We seemed to be in a road, but that was no proof. We tested
this by walking off in various directions—the regular
snow-mounds and the regular avenues between them convinced each
man that he had found the true road, and that the others had
found only false ones. Plainly the situation was desperate. We
were cold and stiff and the horses were tired. We decided to
build a sage-brush fire and camp out till morning. This was wise,
because if we were wandering from the right road and the
snow-storm continued another day our case would be the next thing
to hopeless if we kept on.
All agreed that a camp fire was what would come nearest to
saving us, now, and so we set about building it. We could find no
matches, and so we tried to make shift with the pistols. Not a
man in the party had ever tried to do such a thing before, but
not a man in the party doubted that it could be done, and without
any trouble—because every man in the party had read about it in
books many a time and had naturally come to believe it, with
trusting simplicity, just as he had long ago accepted and
believed that other common book-fraud about Indians and lost
hunters making a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together.
We huddled together on our knees in the deep snow, and the
horses put their noses together and bowed their patient heads
over us; and while the feathery flakes eddied down and turned us
into a group of white statuary, we proceeded with the momentous
experiment. We broke twigs from a sage bush and piled them on a
little cleared place in the shelter of our bodies. In the course
of ten or fifteen minutes all was ready, and then, while
conversation ceased and our pulses beat low with anxious
suspense, Ollendorff applied his revolver, pulled the trigger and
blew the pile clear out of the county! It was the flattest
failure that ever was.
This was distressing, but it paled before a greater
horror—the horses were gone! I had been appointed to hold the
bridles, but in my absorbing anxiety over the pistol experiment I
had unconsciously dropped them and the released animals had
walked off in the storm. It was useless to try to follow them,
for their footfalls could make no sound, and one could pass
within two yards of the creatures and never see them. We gave
them up without an effort at recovering them, and cursed the
lying books that said horses would stay by their masters for
protection and companionship in a distressful time like ours.
We were miserable enough, before; we felt still more forlorn,
now. Patiently, but with blighted hope, we broke more sticks and
piled them, and once more the Prussian shot them into
annihilation. Plainly, to light a fire with a pistol was an art
requiring practice and experience, and the middle of a desert at
midnight in a snow-storm was not a good place or time for the
acquiring of the accomplishment. We gave it up and tried the
other. Each man took a couple of sticks and fell to chafing them
together. At the end of half an hour we were thoroughly chilled,
and so were the sticks. We bitterly execrated the Indians, the
hunters and the books that had betrayed us with the silly device,
and wondered dismally what was next to be done. At this critical
moment Mr. Ballou fished out four matches from the rubbish of an
overlooked pocket. To have found four gold bars would have seemed
poor and cheap good luck compared to this.
One cannot think how good a match looks under such
circumstances—or how lovable and precious, and sacredly
beautiful to the eye. This time we gathered sticks with high
hopes; and when Mr. Ballou prepared to light the first match,
there was an amount of interest centred upon him that pages of
writing could not describe. The match burned hopefully a moment,
and then went out. It could not have carried more regret with it
if it had been a human life. The next match simply flashed and
died. The wind puffed the third one out just as it was on the
imminent verge of success. We gathered together closer than ever,
and developed a solicitude that was rapt and painful, as Mr.
Ballou scratched our last hope on his leg. It lit, burned blue
and sickly, and then budded into a robust flame. Shading it with
his hands, the old gentleman bent gradually down and every heart
went with him—everybody, too, for that matter—and blood and
breath stood still. The flame touched the sticks at last, took
gradual hold upon them—hesitated—took a stronger
hold—hesitated again—held its breath five heart-breaking seconds,
then gave a sort of human gasp and went out.
Nobody said a word for several minutes. It was a solemn sort
of silence; even the wind put on a stealthy, sinister quiet, and
made no more noise than the falling flakes of snow. Finally a
sad-voiced conversation began, and it was soon apparent that in
each of our hearts lay the conviction that this was our last
night with the living. I had so hoped that I was the only one who
felt so. When the others calmly acknowledged their conviction, it
sounded like the summons itself. Ollendorff said:
“Brothers, let us die together. And let us go without one hard
feeling towards each other. Let us forget and forgive bygones. I
know that you have felt hard towards me for turning over the
canoe, and for knowing too much and leading you round and round
in the snow—but I meant well; forgive me. I acknowledge freely
that I have had hard feelings against Mr. Ballou for abusing me
and calling me a logarythm, which is a thing I do not know what,
but no doubt a thing considered disgraceful and unbecoming in
America, and it has scarcely been out of my mind and has hurt me
a great deal—but let it go; I forgive Mr. Ballou with all my
heart, and—”
Poor Ollendorff broke down and the tears came. He was not
alone, for I was crying too, and so was Mr. Ballou. Ollendorff
got his voice again and forgave me for things I had done and
said. Then he got out his bottle of whisky and said that whether
he lived or died he would never touch another drop. He said he
had given up all hope of life, and although ill-prepared, was
ready to submit humbly to his fate; that he wished he could be
spared a little longer, not for any selfish reason, but to make a
thorough reform in his character, and by devoting himself to
helping the poor, nursing the sick, and pleading with the people
to guard themselves against the evils of intemperance, make his
life a beneficent example to the young, and lay it down at last
with the precious reflection that it had not been lived in vain.
He ended by saying that his reform should begin at this moment,
even here in the presence of death, since no longer time was to
be vouchsafed wherein to prosecute it to men’s help and
benefit—and with that he threw away the bottle of whisky.
Mr. Ballou made remarks of similar purport, and began the
reform he could not live to continue, by throwing away the
ancient pack of cards that had solaced our captivity during the
flood and made it bearable.
He said he never gambled, but still was satisfied that the
meddling with cards in any way was immoral and injurious, and no
man could be wholly pure and blemishless without eschewing them.
“And therefore,” continued he, “in doing this act I already feel
more in sympathy with that spiritual saturnalia necessary to
entire and obsolete reform.” These rolling syllables touched him
as no intelligible eloquence could have done, and the old man
sobbed with a mournfulness not unmingled with satisfaction.
My own remarks were of the same tenor as those of my comrades,
and I know that the feelings that prompted them were heartfelt
and sincere. We were all sincere, and all deeply moved and
earnest, for we were in the presence of death and without hope. I
threw away my pipe, and in doing it felt that at last I was free
of a hated vice and one that had ridden me like a tyrant all my
days. While I yet talked, the thought of the good I might have
done in the world and the still greater good I might now do, with
these new incentives and higher and better aims to guide me if I
could only be spared a few years longer, overcame me and the
tears came again. We put our arms about each other’s necks and
awaited the warning drowsiness that precedes death by
freezing.
It came stealing over us presently, and then we bade each
other a last farewell. A delicious dreaminess wrought its web
about my yielding senses, while the snow-flakes wove a winding
sheet about my conquered body. Oblivion came. The battle of life
was done.
