SNOW-BOUND
The scout and his family were snow-bound at the Agency and could not
get back to their ranch. The prairies were impassable with deep drifts;
high winds blew day after day from the north. Meanwhile with Yellow
Bird I looked after their live stock, and rounded up the cattle and
horses which wandered in the storm.
Then, another terrible blizzard came in the night. The roar of the wind
in the cottonwoods sounded like ocean surf in a heavy storm. When I
awoke in the morning, the light in the cabin was strangely dim. With a
sense of foreboding I opened the door. A heavy snow was falling, coming
straight down. It covered the fences and lay on a level with the cabin
windows. The great depth of the snow showed on the roofs of the
low-lying sheds and on the rounded banks of the river. A swift current
was running, with an ice gorge against the foot log, which backed up
the water and covered the meadow with a small lake.
First we opened a path to the sheds, and fed hay to the cows and
calves. Then we dug a log from the snow and sawed it into blocks for
firewood. The air was thick with falling snow and it was growing
colder. So we made ready to hunt for cattle on the plains where they
were exposed to the full force of the storm.
Yellow Bird rode his big roan horse, I a powerful sorrel. I wore a
beaver-skin cap with the hood pulled down, a woolen scarf about neck
and face, coyote-skin gloves, leather coat and felt boots; only my eyes
were exposed.
When we were ready, our horses stood all humped up because of the cold.
They were in a bad humor, ready to make us pay dear for riding them. As
I leaped into the saddle, my horse was off like a flash, running with
head down and back arched; he bucked in a series of high leaps, landing
stiff-legged on all fours. Blinded by the whirling snow, I shut my eyes
and held tight by the grip of my knees. Yellow Bird’s horse followed
bucking; but he shouted with delight and struck him with his quirt
after every jump.
We found some cattle huddled together in the deep snow, and drove them
from the open plains to the river valley, to the shelter of willow
thickets. Then, because of the rising storm, we hurried back to the
ranch.
Through that long night, I could not sleep because of the cold. The
terrible chill in the air pierced to the marrow of my bones. I held my
face under the blankets, and hands against my body to keep them from
freezing. I lay listening to the wind; and towards morning fell into a
restless doze.
When I awoke, a dull gray light was in the room. The roar of the wind
sounded distant and far away. I waited, but it grew no lighter. A heavy
frost covered the windows, the knob and latch of the door. The cracks
in the window near my bed were stuffed with hay to keep out the wind;
but the gale drove the fine snow through crevices and made drifts on
the floor.
After sunrise the wind went down; and the temperature fell to forty
degrees below zero Fahrenheit. But the sky was clear and the sun shone
undimmed through the frosty air. Loud reports like rifle shots came
from breaking ice in the river. The roof of our cabin cracked as though
it would burst.
Outside it was hard to move about, because of the deep snow; but I made
my way to a ridge near the pasture. I saw no tracks, no animals, nor
birds; not even wolves nor ravens had yet ventured forth. Not a tree
could be seen, nor the smallest bush, nothing to break the monotony of
that dreary wind-swept waste.
Sometimes Yellow Bird and I did not speak for hours at a stretch; we
only talked when we felt like it. On those long days of storm he was
restless and morose. He loved excitement and hated regular work, and
the monotony of ranch life in winter.
Finally the sun rose in a clear sky. The plains were dazzling, the sky
a broad expanse of blue. The clouds rolled away from the Rockies,
revealing the great range from north to south—a mass of snow and ice.
Glaciers on the high peaks glowed and sparkled in the sunlight. The
green forests were covered with a blanket of white. Tall pines held
masses of snow, which reflected the sun’s rays from myriads of small
icicles. The icy covering of the river smoked; and the bare cottonwoods
along its shores were covered with white hoar-frost.
Then Yellow Bird said that we had better saddle our horses and drive
the cattle back to the ranch; if we did not feed them hay they would
die. We found a big herd by their tracks, scattered among thickets of
willows. We worked fast in the intense cold, rounding up and heading
off. Our horses went at a gallop along the ice-covered trails; but they
were agile and sure-footed and did not fall.
We drove the cattle from their hiding places, gathering them together.
Then headed them towards the ranch; and, with shouting and firing of
guns, drove them bellowing, their rough coats covered with white
hoar-frost from the vapor of their steaming hides.
At the ford of the river a swift current overflowed the ice. The steers
in the lead balked; they stood and smelled the ice. The cattle in the
rear crowded forward. They ran along the shore, bellowing and with
clouds of steam rising from their nostrils. A big steer led the way and
the others followed. They broke through the ice and struggled in a
mass. Some were carried down-stream by the swift current and lodged
against an ice-jam; but all got safely across.
Then came an accident to Yellow Bird. At our cabin he jumped from his
horse and landed on the sharp edge of an axe unturned in the snow. To
stop his foot from bleeding, I used a compress made tight with a stick;
I dressed it with an antiseptic and bandaged the wound. Yellow Bird was
now helpless and took to his bed.
The herd of famished cattle crowded bellowing about the cabin. I opened
the door and saw them pushing and struggling; mad with hunger, fences
could not stop them; to hold them at the ranch, they must be fed with
hay that night.
When I went outside, the dry snow crackled and made a grinding sound
underfoot. After the violent “low” of the blizzard, the barometer was
now high; the temperature had fallen to fifty degrees below zero. But
the air was dry and the sky cloudless. On a rude ladder I climbed to
the ridge of the haystack and cleared away the deep covering of snow
and ice. With an axe I chopped the top hay frozen into a mass. Then cut
it into chunks and fed it to the starving cattle. This heavy work made
me sweat freely in spite of the cold. But, when I loosened my skin cap,
hair and eyelashes were quickly covered with ice; and I had the strange
sensation of my eyelids freezing so tight I had to pull them apart.
The night was strangely clear. A moon nearly full rose over the plains,
flooding that vast whiteness with its cold light. I saw clearly the
snow-banked cabin and low-lying sheds and the struggling cattle. The
heavens were of a marvelous purity and depth, with many wondrous stars.
Venus, like a great light in the west, was sinking over the
snow-covered mountains. East was the burning Sirius, in the
constellation of Orion with belt and sword, Gemini with its twins,
Auriga made beautiful by Capella, and Taurus with the Pleiades and
Hyades.
Even after the lapse of so many years, I remember that winter night as
yesterday—the air, the moon, and the evening star over the shining
mountains, like the vision of another world—the realm of the spirit.