All night long he listened to the roaring of the wind, taking "cat naps" during the short lulls that came at intervals. The fire required constant replenishment, and Baldy, unaccustomed to confinement in such a small space, was so restless that continual watchfulness was necessary to keep from under his feet, though the good horse would never have harmed his young master except by accident. Both boy and beast began also to suffer greatly from hunger.
At dawn the gale subsided somewhat, and John realized that he must get food at once if his life and that of his horse were to be saved. Breaking through the snow bank which had piled up against the rude door, he made his way to a creek half a mile down the mountain and cut with his knife an armful of poplar saplings and carried them back to the hut. Baldy tore off the bark from these and munched it contentedly; another armful was added to the store, and then John bade his equine friend good-by and started off to find food and shelter for himself.
The six miles that separated the lonely cabin from the mining camp were the longest and most trying that John had ever travelled, he thought. Great drifts barred his way, the wind, still strong, blew in his face and seemed bent on his destruction, his empty stomach weakened him, and lack of sleep undermined his resolution.
From dawn till noon day he battled with the snow, and when at last he reached his father's house he was hardly able to answer the questions which his overjoyed family put to him.
A man was sent back to look after Baldy. He found that good horse chewing poplar bark as calmly as if he was in his own stable, though the cabin was so small and the horse so large in comparison that it appeared to be resting on his back, like the howdah on an elephant. For several days Baldy was kept in the cabin and fed on hay, which had to be carried to him on foot; then, after considerable trouble, for a trail had to be stamped down much of the way, he was led back in triumph to the camp, where John, rather weak in the knees, greeted him joyfully.
For a week Ragged Edge Camp did not receive any mail. Late one afternoon John appeared on snowshoes, bearing the precious packet. He had to repeat his story many times, and Burns had the satisfaction of qualifying his admiration of the boy's pluck with an emphatic "I told you so."
John continued to carry the mail between Ragged Edge Camp and the railroad every three or four days: at first on foot, then, as the snow melted, on his faithful Baldy once more.
Though his work took him away from camp much of the time, John was continually running foul of the boys who belonged to the other faction, and Ben was the object of their unceasing abuse. A crowd of these fellows would stop their games and yell at them those taunts which are so exasperating to a boy:
"There go those Western jays."
