeed."

"Why," I exclaimed, "all this cabalistic lingo and mystery? Why not be explicit? There is only one place that the angel could possibly have come from—this terrible creature that says 'Drome' and has a demon for her companion."

"Yes, Bill," Mil ton nodded; "there is only one place. And it was from that very place that she came."

"Good heaven! Why, that supposition is absurd—it is preposterous."

"Do you think so, Bill? The submarine, the airplane, radio—all were absurd, all were preposterous, Bill, until men got them. Why, it was only yesterday that the sphericity of this old world we inhabit ceased to be absurd, preposterous. Don't be too sure, old tillicum. Remember the oft-repeated observation of Hamlet:

 

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy."

 

"That is true enough. But this——"

"Awaits us!" said Milton Rhodes. "The question of prime importance to us now is if we can find the way to that place whence the angel and the demon came; for, so it seems to me, there can be little doubt that it is only on rare occasions that these strange beings appear on the mountain."

"It is," Scranton remarked, "as, of course, you know, against the rules to take any firearms into the Park; but, if I were you, I should never start upon this enterprize without weapons."

"You may rest assured on that point," Milton told him: "we will be armed."

"Well," said Scranton, suddenly rising from his chair, "you are doubtless anxious to start your preparations at once, and I am keeping you from them. There is one thing, though, Mr. Rhodes, that I, that——"

He paused, and a look of trouble, of distress, settled upon his pale, pinched features.

"What is it?" Rhodes queried.

"I am glad that you are going, and yet—yet I may regret this day, this visit, to my dying hour. For the thing I have brought you is dangerous—it is awful."

"And probably," said Milton, "very wonderful indeed."

"But," Scranton added, "one should not blink the possibility that——"

"Tut, tut, man?" Milton Rhodes exclaimed, laughing. "We mustn't find you a bird of ill-omen now. You mustn't think things like that."

"Yet I can't help thinking about them, Mr. Rhodes. I wish I could accompany you, at least as far as the scene of the tragedies; but I am far from strong. Even to drive a car sometimes taxes my strength. I doubt if I could now make the climb even from the Inn as far as Sluiskin Falls."

A silence fell, to be suddenly broken by Milton.

"Let us regard that as a happy augury," said he, pointing toward the southern windows, through which the sunlight, bright and sparkling, came streaming in: "the gloom and the storm have passed away, and all is bright once more."

"I pray heaven that it prove so!" the other exclaimed.

"For my part, I shall always be glad that you came to me, Mr. Scranton; glad always, even—even," said Milton Rhodes, "if I never come back."

 

Chapter 10

On the Mountain

It was a few minutes past 3 on the afternoon of the day following when Rhodes and I got into his automobile and started for Rainier. When we arrived at the Park entrance, which we did about half-past 6, the speedometer showed a run of one hundred and two miles.

"Any firearms, a cat or a dog in that car?" was the question when Milton went over to register.

"Nope," said Milton.

There was a revolver in one of his pockets, however, and another in one of mine. But there was no weapon in the car: hadn't I got out of the car so that there wouldn't be?

A few moments, and we were under way again, the road, which ran through primeval forest, a narrow one now, sinuous and, it must be confessed, hardly as smooth as glass.

Soon we crossed Tahoma Creek, where we had a glimpse of the mountain, its snowy, rocky heights aglow with a wonderful golden tint in the rays of the setting sun. Strange, wild, fantastic thoughts and fears came to me again, and upon my mind settled gloomy forebodings—sinister nameless forebodings, terrible as a pall. We were drawing near the great mountain now, with its unutterable cosmic grandeur and loneliness, near to its unknown mystery, which Milton and I were perhaps fated to know soon, perhaps to our sorrow.

From these gloomy, disturbing thoughts, which yet had a weird fascination too, I was at length aroused by the voice of Rhodes.

"Kautz Creek," said he.

And the next moment we shot across the stream, which went racing and growling over its boulders, the pale chocolate hue of its water advertising its glacial origin.

"Up about 2,400 feet now," Milton added. "Longmire Springs next. I say, Bill, I wonder where we shall be this time tomorrow, eh?"

