before I went inside, I felt something wet and kind of light and cold touch my cheek. I turned my head and saw snowflakes on my shoulder and sleeve.
It was cold when morning came. The inside of that cabin, even with a banked fire, was like ice. Me, I huddled under blankets and a buffalo coat, looking across the room at the fireplace and cussing myself for being the first one awake. I lay there trying todecide how many steps it would take to cross that cold floor, how long to get a fire going, and how many steps back to the warmth of my bunk, where I’d stay until the fire was going good.
No use to lay there and wish that fire going. Long ago I learned nothing gets done just by wishing. You have to do it.
In two long steps I was across the room and grabbed up a small handful of pitch-pine slivers, slim, dark red shavings heavy with pitch. Stirring up a feeble glow among the gray of the ashes, I placed the slivers across coals and huffed and puffed until a blaze sprang up. As the fire reached the pitch and discovered what it had to burn, flames leaped up, then I piled on heavy pieces of bark and dry wood and ducked back into bed.
When I looked across the room, Eddie grinned at me. “I was hoping you’d do that,” he said, and I swore at him.
Whilst he worked up some batter for hot-cakes I went outside. It was cold … the snow lay six inches deep all over the place, and the air was still filled with heavy, slow-falling flakes.
I forked hay to the horses and prowled around a bit. Any tracks not made within the past hour or so would have been covered, and I saw none. I took up an axe, and I listened to the crunch of my boots in the snow as I walked down to the Hanging Woman. It was frozen over, bank to bank.
I chopped a hole in the ice, and mentally tabbed places for the other holes I would have to open here, and in a couple of creeks nearby. Maybe, even, I should do it in Otter Creek.
No sooner had I thought that than I asked myself whether it was really necessary to do this, or whether it was an excuse to ride by the Farley place. But all the time I knew—necessary or not, I was going to ride over.
The ride would be long and cold, but with a good breakfast under my belt and a lunch packed, along with a sack of Eddie’s bear sign as a gift, I started off, riding a big roan gelding that I thought would be a good winter horse.
It was after seven when I rode away from our place, and shy of three in the afternoon, guessing by what sun I could see, when I topped out on the rise above Farley’s cabin. Twice I had stopped to chop holes in the ice, once on the South Fork of Lee Creek, and again in Tooley Creek.
The wind had started to rise, swirling the snow in the air. I came up through the pines and paused there, looking for a good way down the mountain to Farley’s. And then suddenly I realized that Farley’s cabin wasn’t there anymore.
For what must have been a couple of minutes I sat my saddle staring down into the basin, unable to believe it. Had I made a mistake in the snow and chosen the wrong valley?
No … what remained of the corral was there, although covered with snow. And the cabin was gone, no question about it.
My heart began to pound and my mouth felt dry. Without hesitating any further, I started down the slope.
When I rode into the clearing I could see the snow-covered ruins of the cabin, and when I got down andkicked away the snow I saw that the remains of the logs were charred by fire. A section of the corral fence lay flat on the ground, and I knew what that meant. It had been pulled down by a rope thrown over a post, as I had seen many a nester’s fence destroyed.
Right then I was scared … I was scared of what I would find next. But when I looked the place over, I found no bodies. Whatever had happened to Philo and Ann Farley, they were not here.
And just then my roan whinnied.
Two riders were coming down the slope opposite to the one down which I had ridden. When they saw me
It was cold when morning came. The inside of that cabin, even with a banked fire, was like ice. Me, I huddled under blankets and a buffalo coat, looking across the room at the fireplace and cussing myself for being the first one awake. I lay there trying todecide how many steps it would take to cross that cold floor, how long to get a fire going, and how many steps back to the warmth of my bunk, where I’d stay until the fire was going good.
No use to lay there and wish that fire going. Long ago I learned nothing gets done just by wishing. You have to do it.
In two long steps I was across the room and grabbed up a small handful of pitch-pine slivers, slim, dark red shavings heavy with pitch. Stirring up a feeble glow among the gray of the ashes, I placed the slivers across coals and huffed and puffed until a blaze sprang up. As the fire reached the pitch and discovered what it had to burn, flames leaped up, then I piled on heavy pieces of bark and dry wood and ducked back into bed.
When I looked across the room, Eddie grinned at me. “I was hoping you’d do that,” he said, and I swore at him.
Whilst he worked up some batter for hot-cakes I went outside. It was cold … the snow lay six inches deep all over the place, and the air was still filled with heavy, slow-falling flakes.
I forked hay to the horses and prowled around a bit. Any tracks not made within the past hour or so would have been covered, and I saw none. I took up an axe, and I listened to the crunch of my boots in the snow as I walked down to the Hanging Woman. It was frozen over, bank to bank.
I chopped a hole in the ice, and mentally tabbed places for the other holes I would have to open here, and in a couple of creeks nearby. Maybe, even, I should do it in Otter Creek.
No sooner had I thought that than I asked myself whether it was really necessary to do this, or whether it was an excuse to ride by the Farley place. But all the time I knew—necessary or not, I was going to ride over.
The ride would be long and cold, but with a good breakfast under my belt and a lunch packed, along with a sack of Eddie’s bear sign as a gift, I started off, riding a big roan gelding that I thought would be a good winter horse.
It was after seven when I rode away from our place, and shy of three in the afternoon, guessing by what sun I could see, when I topped out on the rise above Farley’s cabin. Twice I had stopped to chop holes in the ice, once on the South Fork of Lee Creek, and again in Tooley Creek.
The wind had started to rise, swirling the snow in the air. I came up through the pines and paused there, looking for a good way down the mountain to Farley’s. And then suddenly I realized that Farley’s cabin wasn’t there anymore.
For what must have been a couple of minutes I sat my saddle staring down into the basin, unable to believe it. Had I made a mistake in the snow and chosen the wrong valley?
No … what remained of the corral was there, although covered with snow. And the cabin was gone, no question about it.
My heart began to pound and my mouth felt dry. Without hesitating any further, I started down the slope.
When I rode into the clearing I could see the snow-covered ruins of the cabin, and when I got down andkicked away the snow I saw that the remains of the logs were charred by fire. A section of the corral fence lay flat on the ground, and I knew what that meant. It had been pulled down by a rope thrown over a post, as I had seen many a nester’s fence destroyed.
Right then I was scared … I was scared of what I would find next. But when I looked the place over, I found no bodies. Whatever had happened to Philo and Ann Farley, they were not here.
And just then my roan whinnied.
Two riders were coming down the slope opposite to the one down which I had ridden. When they saw me
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