The office was by this time quite comfortable. I had brought a small table in from the kitchen and eaten my supper close to the stove. Though it was pitch-dark outside, it was not yet six o’clock, and as I felt calmer than I had before, I sat down in front of the fire to consider how matters stood. I think I realized what I was in for better than before, but I no longer felt like crying. If I remember aright, it was now that I gave the first thought to Pike and his gang.
“Well,” I said, speaking out loud, just as if there was somebody to hear me besides a cat and a dog, “I guess Pike won’t do much as long as this storm lasts. But after that, I don’t know. Maybe I can hide if they come.” I thought a minute more and then said: “No, I won’t do that–I’ll fight, if I have a chance. They won’t have any way of knowing that I am here alone, and if I can see them first I’ll be all right.” That is what I said; but I remember that I felt pretty doubtful about it 48 all. I think I must have been trying not to let Kaiser know that I was afraid.
After a while I fell to thinking of home and of my mother. When I thought of how she would worry when she didn’t hear from me, it gave me an idea of leaving Track’s End and trying to make my way east to civilization. It seemed to me that with a few days of good weather I ought to be able to get through if no more snow came; though I had no idea how far I might have to go, since for all I knew Lac-qui-Parle might also be abandoned; and, even if it were not, I knew that it had no trains and that I would probably have to travel overland to the other side of the Minnesota line before I could reach a settlement with any connection with the outside world. I was before long very gloomy thinking about my troubles; then I happened to remember the horses and cow about which I had tried to quarrel with poor Tom Carr, and I put on my overcoat and went out to look after them.
I thought the wind would carry me away, and I had to shovel ten minutes by the light of a lantern half blown out before I could get the door open. But when I did get in I found 49 them glad to see me; and I was glad to see them. And while shoveling away the snow I had shoveled away my fit of the blues; and from that day to this I’ve taken notice that the best way to get rid of trouble and feelings you don’t want is to go to work lively; which is a first-class thing to remember, and I throw it in here for good measure.
The cow mooed at me, and even the horses whinnied a little, though they were not what you might call children’s pets, being broncos, and more apt to take a kick at you than to try to throw you a kiss. The chickens had gone to roost and didn’t have much to say. They refused to come down for their supper, but the horses and the cow were very glad to get theirs. Then I milked the cow, told them all good-night, made everything about the barn as snug as I could, and shouldered my way through the storm to the house. I found both Kaiser and Pawsy wide awake and waiting for me. I don’t think they liked the house being so deserted and lonesome. I gave them both some of the warm milk, and took a share of it myself.
I was beginning to realize that I was tired 50 by this time, and sat down in a big chair before the fire. The stove was a round, cast-iron one, shaped a good deal like a decanter. It burned soft coal, and, as it was going well, and was warm enough in the room, I threw the door open, making it seem very like a fireplace. I was over the excitement of the day, and fell to looking at the situation again. This is the way I made it out, to wit:
First, that I was alone, except for the animals, and in charge of a whole town; that it was very improbable (as the blizzard still held) that any train would or could get through very soon–perhaps not before spring.
Second, that the animals consisted of one large, shaggy, black dog (breed uncertain) named Kaiser; one large black-and-white cat named Pawsy; one cow named Blossom; two bronco horses, one named Dick, the other Ned; twenty-two hens and one rooster, without any particular names except that I called one of the hens Crazy Jane.
Third, that there was enough hay in the barn for the horses and cow, though other feed would be short unless I could find more about town somewhere; that I ought to be able to 51 scare up enough food for myself by going through the stores, though some kinds might be short; that there was plenty of coal.
Fourth, that there were guns of all kinds, and probably a good supply of ammunition.