"Goodness knows. Sometimes I find myself wondering, if the whole thing isn't pure moonshine, a dream. An angel and a demon on the slopes of Rainier! And they say that this is the Twentieth Century!"

Rhodes smiled wanly.

"I think you will find the thing real enough, Billy me lad," said he.

"Too real, maybe. The fact is I don't know what on earth to think."

"The only thing to do is to wait, Bill. And we won't have long to wait, either."

When we swung to the grade out of Longmire, I thought we were at last beginning the real climb to the mountain. But Milton said no.

"When we reach the Van Trump auto park, then we'll start up," said he.

And we did—the road turning and twisting up a forest-clad steep. Then, its sinuosities behind us, it ran along in a comparatively straight line, ascending all the time, to Christine Falls and to the crossing of the Nisqually, the latter just below the end of the glacier-snout, as they call it. Yes, there it was, the great wall of ice, four or five hundred feet in height, looking, however, what with the earth and boulders ground into it, more like a mass of rock than like ice. There it was, the first glacier I ever had seen, the first living glacier, indeed, ever discovered in all these United States—at any rate, the first one ever reported. Elevation 4,000 feet.

The bridge behind us, we swung sharply to the right and went slanting up a steep rampart of rock, moving now away from the glacier, away from the mountain; in other words, we were heading straight for Longmire but climbing, climbing. At length the road, cut in the precipitous rock, narrowed to the width of but a single auto; and at this point we halted, for descending cars had the way.

The view here was a striking one indeed, down the Nisqually Valley and over its flanking, tumbled mountains, and the scene would probably have been even more striking than I found it had the spot not been one to make the head swim. I had the out side of the auto, and I could look right over the edge, over the edge and down the precipitous wall of rock to the bed of the Nisqually, half a thousand feet below.

The last car rolled by, and we got the signal to come on. This narrow' part of the load passed, we swung in from the edge of the rampart, and I confess that I was not at all sorry that we did so.

Silver Forest, Frog Heaven, Narada Falls, Inspiration Point, then Paradise Valley, with its strange tree-forms, its beautiful flower-meadows, and, in the distance, the Inn on its commanding height. 5,500 feet above the level of the sea; and, filling all the background, the great mountain itself, towering 14,400 feet aloft: the end of our journey in sight at last!

The end? Yes—until tomorrow. And then what? The beginning then—the beginning of what would, in all likelihood, prove an adventure as weird as it was strange, a most fearful quest.

Had I been a believer in the oneiro-critical science, the things I dreamed that night would have ended the enterprize (as far as I was concerned) then and there: in the morning I would have started for Seattle instanter. But I was not, and I am not now; and yet often I wonder why I dreamed those terrible things—those things which came true.

And, through all the horror, a cowled thing, a figure with bat wings, hovered or glided in the shadows of the background and at intervals, in tones cavernous and sepulchral, gave utterance to that dreaded name: "Drome!"

 

Chapter 11

The Tamahnowis Rocks

It was very early—in fact, the first rays of the sun, not yet risen, had just touched the lofty heights of Rainier—when Rhodes and I left the Inn.

Besides our revolvers and a goodly supply of ammunition, there were the lights, an aneroid, a thermometer, our canteens, ice-picks; two pieces of light but very strong rope, each seventy-five feet in length; our knives, like those which hunters carry; and food sufficient to last us a week.

Yes, and there were the ice-creepers, which we should need in making our way over the glaciers, the Paradise and the Cowlitz, to that mass of rocks, the scene of those mysterious and terrible tragedies.

We did not take the direct trail up but went over to the edge of the canyon that I—for this was my first visit to Rainier—might see the Nisqually Glacier.

And, as we made dur way upward through the brightening scene, as I gazed upon the grim cosmic beauty all about me, up into the great cirque of the Nisqually, up to the broad summit of the mountain and (in the opposite direction) out over the Tatoosh Range to distant Mount Adams and Mount St. Helens all violet and gold in the morning sun—well, that strange story which had brought us here then took on the seeming of a mirage or a dream.

