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Then
I retired to the tent, laced up the flap covering the doorway, and to keep
warm, went to bed. The snow fell very fast, and as it weighed down the
willows along the creek, I could hear them bending and snapping in a
startling manner, and this, with the piercing "ki-yi's" of the coyotes,
soon strung my nerves up to a pretty high pitch. I had been told that
mountain lions and cinnamon bears were frequently seen in that section,
and I soon thought the woods were full of them. Then, it dawned upon me
that my pard had taken with him our only fire arm, a revolver, and I was
helpless if attacked. The snow fell steadily and by midnight was three
feet deep, as I could tell by pressing against the walls of the tent. The
coyotes and other animals kept up their startling cries and the dark
canyon seemed filled with blood-thirsty beasts that were gathering around
me and drawing nearer as the night advanced. I was several miles from any
other camp and felt the loneliness of my position more as I reflected upon
my helpless condition.
There
came a lull in the cries of the wild varmints and I finally dozed away
into a light sleep. Later, I awoke with a start at some noise that came
from the hillside back of the tent and just above it, where it was covered
with broken slabs and flakes of slate, which in walking upon slipped away
like shingles from under the feet. The snow now covered them, but an
animal was just above me, walking around and reconnoitering. My heart
nearly ceased beating as I fully awakened, for the smoldering camp fire
had at last ignited the pitch pine log and it was blazing like a bonfire
directly in front of the tent and casting my shadow on the wall behind me.
The animal kept moving back and forth on the hillside and as I suspected,
was preparing for a spring upon the fragile cloth tent to pin me down. I
was simply frozen to the spot with fear and I thought very fast. I knew
there was nothing to defend myself with and it would be useless to break
away and try to run with the snow four feet deep around me. It was a cold
night, but beads of perspiration trickled down my face and I firmly
believed my hair would turn white in a night, if not sooner. Then I
thought of the covered box containing our cooking utensils, in which was a
big butcher knife. Instantly, with this thought, I slipped out from under
the blankets and crawled to the box. Raising the lid I plunged my hand in
and was startled by the upsetting of all the tin pans and spoons, which in
falling, raised a racket like a chivarri. I grabbled wildly for the knife,
and in my fright must have turned for the expected attack, but the animal,
alarmed by the racket, was off, and then was returning cautiously, and I
had time to assume a defensive attitude. Just then it became silent. The
snow was falling heavily, as I could see by the firelight from the front.
The willows would now and again fall with a crash from the weight of snow,
and intensify the silence. As an attack did not follow at once, I crawled
under the blankets, for the night was cold, and resting on my elbow with
the knife grasped tightly I lay waiting. The animal was silent. It could
not have retreated, else I would have heard it going. The suspense was
driving me wild, but I couldn't make a move until daylight, and so I bent
my ear to every sound. But the animal remained quiet, and at last, I
succumbed to the cramped position, sank down and went to sleep. I awoke
with a start at daylight and was clinching the knife with a death grip.
Listening attentively, I arose and quietly unlaced the tent. The snow was
four feet deep. It was some miles to the nearest camp, but I was resolved
on getting there, if the Lord would permit me, and never to pass another
such a night for all the silver mines in existence, even if they were all
"Real Del Montes." With utmost caution I put on my boots, buttoned my
coat, grasped the knife firmly and wading into the snow around the corner
of the tent, looked cautiously up on the hillside, and there, standing
right over the tent, half buried in the snow, was a --- jackass.
Article in the Reno Evening Gazette,
June 13, 1891
Whiling Away Time in a Snow
Blockade -
It
was during a snow blockade on the Union Pacific Railroad some years ago,
that, a once well known Nevadan, was caught by it, returning from New York
to
San
Francisco
and detained for some days at a station in
Wyoming.
He was one of the early residents of
Nevada,
a comrade of Mark Twain's, and noted for his good nature and waggish
disposition. He had married some years before the event herein related,
and his wife was a most estimable lady to whom he was devotedly attached.
Two children blessed their union, and if ever a parent was proud of his
offspring, that man was our hero, Bob H----. He had one of the cherubs
photographed naked in a sea shell, and from it, had a large oil painting
made, that ornamented his parlor and which he always drew his visitors'
attention to with more pride than any curio in his cabinet of rare
collections. But, with all his love for home, and its gods and idols, he
was always and everywhere gallant and attentive towards the gentler sex,
and had not his wife possessed an amiable disposition, Bob's home would
not have been so attractive for him. When he was caught in the blockade
referred to, the passengers were not left in a bad plight by any means,
for they had a dining car well provisioned and an ample supply of coal,
and during the week they were imprisoned, they made merry and took much
enjoyment out of the situation. A mail was dispatched daily over the
obstructing drifts by a carrier on snow shoes, and so all who wished could
communicate with their friends. Bob was first to avail himself of such
opportunity and made much ado over writing a letter daily to "his best
girl" and as none of the passengers knew that he was married, they
concluded he was a most devoted lover. His wife received the letters and
was cheered into sweet content by their tone, for in them, Bob bemoaned
the fate that kept him from his family, and declared that the only source
of content with his surroundings was the companionship of a sweet little
girl named May, who of all the passengers on the train reminded him most
of his darlings at home. Sweet little May was a perfect treasure. She sat
and talked with him by the evening lamps, of his pretty home in
California;
she ate at the same table with him, played snowball and wooled his ears,
and when chance offered a good opportunity, poured a handful of snow down
his back. But, Bob added, he couldn't take any offense at anything she
did, for she was just too sweet for anything. Daily, the letters reached
his wife, and she concluded the little child must be a treasure, and in
her amiable way, she felt pleased to know that Bob had the companionship
to while the dreary hours away. At last, a telegram to her from Bob
announced the blockade raised and that he would arrive on the third day
following.
His
wife had grown a little anxious, and desiring to meet him as early as
possible, went up to Sacramento on the day set, to see how the snow-bound
passengers looked after their long detention. She arrived first, and when
Bob's train rolled into the depot, white with snow from the Sierras, she
was waiting and looking. She saw Bob step off the platform, and with a
little exclamation of pleasure, she hastened toward him. He did not see
her, as he turned to assist a lady from the train, and was so occupied in
his attentions that he did not see his wife until she threw her arms
around his neck and with a joyful laugh said: "Bob, don't you know me?" Of
course he was surprised but not abashed, but the lady, who was not only
young, but also pretty, was looking with some amusement and a look of
inquiry at the new comer. Bob faced the music like a man and introduced
them thus: "Little May, this is my best girl," and then his wife realized
why he had been so contented while blockaded in the snow. They
became the best of friends and his wife often told the story.
Article in the Reno Evening Gazette,
August 15, 1891 .
Compiled and
edited by
Kathy Weiser/Legends
of America, January, 2010.
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