The snow was now more than a foot deep on a level in the valley; and Big Thompson said that in the gorges, and on the exposed prairie, where the wind had a full sweep, the drifts must be twenty feet deep.
“An’ the longer I wait the wuss the goin’ will git,” said he, as he lay on his blanket that night, watching Oscar, who was busy with the elk he had shot during the day. “I’ll try it to-morrer.”
And he did.
When it was four o clock by Oscar’s watch breakfast had been disposed of, and the guide, having provided himself with a few pounds of crackers and several slices of cooked venison—all of which he wrapped up in his blankets, and carried over his shoulder, slung on his rifle’s barrel—left the cabin in company with his employer, and led the way toward the gulch that ran from the valley to the prairie.
But he did not go far into the gulch. It was filled with drifts, and one glance at them was enough for Oscar, who urged the guide to give it up and go back to the cabin.
“It would not be many days,” he said, “before a crust would form over the newly fallen snow, and then he could make the attempt with every hope of success.”
But Big Thompson, being made of sterner stuff, declared that, having got so far on his way, he would not turn back until he was compelled to do so.
He asked Oscar to repeat the messages he wished to send to the various officers at the post, told him to go straight back to the cabin, and be very careful of himself during his absence, and then shook him warmly by the hand and set out on his lonely journey.
The boy watched him as long as he remained in sight, but instead of going back to camp, as he had been told to do, he built a fire under the bluff, and sat down beside it to await the guide’s return.
“He’ll be back pretty soon,” thought Oscar, “and I wish I had brought the coffee-pot with me, for he will need something to refresh him.”