"The mountain," said Milton Rhodes, as we stood leaning on our alpenstocks during one of our halts, "once rose to a height of 16,000 feet or more. The dip of the lava layers shows that. The whole top was blown clean off."

"Must have been some fireworks then," was my comment.

"See that line of bare rocks on the very summit, Bill, midway between Point Success up here on the left and Gibraltar on the right?"

"I noticed that. Why isn't there any snow there?"

"Heat, Bill," said Rhodes. "Heat."

"Heat! Great Vesuvius, I thought that Rainier was a dead volcano."

"Not dead, Bill. Only slumbering. Four eruptions are on record.^[1] Whether Old He is to die in his slumber or whether he is one day to awake in mad fury—that, of course, no man can tell us."

"To see it belching forth smoke and sending down streams of lava would be an interesting sight certainly," said I. "And I wonder what effect that would have on this Drome business—that is, if there is any such thing as Drome at all."

"Drome!" Milton echoed.

For some moments he stood there with a strange look of abstraction upon his face.

"Drome! Ah, Bill," said he, "I wish I knew what it means. But come, we'll never reach the Tamahnowis Rocks if we stand here wondering."

And so we resumed our climb. We were the early birds this morning; not a living soul was to be seen anywhere on the mountain. But hark! What was that? Somebody whistling somewhere up there and off to the right. The whistles came in rapid succession—loud and clear and ringing. I stopped and looked but could see nothing.

I should have explained that we had turned aside from the edge of the canyon, had crossed that little stream mentioned by Grandfather Scranton and had begun to climb that steep rocky mass he spoke of.

"What the deuce," said I, "is that fellow whistling like that for? It can't be to us."

"That," Milton Rhodes smiled, "isn't a man, Bill."

"Not a man!"

"It's a marmot," Milton told me. "A marmot? Well," said I, "we live and we learn. I could have sworn, Milton, that it was a human being."

The ascent was a steep one, and we climbed in silence. The horse-trail, coming from the left, goes slanting and then twisting its way up this' rocky rampart. On reaching the path, we paused for some minutes to get our breath, then plodded on.

"I was thinking," said Milton at last, "of what Parkman said."

"What did he say?"

"'I would go farther for one look into the crater of Vesuvius than to see all the ruined temples in Italy.'"

"I wonder," I returned, "how far we shall have to go to see that angel that says 'Drome,' not to mention her demon."

Rhodes laughed.

"We are getting there, Bill; we're getting there—near the scene of those awful tragedies at any rate."

Ere long we reached the top. Here we passed the last shrub and in a little space came to a small glacier. The tracks of the horses led straight across it. But our route did not go thither; it led up over the rocks.

Suddenly, as we toiled our way upward, Rhodes, with the remark that Science had some strange stories to tell, asked me if I had ever head of Tartaglia's slates. I never had, though I had heard of Tartaglia, and I w'anted to know about those slates.

"Tombstones," said Milton.

"Tombstones?"

"Tombstones, Bill. What with the terrible poverty, Tartaglia, when educating himself, could not get even a slate, and so he went out and wrote his exercises on tombstones."

"Gosh!"

"And did you ever hear of Demoivre's death? There is a problem for your psychological sharks."

"How did the gentleman die?"

"He told them that he had to sleep so many minutes longer each day."

"And did he do it?"

"That's what he did, Bill."

"And," I asked with growing curiosity, "when he had slept through the twenty-four hours? Then what?"

"He never woke up," said Milton Rhodes.

And did I know what the heart of a man does when his head is cut off? I (who was wondering at his sudden turn to these queer scientific matters) said I supposed that the heart stops beating. But Rhodes said no; the organ continues its pulsations for an hour or longer.

And had I heard of Spallanzani's very curious experiment with the crow? I never had, but I wanted to. Spallanzani, Milton told me, gave a crow a good feed and then chopped off its head. (That decapitation didn't surprize me any, for I knew that Spallanzani was a real scientist.) The body was placed in a temperature the same as that of the living bird and kept there for six hours. Spallanzani then took the body out, opened it and found that the food which he had given the bird was thoroughly digested?

