Chiquita, an American Novel. Merrill Tileston

on the eastern slope of the great Atlantico-Pacifico water shed, winding around Gray's Peak, serpentinely descending to the Frazier River through Middle Park to our cabin site on Rock Creek one hundred and fifty miles, is one unbroken cheerless blanket of snow, covering irregular sage brush grown mesas sloping to the river banks, along whose sides grow stretches of heavy, coarse grass suitable for wintering hardy, range-grown stock. Cultivation of any of the land is still an unsolved problem. The residents of this great unregistered section live in log cabins. Neighbors are 'near' who occupy claims within ten miles of each other. The one county, Grand, represents more territory than Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island put together. No section lines mark the maps, no organized arrangement of district or circuit courts interferes with the 'administration' of 'justice' when disputes have to be adjudicated. Generally the one quickest with a gun has the law on his side. The people are willing to share beds and grub with each other and strangers; a feeling akin to insult being awakened if payment be tendered for hospitality even of several days' duration, excepting, of course, regularly established quarters where stage coaches change horses and provision is made for the accommodation of summer tourists. Every man is a blacksmith, carpenter, tinker, tailor, cook, chamberman, physician, nurse, even undertaker and grave digger when occasion demands. The food is the most primitive known in a civilized land—bread, venison or elk meat, occasionally antelope, bear, mountain sheep, always bacon and black coffee, and dried prunes, peaches or apples furnish fruit if the ranchman's ambition fires him sufficiently to stew sauce. Occasionally a ranchman has milch cows, which add butter and cream to the simple fare. Vegetables are a scarce commodity, except for a case or two of canned corn, tomatoes, succotash and baked beans, the latter being a dish utterly impossible of being prepared in high altitudes without the aid of baking soda to soften the bean; even then unless great care is taken the alkali spoils the flavor of this toothsome Boston creation. Buckskin and heavy woolen underclothes form the general run of garments, an outer protecting duck coat and overalls being worn to a large extent. White goods as wearing apparel, table or bed furnishings are seldom found, much less used. Time is reckoned by 'sun ups,' 'snows' and the mail carrier. In event of the latter being a day late or ahead, the fact is recorded, or every one would eventually lose complete track of dates, Sunday likely as not being observed in name in the middle of the week."

      Jack kept his record straight for a month and then lost the combination entirely for eighteen days. There were no churches, no schools, and but one voting precinct in the whole of Grand County. Ward primaries had not been established and politics centered in a justice of the peace, sheriff, and county judge, none of whom accumulated wealth from office emoluments.

      On Thanksgiving Day Jack's last officially correct entry in his log book noted the thermometer as "frozen up," subsequent days for a long period recording "a little colder," "much colder," "terribly cold."

      The fifth day from Hot Sulphur Springs found the trapper and his pupil on the west slope of the Gore or Park range, encountering a terrific snowstorm, in the midst of which they stumbled into a band of elk which made Jack forget all his troubles of keeping the trail, the difficulty of keeping the big wagon box on runners from upsetting and himself from freezing. As the big animals loomed up in the clouds of snow flakes driven pitilessly into his face he suddenly recalled the oft-told stories of "buck fever," and for fear this dread disease would shatter his nerves he waited the arrival of the experienced trapper. The band was moving slowly down the ravine, not seeming to notice their enemy—man.

      "Shoot 'em, why don't you shoot? Careful now, and get that big bull with his flank turned toward you. There, give him another, quick! Again! before he gets out of sight—you've got him!" And Jack saw his first wapiti plunge to his knees, recover, bound sideways and then again lunge with his nose plowing deep into the snow, his hind legs straining at the earth for a support, only to sink in a last effort, and the "monarch of the forest" was Jack's prize. It was but a few moments' work to knot a lariat to a hind leg and by the aid of his Indian pony drag the carcass to a tree, hang the body out of reach of wolves and coyotes, then seek a suitable location for a camp, which in that storm was no easy matter. For hours it had been unload, dig the sled out of a deep bank of snow, load up again and flounder a few rods, only to repeat the process. The diversion of killing an elk gave a rest of half an hour, then another attempt was made to cross a small park before night should envelop them in her black mantle. About half way, however, the horses floundered into a drift which accumulated over the spongy surface of a willow-banked ravine, the sled pitched its nose down deep, the trapper swore, and Jack wanted to.

