CHAPTER XIII.

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.