It was a strange sight to behold, in the dull gray of the winter
morning, a man floundering through the snowdrifts, leading behind him an
unwilling horse that could hardly be induced to leave its unattractive
but comfortable stable. In Travis Gully, garbed as he was, the horse
could not be expected to recognize its owner. Over his hat he had tied a
large red handkerchief that held the brim down over his ears and caused
a peak at front and rear like an old fashioned cockaded hat, his
mackinaw was bound around his waist with a piece of rope, and strips of
burlap wound around his legs extended over and completely hid his shoes.
His appearance was more that of a typical tramp than the sturdy
homesteader he really was.
Owing to the many difficulties encountered, caused principally by the
sagebrush that lay hidden beneath the snow into which his feet sank at
every step, he did not reach his destination until shortly after noon.
There were many in the village who expressed their surprise at his
undertaking such a trip. None of his neighbors had been in, and no word
had been received from the district that lay far to the south as to what
the result of the blizzard had been. It was feared that there had been
great suffering among the homesteaders, as it was well known that many
of them were poorly prepared for the rigor of such a storm.
After attending to his business no time was lost in starting on the
homeward trip. With his few groceries securely wrapped in two compact
bundles and fastened to each end of a rope, they were thrown across a
comfortable canvas pad and lashed to the horse's back, the weight being
as nearly equally divided as was possible, the crude pack was adjusted
and the tedious retracing of their tracks begun.
Gully had not taken time to eat his lunch, but had placed it in the
pocket of his mackinaw, intending to eat it as he traveled, thereby
avoiding the loss of time. The mail that he had found waiting for him
was tied in a packet and placed securely in his inside pocket, that it
might be kept dry in case he was overtaken by another blizzard. He had
not read any of the letters or even glanced at the headlines of the
little home weekly, several issues of which had accumulated at the post
office, and as he trudged his weary way through the deep snow he tried
to imagine to himself what messages they bore, whether their contents
were joyous or sad, and in his wandering thoughts he compared his
present plight with the winters he had spent in the East and asked
himself if he would be willing to exchange the present hardships and
inconveniences for the old condition, and laughed at the thought.
"No, I will not go back to the life of a renter under any circumstances.
I have hardly started on the task of making a home," he told himself,
and the thought of abandoning the dream was ridiculous. "Minnie and the
children are well and happy, and even if we did not raise good crops for
the first year or so, think what it will be when the irrigation ditch
comes through," and as he discussed these questions in his mind he ate
his lunch, never stopping for a moment.
The horse, now that he was headed in the direction of home, kept pace
with its master, and with his nose at his elbow was ready to receive the
occasional piece of crust that was given him, and not satisfied with his
scant allowance, nipped at his sleeve and teased for more.
Upon looking back Gully noticed that the pack had slipped and stopped to
replace it and to tighten the rope. He then saw that evening was
approaching, and glanced back toward the village to estimate the
distance he had covered. His own home he could plainly see, and he noted
the smoke as it poured from the stovepipe and realized that this meant
the preparation of a warm supper with which he would be greeted upon his
return.
He pushed on. The constant snagging of the burlaps in which his feet
were encased, as he sank deep in the snow and sagebrush, had torn it
away until his shoes were exposed, and as he wore no rubbers, his feet
were wet and numb, and he knew that later the cold would become more
severe. The sky was overcast with clouds, and he realized the dangers of
being lost on the desert on such a night as this promised to be, so he
put forth his every effort to reach his home before the darkness fell.
The horse, now eager to reach home and enjoy the long deferred feed and
warmth of the stable, was crowding his master's footsteps and threatened
at every faltering movement to be upon him. Gully was soon forced from
fatigue to give up all hopes of reaching his home before dark, and was
satisfied to think that he was near enough to be guided by a beacon
light that he felt sure would be placed in the window. Stopping for a
few moments to recover his breath, he looked longingly toward the little
black dot that could be dimly seen against the background of snow,
knowing that it was but a mere speck on the desert. Yet it was his
refuge and contained his world.
As he rested and watched the shades of evening settle and creep down the
distant mountain side, he took his horse's nose between his hands and,
caressing it, enjoyed the warmth of the hot steaming breath. Then he
cast one more glance in the direction of his home; it had faded from his
view and was lost in the corresponding darkness, but in its stead a
small twinkling light gleamed feebly across the snow. It was scarcely
larger than the flame of one of the Christmas tree candles and was many
miles away; yet it warmed his heart as no other flame could have done.
Speaking encouragingly to his horse, they resumed their toilsome
journey, and never faltering or stopping, followed the guidance of the
little light for another hour, and Gully staggered into his yard, his
trip ended. But conditions had been reversed; the horse had led him
home. Wearily he removed the pack, and placing it upon the ground near
the kitchen door, was in the act of reaching for the mail to hand to his
wife when his strength gave out and he collapsed. Numb with the cold,
and with his trousers frozen fast to his shoes, he was helped into the
house. The horse, upon gaining his freedom when his master's hand had
released its hold on the rope, went to its place in the barn and munched
hungrily at the hay that had been placed there to await his coming.
The warmth of the room and a cup of steaming hot coffee soon revived
Gully, and after being provided with warm dry clothing he ate supper
with his family and listened in a dazed manner to the reading of the
news from home. But the stupor induced by the exposure and tremendous
exertion finally overcome him, and he was forced to retire.