      "Guess we better 'cache' our stuff and get over thar in the timber and let the 'dod gasted' blizzard play itself out," said the man of many winters' experience. "You have done mighty well for a tenderfoot. An old-timer couldn't have done better in tramping snow and breaking trail than you have. This is about as bad a storm as you will ever get into. When it snows so you can't see the horses' heads in front of you it gets about the limit."

      "Can we find the provisions if we leave them here?" questioned Jack.

      "Yes, you get that long dead sapling over there and we will stick it up beside the pile, throw that wagon sheet over the top, and then we'll drive some tent pins to fasten the corners to. There now—Hi! there, you!" The horses gave a pull and the almost empty sled followed. In a few minutes the edge of the timber was reached and Jack commenced to scrape away the snow preparatory for a camp fire. The old trapper decided it best to put coverings on the horses and turn them loose. It was too stormy to picket them, too cruel to tie them up short, and unless blankets were fastened on them they would make a bee line back to Hot Sulphur.

      When Jack had broken dry twigs from the ends of overhanging branches and found a "blazed" spot on a pine tree which promised a good pitch-soaked kindler, and gathered a lot of dead timber, he made ready to light his fire. The wind drove the snow in avalanches. No one could ever light a match in that gale, and when he reached the time for lighting, he found but one match. He had lost his tin matchbox and the stock box was in the "cache," which was by that time under two feet of snow. Carefully making a little "lean to" out of a rubber blanket, he first "warmed" the match against his flannel shirt up in the armpit, to absorb any dampness in the sulphur, then with trepidation and fear he carefully drew the yellow end across the inside of his duck coat, a crack, a choking cloud of sulphur, a sputter of burning brimstone blue and feeble, then a stronger yellow flame and the camp fire was assured. Throwing off the "lean to" the wind drove the flames against the big pile of firewood and soon the cheerful warmth melted a space in the snow big enough to call a camp. It was no easy matter to cook supper, and there was little comfort standing around afterwards, so both made ready for bed. The "lean to" was again the resort for a shelter for the night, as a tent could not be made secure in that storm in frozen ground.

      Carefully fastening one end of the canvas to the wagon, and pegging the other to the ground near the fire, a bed was improvised with the rubber blanket next to the snow, then the blankets, eleven in all, the "lean to" tucked in all around—and Jack went to sleep with the wind driving its icy breath through the thick pine forest or shrieking as it caught the naked, ghostlike branches of a leafless aspen. The morning found them almost buried under the snow, but none the worse otherwise.

      It was noon before the horses were found and brought back by the trapper, and that evening the camp was pitched only a mile from the other side of the "cache." The storm went down with the sun and the cold intensified until the biting blasts hurled across the open gate to Egeria Park were to the unprotected face like knife slashes.

      For two days melted snow had served for cooking, drink for horses, and washing purposes. A good square meal had been impossible to prepare, and a hungry night was in prospect for both man and beast. The trapper declared he would not turn the horses loose that night, so picking out a sheltered place among the pine trees he tied up all but "Ned," Jack's Indian pony, halter lengths, covered them with blankets and harnessed to keep the blankets on. The tent was pitched in a long deep cut, dug into an immense snow bank, to all appearances a part of the big drift after it had been arranged for the night. The intensity of the cold was estimated at fifty degrees below zero and six pair of double blankets weighing eight pounds per pair were used as covering (Jack was actually tired when he awoke, from the weight of the bedding). Single thicknesses of blankets had to be drawn over the face to keep it from freezing. But with all these hardships the young