THE CHINOOK WIND
During the days of Whitey's convalescence Injun and Bill Jordan were
unremitting in their attendance upon him and in their efforts to make
things pleasant. Whitey had had a very narrow escape, but thanks to
the squaw and to Injun, their quick and effective methods, and to his
own good constitution, it was only a few days before he felt almost
entirely recovered and the ill-effects had nearly disappeared. Whitey
realized that it takes some time to many to become a "real Westerner,"
and that there are many "dont's" as well as "do's" in the program of
life in the foot-hills of the Rockies.
As Bill Jordan sat by Whitey's chair on the piazza, he told the boy
many things--not as a teacher instructing a pupil--but as stories
that should suggest a course of conduct to be followed when certain
exigencies presented themselves. One of the cardinal principles that
Bill laid down was that a boy, or a man, must keep his eyes open at
all times. Bill maintained, and it is probably true, that any boy of
good, common sense is far safer on the ranch and its environs than he
would be on Broadway or the streets of any big city; but he must keep
his eyes open and learn to read the signs. Nature has signs that are
just as plain and legible as the signs that mark the traffic and guide
the citizen in his daily life. A careful person doesn't disregard these
signs and rules of conduct in the city; and the careful plainsman or
mountaineer should not disregard those that should guide and regulate
him in the Great Out-doors.
"Ever hear of a Chinook wind?" asked Bill, as he and Injun and Whitey
sat on the broad piazza of the ranch-house, when Whitey was able to be
up. Injun said nothing, but his face showed that he knew all about the
Chinook wind.
"Well," continued Bill, addressing Whitey, "it's a warm wind thet's
liable to come any time durin' the winter months; but it usually comes
along 'bout February er March. The snow all melts an' the sun shines
an' the grass begins to sprout an' the stock commences to feed an'
wander away from the home corrals. Now this here Mister Chinook Wind'd
be a wonderful thing if he was on the level--which he ain't. Not by no
means! He's a shore-enough villain, an' could play the villain's part
in any story an' live up to it! He come mighty near finishin' me an'
some others once!" And Bill stopped and rolled a cigarette, though it
was plain that the two boys were all eagerness to hear the story.
"It was like this," said Bill, blowing out a big whiff of smoke; "Old
Man Holloway lived about eighty mile from Bismarck--had lived there
fer ten years er more, an' should hev knowed better--an' he had some
business that ought of bin did 'long in the winter; but the winter hed
bin a hard one an' he didn't hev a Chinaman's chance o' gettin' up to
town. 'Long towards spring, comes Mr. Chinook Wind an' got in his fine
work."
Bill paused, and Whitey asked, "What did the wind do?"
"Well," said Bill, slowly, "it's a funny thing 'bout a Chinook
wind--it's fooled the people in the West since the beginnin' of time,
an' 't seem 's though it's goin' right on an' fool 'em till the end o'
time! Must be it's his balmy, soft-soapy ways! You couldn't never ask
fer no nicer weather 'n we had fer some days, that spring, an' Old Man
Holloway concluded he'd strike out fer Bismarck--never give the weather
a thought 't all. He was so sure thet he didn't even hesitate 'bout
takin' his ten-year-old boy, Jim, 'long with him; an' y' kin gamble
thet if he'd sensed any danger he wouldn't of took Jim--'cause there
was just two things thet Jim's father loved--and Jim was both of 'em!
"They set out with two saddle-horses and two pack-horses on the
eighty-mile trip, an' fer forty-five mile everything was fine as silk.
The night camp was made, an' the coyotes sung the'r little songs, as
per usual. An' next mornin', they put away a big breakfast o' beans an'
bacon, and started out on the last lap o' the trip.
"Long late in th' afternoon things begun to happen. Mr. Chinook Wind
he'd got tired o' bein' nice; he'd gone courtin' all over thet part
o' the country, an' he'd let the sun shine on the hills, an' he'd
laughed--a nice, chucklin' little laugh--with all the rivers, an'
flirted with the trees an' lullabied 'most everybody to sleep. Then he
got tired er got a grouch an' didn't want t' play any more! He jes'
says, 'Good-by! I'm gone!' An' he let Winter take his place. An' though
it lacked three hours o' sun-down, the sun hid hisself an' it got dark,
an' then it got darker; an' the winter wind commenced to whistle--not
a nice, clean tune of a whistle, but an ugly, threatenin' sort of a
sound--like a fire-engine whistle in the night. It was pretty tol'able
dark, but it was light enough fer Jim t' see thet his dad's face was
white. Old Man Holloway wasn't sayin' much, but he was doin' a heap o'
thinkin'. An' pretty soon, things begun to fall through the air which
was snow, but nobody ever seen snow like it before ner since. The
flakes was as big as plates, an' they was fallin' so thick thet they
seemed like a solid wall!"
Bill paused, reminiscently, and Whitey waited eagerly for the finish
of the story. Injun sat impassive--he knew pretty well what Bill was
talking about.
"Bime by, Jim thought his father's horse hed bumped into him; but when
he looked up, he seen it was a strange man--it was me! An' the strange
man hed five other men with him--they was outriders lookin' fer stray
cattle, an' the fact thet they'd run into Jim an' his father was the
only thing thet saved both the'r lives.
"By this time, the wind was blowin' great guns--y' couldn't hear
yerself think--an' what with the darkness an' snow, it didn't look
like much could be done." Bill paused. "A horse er a steer," he said,
digressing, "never tries to do anythin'; they jes' turn the'r head
away from the wind an' drop it down an' wait fer the finish! Humans is
different. God didn't give horses an' steers human intelligence, an'
humans hev to use the intelligence they hev to protect 'emselves." Bill
paused again, as though he disliked to say what he intended, but, after
a moment, he resumed.
"It may seem mighty hard on the hosses--what happened--but it was the
only thing that could be done; an' if folks 'd think it over, mebbe
they'll realize thet it was the most merciful thing thet could be did
fer all hands,--I means fer the hosses too. They was led into a little
circle, head to tail, an' each ranch rider put his gun between his
horse's eyes an' fired!"
It was very plain that Bill could not think of this act without pain,
although it had been a necessary one, and the saving of human lives
was made possible only by the sacrifice of the lives of the animals.
It is only as a last resort, that a plainsman will ever consent to the
destruction of his horse. In many great emergencies, in the desert,
the man will deny water to himself that his horse may drink; or, at
least, he will divide with the animal.
At length, Bill went on: "When the hosses fell, they made a sort of
rampart er buffer against the storm; an' inside this little circle,
seven men an' a boy crouched fer two days, with the'r buffalo-robes
drawed over 'em an' the snow peltin' and driftin' over that. Fer two
days, the blizzard raged, an' the seven men an' thet boy stayed right
there! Then she broke--that is, she got so people could see. An' 'bout
the end o' the third day, the seven men an' the boy footed it into
Bismarck--an' each one o' the seven men hed some part of his body
frozen! They hed kep' the boy in the middle an' protected him!"
Bill rose from his seat and started to go toward the corral, but
stopped for just another word. "I might mention," he said, as though
it were a matter of little moment, "to give yo' some idea of a Dakota
blizzard, thet when them seven men an' the boy limped into Bismarck at
the end o' the third day, the thermometer showed _fifty-two below_!"