ge. The
explanation is, however, sufficiently simple: the area of the _tourmente_
is circumscribed and we have got out of it, the gully merely a passage
between the two mighty ramparts of rock which mark the limits of the
tempest and now protect us from its fury.

"But where are the others?"

Up to that moment I had not given them a thought. While the struggle
lasted thinking had not been possible. After we abandoned the mules I had
eyes only for Gondocori, and never once looked behind me.

"Where are the others?" I asked the _cacique_.

"Smothered in the snow; two minutes more and we also should have been
smothered."

"Let us go back and see. They may still live."

"Impossible! We could not get back if we had ten times the strength and
were ten instead of two. Listen!"

The roar of the storm in the gully is louder than ever; the drift, now
higher than the tallest man, grows even as we look.

Fifteen men buried alive within a few yards of us, yet beyond the
possibility of help! Poor Gahra! If he had loved me less and himself more,
he would still be enjoying the _dolce far niente_ of Happy Valley, instead
of lying there, stark and stiff in his frozen winding-sheet. A word of
encouragement, a helping hand at the last moment, and he might have got
through. I feel as if I had deserted him in his need; my conscience
reproaches me bitterly. And yet--good God! What is that? A black hand in
the snow!

"With a single bound I am there. Gondocori follows, and as I seize one
hand he finds and grasps the other, and we pull out of the drift the
negro's apparently lifeless body.

"He is dead," says the _cacique_.

"I don't think so. Raise him up, and let the sun shine on him."

I take out my pocket-flask and pour a few drops of _aguardiente_ down his
throat. Presently Gahra sighs and opens his eyes, and a few minutes later
is able to stand up and walk about. He can tell very little of what passed
in the gully. He had followed Gondocori and myself, and was not far behind
us. He remembered plunging into the snow-drift and struggling on until he
fell on his face, and then all was a blank. None of the Indians were with
him in the drift; he felt sure they were all behind him, which was likely
enough, as Gahra, though sensitive to cold, was a man of exceptional
bodily strength. It was beyond a doubt that all had perished.

"I left Pachatupec with fifteen braves. I have lost my braves, my mules,
and my baggage, and all I have