Track's End: Being the Narrative of Judson Pitcher's Strange Winter Spent There as Told by Himself and Edited by Hayden Carruth Including an Accurate Account of His Numerous Adventures, and the Facts Concerning His Several Surprising Escapes from Death Now First Printed in FullCarruth, Hayden
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Track's End: Being the Narrative of Judson Pitcher's Strange Winter Spent There as Told by Himself and Edited by Hayden Carruth Including an Accurate Account of His Numerous Adventures, and the Facts Concerning His Several Surprising Escapes from Death Now First Printed in Full
Carruth, Hayden
Adventure stories; Dakota Territory -- Fiction; Winter -- Fiction; Young men -- Fiction
After I had finished the barn-work I went in and got breakfast. I
started a fire in the kitchen and got a better meal than I had the
night before. I went down cellar after some potatoes, and noticed that
there were a plenty of them; with squashes, pumpkins, and other
vegetables; all of which I knew before, but I observed that such
things looked different to me now. I couldn't count much on the
pumpkins because I didn't know how to make pumpkin pie, but I knew
that the cow would be very glad to get them without their being made
into pie. "It would be funny," I said, out loud, as if there were
somebody to hear, "if cows should find out some day that pumpkins are
better in pies and farmers should have to fix them that way before
they would eat them."
I found that I felt much better about the situation than I had the
night before, though, of course, I still wished with all my heart that
I was out of it all, and thought every minute what a fool I was to
have acted the way I did. But there were so many things to do that I
did not have time to worry very much, which I believe was all that
kept me from going crazy.
After breakfast I decided that the first thing I had best do was to
look up the gun question. I found Sours's rifle in a closet. It was
not loaded, but there was a box of cartridges on a shelf, and I wiped
out the barrel and filled the magazine. It was fifteen-shot and
forty-five caliber, and seemed like a good gun. I stood it under the
counter in the office and out of sight behind an old coat. In the
drawer of the desk was a revolver. It was a thirty-eight caliber, and
pretty big to carry, but I thought it might be handy to have, so I
stuffed it in my pocket.
Taggart's hardware store was two doors toward the railroad from the
hotel, but the sidewalk was so covered with snow, and the wind swept
down the street with such fury, that it seemed next to impossible to
get there. But I was anxious to see about the weapons, so I went out
the back door and crept along close to the rear of the buildings till
I reached it.
The door was locked, but I could see through a window that a box had
been recently broken open; but, as there were no guns in sight, I
concluded that the men had probably carried them over to the depot. I
tried to see this through the driving snow, but could not, so I did
not dare to start out to find it, knowing how easy it is to become
confused and lost in such a storm.
As I stood back of the store I thought once that I heard the whistle
of a locomotive; then I knew of course it was only the wind. "It'll be
a long time before you hear any such music as that," I said to myself.
There was nothing which would have sounded quite so good to me.
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