"These scientists," was my comment, "are queer birds themselves."

Then he told me some strange things about sympathetic vibrations—that a drinking-glass can be smashed by the human voice (I knew that); that an alpine avalanche can be started thundering down by the tinkle of a bell; and so, as Tyndall tells us, the muleteers in the Swiss mountains silence the bells of their animals when in proximity to such danger. And he told me of that musician who came near destroying the Colebrook Dale suspension bridge with his fiddle!^[2]

Then came the strangest thing of all—the story of Vogt's cricket. The professor severed the body of a cricket (a living cricket, of course) into two pieces, and the fore part turned round and ate up the hinder!

"Yes," Milton Rhodes said, "Science has some queer stories to tell."

"I should say that she has!" I commented, "And maybe she'll have a stranger one than ever to tell when we get back—that is, if we ever do."

We passed McClure's Rock, height about 7,400 feet; made our way along the head of a small glacier, which fell away toward the Nisqually; ascended the cleaver, at this point very low and along the base of which we had been moving; and there, on the other side and coming up within a few yards of the spot where we stood, was the Paradise Glacier, white and beautiful in the sunlight.

Milton Rhodes gave me an inquiring look.

"Recognize this spot?" he queried. "I never saw it before, but, yes, I believe that I do: this is the place where the angel and the demon crossed over, the spot where Scranton, White and Long found the tracks again."

"This is the place."

"And where," I asked, "are the Tamahnowis Rocks?"

"Can't see them from here, Bill. They're right over there, half a mile distant or so, probably three-quarters."

He moved down to the edge of the snow and ice; I followed.

"Now for the creepers," said Milton, seating himself on a rock fragment. "Then we are off."

A few moments, and we had fastened on the toothed soles of steel and were under way again.

Suddenly Rhodes, who was leading, stopped, raised his alpenstock and pointed with it.

"There they are, Bill!"

And there they were! The Rocks of Tamahnowis—the Demon Rocks—in sight at last!

 

Chapter 12

We Enter Their Shadow

For a space we stood there in silence looking at that dark mass which reared itself up, like a temple in ruins I thought, in the midst of the crevassed ice.

Then I said: "Who, looking at that pile, would ever dream that there was anything mysterious and weird about it—anything scientific?"

"The place," Mil ton returned, "certainly has an innocent look; but looks, you know, are often deceiving. And how deceiving in this instance, that we know full well. Besides Scranton, yourself and me, not a living soul knows how weird and fearful was the death of that poor girl."

I made no response. Many were the grim, weird thoughts that came and went as I stood there and looked.

For a few moments there was silence, and then I said: "Well, let's klatawah."

"Yes," said he, turning and starting; "let's klatawah. And," he added, "that reminds me of Sluiskin's appeal to Stevens and Van Trump, down there at the falls that now bear his name: 'Wake klatawah! Wake klatawah!'"

"But," said I, "they went, and they came back. That's an augury."

"But," he answered, "if it hadn't been for those steam-caves up there in the crater, they might not have come back, might have perished on the summit that night in the bitter cold. And then the Siwash would have been a true prophet."

"Well, there may be something equivalent to those steam-caves somewhere in the place where we are going—I don't mean, of course, in that pile of rock over there."

"Of course not. But that isn't what's troubling me; its the possibility that we may be too late."

"Too late?" I exclaimed.

"Just so. It is only at long intervals—so far as we know, that is—that these strange beings appear on the mountain."

"Well?" I queried.

"Well, Bill, glaciers, you know, move!"

"I know that. But what on earth has the movement of the ice to do with the appearance of this angel on the mountain?"

But Milton wouldn't tell me that. Instead, he told me to think. Think? I did. I thought hard; but I couldn't see it. However, we were drawing close to the rocks now, and soon I would have the answer. I felt that pocket again. Yes, the revolver was still there!

"Look here!" said I suddenly. Milton, who was on the point of springing across a fissure, turned and looked.

"How does this come?" I wanted to know. "I thought the Tamahnowis Rocks were on the Cowlitz Glacier."

"This is the Cowlitz, Bill."

