University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
SNOW! NOTHING BUT SNOW.

SUCH fearful scenes were the chief diversions
of the camp. True, the miners did not, as a
rule, take part in these bloody carnivals, but
were rather the spectators in the circus. The men at
The Forks, gamblers and the like, were the gladiators.

Of course, we had some few papers, very old ones,
and there were some few novels on the creek; but
there was no place of amusement, no neighbours with
entertaining families, nothing but the monotony of
camp and cabin-life of the most ungracious kind.

As for ourselves, I know the Prince had often hard
work to keep his commissary department in tack.
The butchers no longer competed for his patronage,
and but for fear of his influence to their disadvantage,
backed by something of real heart, as these mountain
butchers mostly possess to an uncommon degree for
men in their calling, they would have left him long
ago.

We had a claim down among the boulders big as

a barn, at the base of the cabin, in the creek; but if
it contained any gold worth mentioning we had not
yet had any real evidence of it.

We toiled — let that be understood — we two
together. I, of course, was not strong, and not
worth much; but he, from dawn till dark, never took
rest at all. He was in earnest—a thoughtful man
now. He was working on a new problem, and was
concerned. Often at night, by the light of the pine-log
fire, I would see the severe lines of thought
across his splendid face, and wished that I, too, was a
strong man, and such a man as this.

Sometimes he would talk to me of myself, lay
plans for us both, and be quite delighted to find that
I left all to him. I think he was half glad to find I
was so helpless and dependent.

It was a severe and cruel winter. I remember
one Sunday I went down to the claim and found a
lot of Californian quails frozen to death in the snow.
They had huddled up close as possible; tried to keep
warm, but perished there, every one. Maybe this
was because we had cut away all the under-brush up
and down the creek and let in the cold and snow,
and left the birds without a shelter.

The Prince was entirely without money now, and
anything in the shape of food was fifty cents and a
dollar a pound. The gay gambler was being put to
the test. It was a great fall from his grand life of

the year before. It remained to be seen if he would
be consumed in the fire, or would come out only
brightened and beautified.

The cold weather grew sharply colder. One
morning when I arose and went down to the stream
to wash my hands and face, and snuff the keen, crisp
air, the rushing mountain stream was still; not even
the plunge and gurgle underneath the ice. It was
frozen stiff and laid out in a long white shroud of
frost and ice, and fairy-work by delicate hands was
done all along the border; but the stream was still—
dead, utterly dead.

The strip of sky that was visible above us grew
dark and leaden. Some birds flew frightened past,
crossing the canon above our heads and seeking
shelter; and squirrels ran up and down the pines and
frozen hillsides in silence and in haste. We instinctively,
like the birds, began to prepare for the
storm, and stored in wood all day till a whole corner
of the cabin was filled with logs of pine and fir,
sweet-smelling juniper and manzanita to kindle with,
and some splinters of pitch, riven from a sugar pine
seamed and torn by lightning, up the hill.

The Prince kept hard at work, patient and
cheerful all day, but still he was silent and thoughtful.
I did not ask him any questions; I trusted this
man, loved him, leaned on him, believed in him
solely. It was strange, and yet not strange, considering

my fervid, passionate nature, my inexperience
and utter ignorance of men and things.
But he was worthy. I had never seen a full,
splendid, sincere, strong man like this. I had to
have some one — some thing — to love; it was a necessity
of my nature. This man answered all, and I
was satisfied. Had he called to me some morning
and said, “Come, we will start north now, through
this snow;” or, “Come, let us go to the top of Mount
Shasta, and warm us by the furnace of the volcano
there,” I had not hesitated a moment, never questioned
the wisdom and propriety of the journey, but
followed him with the most perfect faith and
undoubting zeal and energy.

The next morning there was a bank of snow
against the door when I opened it. The trail was
level and obliterated. Snow! Snow! Snow! The
stream that had lain all day in state, in its shroud
of frost and fairy-work, was buried now, and beside
the grave, the alder and yew along the bank bent
their heads and drooped their limbs in sad and
beautiful regret; a patient, silent sorrow.

