Connie set her teeth hard. A little flurry
that was all, she was in no danger, whoever heard of a snow-storm the
first week in October?
But--ah, this was not the main track after all,--no, it was dwindling
away. She must go back. The road was soft here, with deep treacherous
ruts lying under the surface. She turned the car carefully, her eyes
intent on the road before her, leaning over the wheel to watch. Yes,
this was right,--she should have turned to the left. How stupid of her.
Here was the track,--she must go faster, it was getting dark. But was
this the track after all,--it seemed to be fading out as the other had
done? She put on the gas and bumped heavily into a hidden rut. Quickly
she threw the clutch into low, and--more gas-- What was that? The wheel
did not grip, the engine would not pull,--the matchless Harmer Six was
helpless. Again and again Connie tried to extricate herself, but it was
useless. She got out and took her bearings. It was early evening, but
darkness was coming fast. The snow was drifting down from the mountains,
and the roads were nearly obliterated.
Connie was stuck, Connie was lost, for once she was unequal to the
emergency. In spite of her imperturbability, her serene confidence in
herself, and in circumstances, and in the final triumph of everything she
wanted and believed, Connie sat down on the step and cried, bitterly,
passionately, like any other young women lost in a snow-storm on the
plains.
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