"But we haven't left the Paradise yet."

"Oh, yes, we have. There is no cleaver between them, no anything; at this place it is all one continuous sheet of ice."

"Oh, that's it. Well, the ice is pretty badly crevassed before us. Glad it isn't all like this."

We worked our way forward, twisting and turning. Slowly but steadily we advanced, drawing nearer and nearer to that dark, frowning, broken mass, wondering (at any rate, I was) about the secrets we should find there—unless, indeed, we were too late. What had Milton meant by that? How on earth could the apparition of the angel and the demon lie in any manner contingent upon the movement of the ice?

Well, we were very near now—so near, in fact, that, if there was anyone, anything lurking there in the rocks, it could hear us. We would soon know whether' we had come too late!

Ere long we had got over the fissures and were moving over ice unbroken and smooth. I wondered if this was the spot where, so many years ago, White and Long had been killed. But I did not voice that thought. The truth is that this terrible place held me silent. And, when we moved into the shadow' cast by the broken, towering pile, the scene became more weird and terrible than ever.

A few minutes, and we halted, so close to the rocky wall, precipitous and broken, that I could have touched it with outstretched hand.

How cold it seemed here, how strange that sinister quality (or was it only my imagination?) of the enveloping shadows!

"Well," said Milton Rhodes, and I noticed that his voice was low and guarded, "here we are!"

I made no response.

The silence there was as the silence of a tomb.

 

Chapter 13

"I Thought I Heard Something"

"What," I asked, "is the first thing to do now?"

"Find the spot where Rhoda Dillingham was killed. The snowfall of the day before yesterday covered the stains, of course. I feel confident, however, what with the description that Victor Boileau gave me, that I shall recognize the spot the moment I see it. It's over there on the other side, Bill, in the sunlight."

"Why that precise spot?"

"Because I hope to find something there—something that Victor Boileau himself didn't see."

A cold shiver went through my heart. We were so near now. Yes, so near; but near to what? Or had we come too late?

"Now for it, Bill!" said Milton Rhodes.

He turned and began to work his way down along the base of the rock wall. The ice now sloped steeply, and, from there to the end of the frowning mass of rocks, and for some distance beyond it, the glacier was fissured and split in all directions. The going was really difficult. Had we tried it without the creepers, we should have broken our necks. One consolation was that the distance was a short one. Why on earth had the artist brought his daughter to this awful place?

But, then, there had been nothing terrible about the scene to Dillingham—until the tragedy. As for the appearance of the rocks—yes, I had to acknowledge that—there was nothing intrinsically terrible about it: it was what one knew that made it so. Its weird, its awful seeming would not have been there had I not known what had happened.

We made our way around the end of the rocky pile into the glare of the sunlight and started up the crevassed and split surface there. The slope, however, was not nearly so steep as the one we had descended on the other side.

Sixty feet, and Rhodes stopped and said, looking eagerly, keenly this way and that: "This is the place, Bill. There can be no mistake. Here are the two big crevasses that Boileau described. Yes, it was in this very spot, ten or twelve feet from the base of the wall, that the girl lay when her father came—lay dying, that terrible wound in her throat."

He began to scrape the snow away with his steel-soled shoes. A fewT moments, and he paused and pointed. I shuddered as I saw that stain he had uncovered.

"There! You see, Bill?"

"I see. Cover it up."

I had my eyes along the base of the rocks; I searched every spot that the eye could reach on the face or in the shadowy recesses of the dark, broken mass, towering there high above us; I looked all around at the fissured ice: but there was nothing unusual to be seen anywhere.

"Where," I asked, and my tones were low and guarded, "did the angel, if the angel was here—where, Milton, could the angel and the demon have vanished so suddenly and without leaving a single trace?"

"There lies our problem, Bill. A very few minutes should find us in possession of the answer—if, that is, we have not come too late. As to the vanishing without leaving a single trace behind them, that no trace was found is by no means tantamount to saying that they left none."

"I know that. But where did they go?"

"Let us," said Rhodes, "see if we can discover the answer."