Over across from the cabin the mountain side
shot up at an angle almost frightful to look upon,
till it lost its pine-covered summit in the clouds, and
lay now a slanting sheet of snow.

The trees had surrendered to the snow. They no
longer shook their sable plumes, or tossed their heads

at all. Their limbs reached out no more triumphant
in the storm, but drooped and hung in silence at
their sides—quiet, patient, orderly as soldiers in a
line, with grounded arms. Back of us the same scene
was lifted to the clouds. Snow! Snow! Snow!
nothing but snow! To right and to left, up and
down the buried stream, were cabins covered with
snow, white and cold as tombs and stones of marble
in a churchyard.

And still the snow came down steadily and white,
in flakes like feathers. It did not blow or bluster
about as if it wanted to assert itself. It seemed as
if it already had absolute control; rather like a king,
who knows that all must and will bow down before
him. Steady and still, strong and stealthy, it
came upon us and possessed the earth. Not even a
bird was heard to chirp, or a squirrel to chatter a
protest. High over head, in the clouds as it seemed,
or rather back of us a little, on the steep and stupendous
mountain, it is true a coyote lifted his nose
to the snow, and called out dolefully; but that, may
be, was a call to his mate across the canon, in the
clouds on the hill-top opposite. That was all that
could be heard.

The trail was blocked, and the butcher came no
more. This was a sad thing to us. I know that
more than once that morning the Prince went to the
door and looked up sharply toward the point where

the mule made his appearance when the trail was
open, and that his face expressed uncommon concern
when he had settled in his mind that the beef supply
was at an end.

It is pretty certain that the two butchers had been
waiting for some good excuse to shut up shop without
offending the miners, until their claims should
be opened in the spring. This they now had, and at
once took advantage of the opportunity.

In these days no man thought of refusing credit.
A man who had said “No credit!” would have had
“no business” in the mines. Any merchant, saloonkeeper,
or butcher, who had had the littleness and
audacity to have put up the sign “No tick,” now so
frequent in mining camps and border towns, at that
time would have stood a first-rate chance of having
his house pulled down about his ears. These men
had a strangely just way of doing things in the early
days. They did not ask for credit often, but when
they did they wanted it, needed it, and woe then to
the man who refused. Every man in the camp was
told of it, in no modified form, you may be sure; and
that shop and that man were, at the least, shunned
thereafter, as if one had been a pest-house and the
other the keeper of it.

We could mine no more, could pick-and-shovel no
more, with frosty fingers, in the frozen ground, by
the pine-log fire, down by the complaining, troubled

little stream. The mine was buried with the brook.

I used to think some strange and sympathetic
things of this stream, even in our hardest battles for
a respectable existence on its banks, that gloomy,
weary winter. That stream was never satisfied. It
ran, and foamed, and fretted, hurried and hid under
the boughs and bushes, held on to the roots and
grasses, and lifted little white hands as it ran toward
the Klamat, a stronger and braver brother, as
if there were grizzlies up the gorge where it came
from. At best, it had but a sorry time, even before
the miners came. It had to wedge itself in between
the foot-hills, and elbow its way for every inch of
room. It was kicked and cudgelled from this foot-hill
to that; it ran from side to side, and worked,
and wound, and curved, and cork-screwed on in a
way that had made an angler sorry. Maybe, after
all, it was glad to fold its little icy hands across its
fretted breast, and rest, and rest, and rest, stiff and
still, beneath the snow, below the pines and yew and
cedar trees that bent their heads in silence by the
sleeper.

The Kanaka sugar-mat was empty; the strip of
bacon that had hung in the corner against the wall
was gone, and the flour-sack grew low and suggestive.

Miners are great eaters in the winter. Snuff the
fierce frost weather of the Sierras, run in the snow,

or delve in the mine through the day, and roast by
a great pine fire through the evening, and you will
eat like an Englishman.

