James Curwood

The Courage of Marge O'Doone James Curwood

If you had stood there in the edge of the bleak spruce forest, with the wind moaning dismally through the twisting trees-midnight of deep December-the Transcontinental would have looked like a thing of fire; dull fire, glowing with a smouldering warmth, but of strange ghostliness and out of place. It was a weird shadow, helpless and without motion, and black as the half-Arctic night save for the band of illumination that cut it in twain from the first coach to the last, with a space like an inky hyphen where the baggage car lay.