He gave them back their ration-tickets
and wiped the slate clean, to the eternal credit of a Government that
has not often to the Indian tempered justice with mercy.
X
OFF FOR CASCADE PASS
How many secrets the mountains hold! They have forgotten things we shall
never know. And they are cruel, savagely cruel. What they want, they
take. They reach out a thousand clutching hands. They attack with
avalanche, starvation, loneliness, precipice. They lure on with green
valleys and high flowering meadows where mountain-sheep move sedately,
with sunlit peaks and hidden lakes, with silence for tired ears and
peace for weary souls. And then--they kill.
Because man is a fighting animal, he obeys their call, his wit against
their wisdom of the ages, his strength against their solidity, his
courage against their cunning. And too often he loses.
[Illustration: COPYRIGHT BY L. D. LINDSLEY
_A high mountain meadow_]
I am afraid of the mountains. I have always the feeling that they are
lying in wait. At night, their very silence is ominous. The crack of ice
as a bit of slow-moving glacier is dislodged, lightning, and the roar
of thunder somewhere below where I lie--these are the artillery of the
range, and from them I am safe.
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