The snow had fallen very fast; then the weather
settled cold and clear as a bell. The largest and
the brightest stars, it seemed to me, hang about and
above Mount Shasta in those cold, bright winter
nights of the north. They seem as large as California
lilies; they flash and flare, and sparkle and
dart their little spangles; they lessen and enlarge,
and seem to make signs, and talk and understand
each other, in their beautiful blue home, that seems
in the winter time so near the summit of the mountain.

The Indians say that it is quite possible to step
from this mountain to the stars. They say that their
fathers have done so often. They lay so many great
achievements to their fathers. In this they are very
like the white man. But maybe, after all, some of
their fathers have gone from this mountain-top to
the stars. Who knows?

We could do nothing but get wood, cook, and
eat. It did not take us long to cook and eat.

The bill of fare was short enough. Miners nearly
always lay in a great store of provisions—enough to
last them through all the winter, as no stores or
supply posts are kept open when the mines are
closed, as they were then. With us that was impossible.

All the others up and down the stream, with
few exceptions, had complete supplies on hand, and
had a good and jovial time generally.

They got wood, made snow shoes, cleared off race
tracks, and ran races by hundreds on great shoes,
twelve and fifteen feet in length, or made coasting
places on the hillsides, and slid down hill.

At night, many would get out the old greasy pack
of cards, sit before the fire, and play innocent games
of old sledge, draw poker, euchre or whist, while
some would read by the pine-log light; others,
possessed with a little more devilment, or restlessness,
maybe, or idle curiosity, would take the single deep-cut
trail that led to The Forks, and bring up down
at the crackling, cheerful fire-place of the Howlin'
Wilderness.

The Prince and I sometimes went to town too.
It was dull work sitting there, us two, in the warm
little log-cabin, covered all up in snow, with nothing
to read, nothing in common to talk of, and him, full
of care and anxiety about the next day's rations, and
the next; and it was a blessed relief to sometimes go
out, mix in a crowd and see the broad-breasted,
ruddy-faced men, and hear their strong and hearty
voices, even though the utterances of some were
often thick with oaths and frequent violations of the
laws of grammar.

One morning we had only bread for breakfast.

The Prince was gloomy and silent as we sat down.
He did not remain long at the table. He stood by
the fire and watched my relish of the little breakfast
with evident satisfaction.

“Little one,” said he, at last, “it is getting mighty
rocky. I tell you the grass is shorter than it ever
was with us before, and what to do next I do not
know.”

There was something affecting in the voice and
manner. My breakfast was nearly choking me, and
I tried to hide my face from his. I got up from
the table, went to the door and looked across into
the white sheet of snow hung upon the mountain
opposite, got the air, came back, kicked the fire
vigorously, and turned and stood by his side with
my back to the fire also.

The weather was still clear and cold. There was,
of course, no absolute need of going hungry there, as
far as we two were concerned, if we had had the
courage, or rather the cowardice, to ask for bread.

But this man was a proud man and a complete
man, I take it; and when a man of that nature gets
cornered, he is going to endure a great deal before
he makes any sign. A true man can fight, he can
kill, but he cannot ask for quarter. Want only makes
such a man more sensitive. Distress only intensifies
his proud and passionate nature, and he prepares
himself for everything possible but an appeal to man.

Besides, this man was not altogether a miner. He
had never felt that he had won his place among the
brawny, broad-shouldered men, who from the first,
and all through life, had borne and accepted the
common curse that fell on man through the first
transgression, and he had always held himself somewhat
aloof.

Perhaps he was fighting a battle with himself,
Who knows? It seems to me now, although I had
no thought of such a thing then, that he had made
a resolve within himself to make his bread by the
sweat of his brow, to set a good example to one
whom fate had given into his charge, and never turn
back or deviate from the one direction. To have
asked for help from men of the old calling would
have meant a great deal that he was not willing to
admit, even if help had been forthcoming, which, as
I have said, was extremely problematical.

What that man must have felt would be painful to
consider. As for myself, I did not take in all the
situation, or really half of it. This man somehow,
stood to me like a tower. I had no fear.

The weather was still intensely cold. That afternoon
the Prince said:

“Come, we will go to town.”