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the sparse woods that grow right to the edge of the gorge.
    Another set of boughs looms up, directly in front of him, and he clutches at them and this time holds fast. His body is lashed about by the driving force of the snow, but he won’t release his grip, even as his head is covered and snow rammed up his nostrils. He gags, choking for breath.
    Stillness then, and silence. He releases one hand from the branches and burrows it back to his body to clear space around his face. Then he thrusts his arm high, scooping wildly and breaking free. Packed snow melts inside his collar, slithering down his back and chest. He sees a flash of sky and fills his lungs hungrily. Slowly he hauls himself from the snow and into the arms of the tree.
    Shivering, he beholds a landscape transformed. The snow must be piled twenty feet high amongst the trees, some of which have keeled over. Debris is scattered everywhere, branches, steel rails jutting up, wooden ties. He can’t see beyond the woods to the track or the snow sheds. Overhead the sun shines. Birds resume a cheery chorus. Will thinks of the sketchbook in his snow-sodden jacket, the pencil lines smearing on the wet paper.
    From the trees comes a sound Will has never heard before, a series of gruff animal hoots that taper off into a kind of mournful sigh.
    â€œWill, are you all right?”
    Twenty yards to his left his father clings to a tree.
    â€œI’m fine!”
    â€œI’ll come to you!” his father calls.
    At the same moment they see it. A little higher up the slope, jutting from the snow, is the gold spike.
    A rustling draws Will’s attention. A snow-caked man clings to another nearby tree, a scarf tied around his face, revealing only his eyes.
    â€œAll right?” Will’s dad calls up to him.
    The man says nothing, just lifts a hand. His eyes, Will can tell, are on the gold spike.
    â€œHelp!”
    This cry is muffled and comes from down the slope, where, not forty feet from Will’s perch, the ground drops into the gorge and the rioting river. Will squints. On the very edge, clutching the branch of a spindly bent pine, his legs dangling over the edge, is Cornelius Van Horne.
    â€œHold tight, sir!” Will’s father calls out. “I’m coming!” He looks at the man with the scarf. “Help me!”
    The other man makes no reply and stays put.
    From the trees comes another series of gruff hoots.
    â€œWhat is that?” Will asks, but instinctively he knows.
    â€œThe branch won’t hold long!” Van Horne calls out with amazing calm.
    â€œPa?” Will says, a terrible fear spreading through him like cold.
    â€œStay there, Will. It’ll be fine.”
    Will watches as his father carefully paddles down over the snow toward the rail baron, digging in with his hands and feet to slow himself. Off to the right a heaping drift mutters and creaks and spills itself into the gorge. Will feels the vibration through his body. Everything piled up along the edge could give at any moment.
    â€œYou’ll be all right, sir,” Will’s father says as he reaches the spindly pine and wraps his legs around the trunk.
    He reaches out toward Van Horne. “I’m going to take your wrist, sir, and you take mine.”
    The rail baron is a large man, and Will hears his father grunt as he takes his weight. Bracing himself against the trunk, James Everett pulls.
    Will’s heart is a small panicking animal against his ribs as he watches his father struggle on the precipice. Van Horne’s other hand stretches out and seizes a sturdy branch, and he pulls now too. After a minute, with both men straining, the rail baron reaches the trunk and holds tight. They lean their heads against the bark, catching their breath.
    Will exhales and hears a rustling behind him. He turns to see the man easing himself down the slope toward the gold spike. He looks at Will and holds a swollen finger to his