"I don't think," I observed, "that they could have gone right into the rocks: either Dillingham, as he made his way here to the girl, would have seen them, or Bodeau would have found, the entrance to the way that they took."

"At any rate," Rhodes answered, "we may take that, for the moment, as a working hypothesis, and so we will turn our attention now to another quarter. If we fail there—though, remember, ice moves, Bill—we will then give these rocks a complete and careful examination with the object of settling the question whether Boileau really did see everything that is to be found here."

"And so——" I began.

"And so?" he queried.

"Then they—or it—disappeared by way of the ice."

"Precisely," Rhodes nodded; "by way of the ice. And now you see what I meant when I reminded you that the ice here moves."

"Yes; I believe that I do. Great heaven, Milton, what can this thing mean?"

"That is for us to seek to discover. And so we will give our attention to these crevasses."

He moved to the edge of one of those big fissures that have been mentioned, the upper one, and peered down into the bluish depths of it. I followed and stood beside him.

"It couldn't have been into that," he said.

"Impossible," I told him.

He moved along the edge of the crevasse, in the direction of the rocks. I went along after him, my right hand near that pocket which held my revolver.

"They could," said Rhodes at length, stopping within a few yards of the wall of rock, "have gone into the crevasse at this point."

"But where could they have gone? There is no break in the wall here, not even a crack."

"Don't forget, Bill, that ice moves."

"If that is the explanation, we shall go back no wiser than we came."

"Let us hope," he returned, "that it doesn't prove the explanation. I have no knowledge as to the rate of the ice-movement here. The Nisqually moves a foot or more a day in summer. The movement here may be very similar, though, on the other hand, there are certain considerations which suggest the possibility that it may be only a few inches per diem."

"It may be so."

"However, Bill, this speculation or surmise will avail us nothing now. So let's give our attention to this other crevasse. And, if it too should reveal nothing—well, there are plenty of others."

"Yes," said I rather dubiously; "there are plenty of others."

"The unusual size of these two," he went on, "and this being the scene of the tragedy, led me to think that it would not be a bad idea to start the examination at this point. The great Boileau—and I learned this with not a little satisfaction, Bill, though I may say 'twas with no colossal surprize—the great Boileau did not give even the slightest attention to any crevasse. He knew before ever he came up here, of course, that the girl's death had been a purely accidental one. However, let us see what we are to find in this other fissure."

We found it even wider than the one which we had just quitted. And scarcely had we come to a pause there on the edge of it, and within a few yards of the rock, when I started and gave a low exclamation for silence.

For some moments we stood listening intently, but all was silent, save for the low, ghostly whisper of the mountain wind.

"What was it?" Rhodes asked in a low voice.

"I don't know. I thought I heard something."

"Where?"

"I can't say. It seemed to come from out of the rock itself or—from this."

And I indicated the crevasse at our feet.

 

Chapter 14

The Way to Drome

The depth of the fissure here was twelve or fifteen feet. A short distance out, however, it narrowed, and at that point it was almost completely filled with snow. I noticed even then, in that moment of tense uncertainty, that it would be very easy for a person to make his way down that snow to the bottom. A few steps then, and he would be at the real base of that wall of rock. Yes, that would explain it!

A strange excitement possessed me, though I endeavored to suppress every sign of it. Yes, the angel and the demon—if the angel had been out upon the ice at the moment of the tragedy—could have disappeared easily enough. 'Tis true, no tracks had been noticed there. That, however, was no proof positive that there had been none. And perhaps, forsooth, there had been no tracks there to discover. The angel might not have been out upon the glacier at all, and the thing might not have left a single mark in the snow. It could have disappeared without doing that. For I knew what had killed poor Rhoda Dillingham.

Supposing, however, that this was indeed the secret, what then? A great deal was explained, but as much remained inexplicable. For where on earth, after reaching the bottom of the crevasse, could the angel and the demon have gone? There was, so far as I could see, no possible way of escape. There was a remarkable overhang of rock there at the end, coming down within a yard or so of the floor. But that was all it was—an overhang. It was not the entrance to any subterranean passage.

Perhaps, if this was indeed the way, we had come too late; perhaps here had been an opening there—an opening that, what with the movement of the ice, was now wholly concealed.

