Browning Chief

The
Fiction
Corner
IT WAS SNOWING when Guy started over the pass. The filling station attendant at Jackson had warned him against it, but Guy had only smiled crookedly. It was early May and snow storms of any consequence didn't happen in May, not even in the high country.
Besides, the way he felt, it wouldn't make much difference if anything did happen to him. Not even if he perished in the drifts or froze to death. Death would solve all his problems. It would be a relief from worry and hopelessness and bleak despair.
Foolish though for a young man 26 years old. But young men can sometimes become pretty wild and desperate in their thoughts. Guy remembered Mr. Moore's cynical smile. "Sorry, son, we haven't a place for you. Full up."
"But not good reporters. I've had experience, Mr. Moore. I'm a good writer. I always scrape up a new angle to a story that makes interesting reading. Besides—" There was desperation in Guy's tone, because Mr. Moore had begun shuffling papers on his desk.
"When I wrote inquiring about a job you said you'd be glad to talk to me."
He had driven all the way up from Denver—1,000 miles—because Mr. Moore had said he'd talk to him. It had taken nearly his last dollar to buy enough gas to make the trip. Now he had nothing left but the 5-year-old car. Just about enough to get him back home, from which he'd started out six months ago, bound and determined to land a job on a newspaper.
Toward noon Guy understood why the filling station man had warned him. The snow formed an impenetrable wall. The wind was rising and it was colder. Now he was stuck.
Hours passed. Twice Guy thought he heard someone call. The third time he roused up. Through the slanting curtain of snow he saw a figure floundering toward him. He got out. The man was nearly exhausted; his face frostbitten.
Guy got him inside the car and turned on the heater full, speeding up the motor. Presently the man looked at him wild-eyed. "My wife! She's sick. We're stuck up the road."
Guy thought quickly. There was the shack. Apparently the man had passed it in the storm. It must be close by. At any rate, it was their only chance.
AFTERWARD, Guy wondered how he'd found the shack, or what it was that kept him going when the desire to lie down and sleep and forget everything was so strong. It was all like a dream—the way he'd stumbled against the shack itself, found the door and fell inside. He remembered that the wind and cold were shut out. Then he remembered the sick woman.
The place he'd found was a road camp. There was a stove and wood and a few cans of food on the shelf.
He got a fire going and placed water on to boil. Then he lunged out into the storm again, fought his way down the road and found the stranger's car. He half carried, half dragged the woman up to the shack, and left her there near the stove while he went for the man.
The storm lasted two days. It took another day for a rescue party to get through. They took the three of them down to Jackson and to a hospital. Guy was put into a room by himself and fed. Then he went to sleep.
When he awoke Mr. Moore was standing by his bed. "Feeling better, son? Good. How about a story on your experiences? That man you saved was Senator Ostrand.
"The lady wasn't his wife at all. See what I mean? You want a job and we want a story, because Ostrand is on the opposition ticket. Here's your chance, boy."
Guy closed his eyes. Well, why not? he thought. After all, a man has to live, has to look out for himself. Why not? Why not? The thought kept pounding against his brain. Then he opened his eyes.
"Sorry," he said. "Sorry, that isn't the kind of job I'm after."