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.