I looked at Milton Rhodes, and on the instant I knew that he too had been noticing all these things. Had the same thoughts come to him also?

"Everything is still now," I observed. "That sound might have been only a fancy."

He nodded slowly. "Or it might been made by the glacier. No telling, though, Bill. It might have been real enough and something else. We mustn't forget that."

"I am not likely to do so. However, what do you make of this?"

"It may be the way to—the way to Drome. And it may be nothing of the kind. They easily could have vanished into this crevasse."

"And then where could they have gone?"

"Probably the way is blocked by the ice now. Who can say? That overhang down there——"

"Is not an entrance," I told him.

"There may, however, be something there. It will take us only a moment to find that out."

He turned forthwith and moved along the edge to that spot where the fissure narrowed and it was filled with snow. I followed. A few moments, and we stood at the bottom.

"Great heaven!" said I as we moved along between those walls of ice.

"What is it, Bill?" queried Milton, pausing and looking back at me.

"Suppose this ice-mass here above were to slip! We'd be flattened between these walls like pancakes!"

Rhodes smiled a little and said he guessed we'd be like pancakes all right if that happened. The next moment we were moving forward again, our steel soles grating harshly, though not loudly, upon the glacier-polished bottom.

"You see," said I as we drew near to the end, "the way to Drome does not lie here. Under that overhang there is nothing but rock. There is not even a crack, to say nothing of an entrance."

"It certainly looks like it, Bill. However, it will do no harm to make an examination. That there is an entrance we know. And, if it isn't here—well then it must be some place else. And, unless we are too late, we'll search these Rocks of Tamahnowis until we find it."

A few steps, and Rhodes halted, his left hand resting against the rock. He stooped to peer under. I exclaimed and involuntarily seized him by the sleeve.

"There it is again!"

He straightened up, and we stood in an attitude of riveted attention. The place, however, was as silent as the grave.

"I know' that I heard something!" I told him.

"Yes; I heard it that time, too," said Milton Rhodes. "Where did it come from?"

I shook my head.

"Maybe one of the sounds that the glacier makes," he proffered.

"It is possible. But——"

"Well?"

"It seemed to come right out of the rocks; but that isn't possible."

"We'll see about that, Bill."

He pressed a button, and the strong rays of his electric light played upon the dark rock and the blue ice. The light in his left hand, he dropped to his knees and looked under. I heard an exclamation and saw him move forward. At that instant a sound brought me up and whirled me around.

My heart was in my throat. I could have sworn that the sound had issued from some point just behind me. But there was nothing to be seen there—only the walls of blue ice and the blue sky above.

"Must have been some sound made by the glacier slipping or something," I told myself.

I turned—to find that Milton Rhodes had vanished!

For a little space I stood staring and wondering, then called in a low voice: "Milton! Oh, Milton!"

No answer.

"Milton!"

Silence still.

"Milton!" I called once more. "Where are you?"

The answer was a scream, a scream that threatened to arrest the courting blood in my veins—the fearful sound seeming to issue from the very heart of the rock mass there before me.

Thrills and shivers aplenty enliven next month's installment, which describes the hideous encounter with the Angel and her Demon in the caverns of horror under Mount Rainier.

---

1. "At this time [November, 1843] two of the great snowy cones, Mount Regnier and St. Helens, were in action. On the 23d of the preceding November, St. Helens had scattered its ashes, like a white fall of snow, over the Dalles of the Columbia, 50 miles distant. A specimen of these ashes was given to me by Mr. Brewer, one of the clergymen at the Dalles,"—Fremont.
2. "When the bridge at Colebrooke Dale (the first iron bridge in the world) was building. a fiddler came along and said to the workmen that he could fiddle their bridge down. The builders thought this boast a fiddle-de-dee, and invited the itinerant musician to fiddle away to his heart's content. One note after another was struck upon the strings until one was found with which the bridge was in sympathy. When the bridge began to shake violently, the incredulous workmen were alarmed at the unexpected result, and ordered the fiddler to stop."—Prof. J. Lovering.