“No, you’re not, Mr. Creede,” she cried, “you’re just making fun of me––so there!”
She stamped her foot and pouted prettily, and the big cowboy’s face took on a look of great concern.
“Oh, no, ma’am,” he protested, “but since it’s gone so far I reckon I’ll have to come through now in order to square myself. Of course I never had no real adventures, you know,––nothin’ that you would care to write down or put in a book, like Bill’s,––but jest hearin’ him tell that story of gittin’ snowed in reminded me of a little experience I had up north here in Coconino County. You know Arizona ain’t all sand and cactus––not by no means. Them San Francisco Mountains up above Flag are sure snow-crested and covered with tall timber and it gits so cold up there in the winter-time that it breaks rocks. No, that’s straight! Them prospectors up there when they run short of powder jest drill a line of holes in a rock and when one of them awful cold snaps comes on they run out and fill the holes up with hot water out of the tea-kittle. Well, sir, when that water freezes, which it does in about a minute, it jest naturally busts them rocks wide open––but that ain’t what I started to tell you about.”
He paused and contemplated his hearers with impressive dignity.
“Cold ain’t nothin’,” he continued gravely, “after 253 you git used to it; but once in a while, ladies, she snows up there. And when I say ‘snows’ I don’t refer to such phenominer as Bill was tellin’ about up in Coloraydo, but the real genuwine Arizona article––the kind that gits started and can’t stop, no more ’n a cloudburst. Well, one time I was knockin’ around up there in Coconino when I ought to’ve been at home, and I come to a big plain or perairie that was seventy miles across, and I got lost on that big plain, right in the dead of winter. They was an awful cold wind blowin’ at the time, but I could see the mountains on the other side and so I struck out for ’em. But jest as I got in the middle of that great plain or perairie, she come on to snow. At first she come straight down, kinder soft and fluffy; then she began to beat in from the sides, and the flakes began to git bigger and bigger, until I felt like the Chinaman that walked down Main Street when they had that snow-storm in Tucson. Yes, sir, it was jest like havin’ every old whiskey bum in town soakin’ you with snow-balls––and all the kids thrown in.
“My horse he began to puff and blow and the snow began to bank up higher and higher in front of us and on top of us until, bymeby, he couldn’t stand no more, and he jest laid down and died. Well, of course that put me afoot and I was almost despairin’. The snow was stacked up on top of me about ten feet 254 deep and I was desprit, but I kept surgin’ right ahead, punchin’ a hole through that fluffy stuff, until she was twenty foot deep. But I wasn’t afraid none––ump-um, not me––I jest kept a-crawlin’ and a-crawlin’, hopin’ to find some rocks or shelter, until she stacked up on top of me thirty foot deep. Thirty foot––and slumped down on top o’ me until I felt like a horny-toad under a haystack. Well, I was gittin’ powerful weak and puny, but jest as I was despairin’ I come across a big rock, right out there in the middle of that great plain or perairie. I tried to crawl around that old rock but the snow was pushin’ down so heavy on top o’ me I couldn’t do nothin’, and so when she was fif-ty-two foot deep by actual measurement I jest give out an’ laid down to die.”
He paused and fixed a speculative eye on Bill Lightfoot.
“I reckon that would be considered pretty deep up in Coloraydo,” he suggested, and then he began to roll a cigarette. Sitting in rigid postures before the fire the punchers surveyed his face with slow and suspicious glances; and for once Kitty Bonnair was silent, watching his deliberate motions with a troubled frown. Balanced rakishly upon his cracker box Bill Lightfoot regarded his rival with a sneering smile, a retort trembling on his lips, but Creede only leaned 255 forward and picked a smoking brand from the fire––he was waiting for the “come-on.”
Now to ask the expected question at the end of such a story was to take a big chance. Having been bitten a time or two all around, the rodéo hands were wary of Jeff Creede and his barbed jests; the visitors, being ignorant, were still gaping expectantly; it was up to Bill Lightfoot to spring the mine. For a moment he hesitated, and then his red-hot impetuosity, which had often got him into trouble before, carried him away.
“W’y, sure it would be deep for Coloraydo,” he answered, guardedly.