THE CHINOOK WIND
During the days of Whitey's convalescence Injun and Bill Jordan were unremitting in their attendance upon him and in their efforts to make things pleasant. Whitey had had a very narrow escape, but thanks to the squaw and to Injun, their quick and effective methods, and to his own good constitution, it was only a few days before he felt almost entirely recovered and the ill-effects had nearly disappeared. Whitey realized that it takes some time to many to become a "real Westerner," and that there are many "dont's" as well as "do's" in the program of life in the foot-hills of the Rockies.
As Bill Jordan sat by Whitey's chair on the piazza, he told the boy many things—not as a teacher instructing a pupil—but as stories that should suggest a course of conduct to be followed when certain exigencies presented themselves. One of the cardinal principles that Bill laid down was that a boy, or a man, must keep his eyes open at all times. Bill maintained, and it is probably true, that any boy of good, common sense is far safer on the ranch and its environs than he would be on Broadway or the streets of any big city; but he must keep his eyes open and learn to read the signs. Nature has signs that are just as plain and legible as the signs that mark the traffic and guide the citizen in his daily life. A careful person doesn't disregard these signs and rules of conduct in the city; and the careful plainsman or mountaineer should not disregard those that should guide and regulate him in the Great Out-doors.
"Ever hear of a Chinook wind?" asked Bill, as he and Injun and Whitey sat on the broad piazza of the ranch-house, when Whitey was able to be up. Injun said nothing, but his face showed that he knew all about the Chinook wind.
"Well," continued Bill, addressing Whitey, "it's a warm wind thet's liable to come any time durin' the winter months; but it usually comes along 'bout February er March. The snow all melts an' the sun shines an' the grass begins to sprout an' the stock commences to feed an' wander away from the home corrals. Now this here Mister Chinook Wind'd be a wonderful thing if he was on the level—which he ain't. Not by no means! He's a shore-enough villain, an' could play the villain's part in any story an' live up to it! He come mighty near finishin' me an' some others once!" And Bill stopped and rolled a cigarette, though it was plain that the two boys were all eagerness to hear the story.
"It was like this," said Bill, blowing out a big whiff of smoke; "Old Man Holloway lived about eighty mile from Bismarck—had lived there fer ten years er more, an' should hev knowed better—an' he had some business that ought of bin did 'long in the winter; but the winter hed bin a hard one an' he didn't hev a Chinaman's chance o' gettin' up to town. 'Long towards spring, comes Mr. Chinook Wind an' got in his fine work."
Bill paused, and Whitey asked, "What did the wind do?"
"Well," said Bill, slowly, "it's a funny thing 'bout a Chinook wind—it's fooled the people in the West since the beginnin' of time, an' 't seem 's though it's goin' right on an' fool 'em till the end o' time! Must be it's his balmy, soft-soapy ways! You couldn't never ask fer no nicer weather 'n we had fer some days, that spring, an' Old Man Holloway concluded he'd strike out fer Bismarck—never give the weather a thought 't all. He was so sure thet he didn't even hesitate 'bout takin' his ten-year-old boy, Jim, 'long with him; an' y' kin gamble thet if he'd sensed any danger he wouldn't of took Jim—'cause there was just two things thet Jim's father loved—and Jim was both of 'em!
"They set out with two saddle-horses and two pack-horses on the eighty-mile trip, an' fer forty-five mile everything was fine as silk. The night camp was made, an' the coyotes sung the'r little songs, as per usual. An' next mornin', they put away a big breakfast o' beans an' bacon, and started out on the last lap o' the trip.
"Long late in th' afternoon things begun to happen. Mr. Chinook Wind he'd got tired o' bein' nice; he'd gone courtin' all over thet part o' the country, an' he'd let the sun shine on the hills, an' he'd laughed—a nice, chucklin' little laugh—with all the rivers, an' flirted with the trees an' lullabied 'most everybody to sleep. Then he got tired er got a grouch an' didn't want t' play any more! He jes' says, 'Good-by! I'm gone!' An' he let Winter take his place. An' though it lacked three hours o' sun-down, the sun hid hisself an' it got dark, an' then it got darker; an' the winter wind commenced to whistle—not a nice, clean tune of a whistle, but an ugly, threatenin' sort of a sound—like a fire-engine whistle in the night. It was pretty tol'able dark, but it was light enough fer Jim t' see thet his dad's face was white. Old Man Holloway wasn't sayin' much, but he was doin' a heap o' thinkin'. An' pretty soon, things begun to fall through the air which was snow, but nobody ever seen snow like it before ner since. The flakes was as big as plates, an' they was fallin' so thick thet they seemed like a solid wall!"
Bill paused, reminiscently, and Whitey waited eagerly for the finish of the story. Injun sat impassive—he knew pretty well what Bill was talking about.
"Bime by, Jim thought his father's horse hed bumped into him; but when he looked up, he seen it was a strange man—it was me! An' the strange man hed five other men with him—they was outriders lookin' fer stray cattle, an' the fact thet they'd run into Jim an' his father was the only thing thet saved both the'r lives.
"By this time, the wind was blowin' great guns—y' couldn't hear yerself think—an' what with the darkness an' snow, it didn't look like much could be done." Bill paused. "A horse er a steer," he said, digressing, "never tries to do anythin'; they jes' turn the'r head away from the wind an' drop it down an' wait fer the finish! Humans is different. God didn't give horses an' steers human intelligence, an' humans hev to use the intelligence they hev to protect 'emselves." Bill paused again, as though he disliked to say what he intended, but, after a moment, he resumed.
"It may seem mighty hard on the hosses—what happened—but it was the only thing that could be done; an' if folks 'd think it over, mebbe they'll realize thet it was the most merciful thing thet could be did fer all hands,—I means fer the hosses too. They was led into a little circle, head to tail, an' each ranch rider put his gun between his horse's eyes an' fired!"
It was very plain that Bill could not think of this act without pain, although it had been a necessary one, and the saving of human lives was made possible only by the sacrifice of the lives of the animals. It is only as a last resort, that a plainsman will ever consent to the destruction of his horse. In many great emergencies, in the desert, the man will deny water to himself that his horse may drink; or, at least, he will divide with the animal.
At length, Bill went on: "When the hosses fell, they made a sort of rampart er buffer against the storm; an' inside this little circle, seven men an' a boy crouched fer two days, with the'r buffalo-robes drawed over 'em an' the snow peltin' and driftin' over that. Fer two days, the blizzard raged, an' the seven men an' thet boy stayed right there! Then she broke—that is, she got so people could see. An' 'bout the end o' the third day, the seven men an' the boy footed it into Bismarck—an' each one o' the seven men hed some part of his body frozen! They hed kep' the boy in the middle an' protected him!"
Bill rose from his seat and started to go toward the corral, but stopped for just another word. "I might mention," he said, as though it were a matter of little moment, "to give yo' some idea of a Dakota blizzard, thet when them seven men an' the boy limped into Bismarck at the end o' the third day, the thermometer showed fifty-two below!"