After Minnie Gully had assured herself that her husband was comfortable
and sleeping soundly, she quietly slipped from the room, closing the
door that led into the kitchen as she came out for fear that the chatter
of the children might disturb him. Clearing away the dishes from the
supper table she brought out the letters and papers that had been
received that day and carefully reread every line of the letters from
home. An occasional smile would brighten her countenance as she came
upon some bit of homely advice or some suggestion from her dear old
mother, suggestions that would have been applicable to the Minnie Gully
of old, the tired, haggard daughter her mother had last seen, but to the
robust, cheerful woman she had now grown to be they were amusing.
After having read the last of the letters she dropped her hands upon the
table before her and sat staring at the open pages, reading between the
lines. How plainly she could see the old home, the very room in which
this letter was written. 'Twas evening, probably Saturday. Yes, it was
Saturday, for there was father's Bible and scattered notes. He had been
preparing his sermon for the morrow. His spectacle case was laying on
the loose pages. He had got up and moved his chair to the opposite side
of the table, and was seated by mother, who with toil stiffened fingers
was laborously writing this letter. How plain it all was, and how her
heart ached, not from homesickness nor from a desire to see and be with
them, but rather to cry out to them and tell them what they had missed.
They, in their crowded communities, even in the rural districts, knew
nothing of the wild delights of perfect freedom and unlimited space. She
had always been crowded; she knew it now. She had never known or felt
until now the exhilerating thrills of doing something, doing something
worth while. Fighting, yes, that was the word; fighting the elements,
doing battle with unadorned nature, free from the artifices of mankind.
Oh! if she could only make them understand the inexpressable joy of
conquest. The joy of breathing pure air; breathing it out in the open;
air that had probably never come in contact with the nostrils of a
living creature. Even though the air at times might be laden with sand
that stifled and choked, it was dust that had been torn from a virgin
soil, and was uncontaminated from having been trodden under foot by a
hurrying multitude of human beings. And the mountains--how she loved
them--she never tired of their ever changing beauty and grandeur. Still
retaining the hold on the letter, Minnie Gully arose from the table, and
going to the outside kitchen door, threw it open and stepped out. Not
until she was met by the cold air and the blackness of the night did she
realize how completely she had been lost to her surroundings.
Laughing aloud at her foolish flights of thought, she hurriedly tossed
back the few strands of hair that had been displaced by the cold breeze
and returned immediately into the room. She gathered up the letters and
scattered papers and put them away, after which she joined in the
conversation and games with the children; but the thoughts of the home
folks remained with her. She wanted them to feel as she felt and to reap
some of the benefits of this land of health, and be a factor in its
development.
Long after she and the children had gone to bed she lay and thought of
her girlhood friends, whom she knew would live their prosaic lives
without ever having known the joys, miseries, delights and sorrows that
enter into the daily life of a pioneer, and she wanted to help them; she
went to sleep with visions of herself as a great benefactress
distributing happiness to thousands of her kind.
The passing of the blizzard marked the turning point of the winter, and
the weather throughout the month of January was nice, and while the snow
did not disappear, there was only an occasional flurry added nothing to
the quantity on the ground. The social meetings at the school house were
not resumed after the Christmas tree, owing to the extreme cold, but the
neighbors visited with each other and met frequently at the store in the
village. At such times when two or more were together the principal
topic was the blizzard. Although the country was comparatively new in
its settlement there was always the proverbial "oldest inhabitant" who
could recall "Just such another winter," but to those who actually knew,
it had been by far the worst blizzard the country had ever known since
the advent of the white man.
There was a legend told by the Indians of the Northwest of the winter of
the long ago when the snow was so deep in the mountains that the deer,
driven from their natural haunts in the mountains, had crossed on the
surface of the frozen Columbia river in search of food and died by the
thousands on the plain. This, to a certain extent, was verified by the
occasional finding of antlers, bleached white by years of exposure to
the rays of the desert sun.
The matter of irrigation was now seldom mentioned. That the party of
Government surveyors who had worked on the project the summer before had
left with their equipment at the first approach of winter was known, but
as to whether they were to return, or had completed their investigation,
was left to conjecture.
With the arrival of February came the first real spring weather. A
chinook wind came, and after blowing for two nights and a day, had
melted the snow to such an extent that the only traces of it to be found
was where it had drifted into an abandoned badger or coyote den and
escaped the warm breath of the chinook. There being no frost in the
ground the moisture created by the melting snow sank deep into the soil
and was stored away for future use. The sun, as it rose higher with each
lengthening day, dispensed its increasing warmth, thereby reviving the
earlier varieties of plant life with startling rapidity.
Gully having cleared a number of acres of sagebrush, was anxiously
awaiting seasonable weather for plowing, that he might sow his grain
early and get it up and well rooted before the spring winds came,
thinking that by adopting this method it would survive. There was plenty
to do before the ground was in a condition for plowing. Seed grain and
feed was to be hauled from the wheat growing district of the Big Bend
country, and a supply of provisions procured, that a trip to the village
would not be required of the team during the plowing and seeding time.
The cistern was to be filled and as much more ground made ready for the
plow as was possible before the rush.
Plans for the accomplishment of all this had been carefully made by
Gully and his wife, and they were eager to begin. As the roads were in
excellent condition while the sand was wet and settled, Gully borrowed a
team to work with his own from one of his neighbors and went for his
seed grain, the trip requiring two days.
Upon his return from this trip he and his entire family drove to the
village. There was no great amount of shopping to be done, as Gully's
funds were about exhausted, but one of the merchants in the town had
promised to supply him with provisions until the harvest season. The
family was taken along that they might enjoy the outing, and as the
weather was bright and there was no dust or blistering sun, the trip was
often looked back to as one of the most pleasant they had ever taken.