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Show carved out a little snow cave in the underside of a big snowdrift. At the mouth of the tiny cave I built a small, smokeless fire of willow twigs. Overnight camping was easy in the snow. Snow caves were so easy to keep warm, and I never ceased to be amazed that things didn't get wet. The inside walls of a snow cave would evaporate before the warmth of a fire, but never melt and get things wet. The next morning when I crawled out of the cozy den, there was another ten inches of new snow. 1 had hoped that maybe the first snow would disappear before wanner fall weather, but the new snow and the accompanying cold temperatures were convincing evidence evi-dence that the winter of 1848 had come early and was here to stay. LEE NELSON'S , The big dog Port was no longer with me when I reached Fort Laramie. Lara-mie. In fact, the last time I saw him was on a moonlit night just after crossing the Big Muddy, or Missouri Mis-souri River. We were passing through the last of the thick woods just a few days away from the open prairie. We were staying away from the main trail, not wanting to risk running into a law enforcement officer who might have a warrant for me. turn, but he didn't. As tar as 1 know, old Port and his offspring are still roaming the Kansas prairie with their wild cousins. At Fort Laramie I traded my horse for a pair of snowshoes. Nearly two feet of snow had fallen out of the sky by the time I reached the fort. The Glenn Hill Company had left several weeks earlier, and I was certain the same storm had stalled the wagon train somewhere along the trail. Several feet of new script stuffed inside my shirt. A few pounds of jerky and corn could keep a man going for weeks. The meat provided the strength; the corn, the bulk. A small handful of corn would swell in your stomach to make you feel stuffed. After the snowstorm had blown over to the west, the air became cold and clear, with a little fog in the river bottoms. The snow was soft and powdery, making travel difficult even with snowshoes, but across the Sweetwater, and called to the young men who were huddled hud-dled around the lone campfire. They waved for me to join them. I told them who I was. Then, as I was drying my clothes, they brought me up to date on the progress prog-ress of the Hill Company. They told me about the Indian raid on their livestock and the buffalo stampede, how the company had gone ahead on foot, leaving them behind to guard the wagons and goods until teams could be sent from the Salt Lake Valley. With the new snow it now appeared they would have to wait until spring, but they had enough buffalo meat and seed grain to see them through. When I asked about Pat O'Riley, they suddenly became quiet, realizing I didn't know about Pat's death. They reluctantly explained how the Irish stone mason had been trampled to death beneath the feet of his oxen, and how he was buried on the banks of the North Platte River. One of the young men explained how Caroline and Sarah had continued con-tinued on with the company despite de-spite efforts by one Ebenezer McConklin to leave them behind at Fort Laramie. I remembered Ebenezer McConklin, Caroline's former fiance' , the pious fellow she had used to get information for her book. "After Pat died," began one of the young men, "Old Eb became a regular companion to those ladies, always on hand to help 'em out. But it weren't service to others that put the gleam in his eye and a new bounce in his step." They all laughed. "Everybody could see old Eb was no Samaritan, just out to double dou-ble the size of his harem," continued con-tinued the same young fellow. "But I guess the ladies would have nothin' to do with him, 'cause when we reached Fort Laramie, it was Ebenezer who argued to leave 'em behind with those old trappers an half-breeds. Bishop Hill would have none of that." They showed me Pat's snow-covered snow-covered wagon, still loaded with "The winter of 1848 had come early, and was here to stay..." snow made horse or wagon travel next to impossible, and it being November already, there was a good chance the snow wouldn't melt away until spring. I was glad to get the snowshoes. Word of the buffalo stampede had not reached Fort Laramie, so no one of the fort knew the majority major-ity of the people in the Hill Company Com-pany had left their wagons behind and were walking to the Salt Lake Valley with minimum supplies. No effort was made to send out a rescue res-cue party. I made good time because I was traveling light. Besides my rifle and possibles bag stuffed with buffalo jerky and corn, the only extra weight was a buffalo robe over my shoulders and Caroline's manu- I pushed ahead, eager to reach Caroline, Pat and Sarah as quickly as possible. One gray afternoon, upon reaching the crest of a hill, I spotted spot-ted the Hill Company wagons in a little valley on the other side of the Sweetwater River. I knew something some-thing was wrong when I noticed the absence of livestock, the single campfire, and snow still piled high on wagon seats and wheel rims. Except for a few straglers, it appeared the bulk of the people and their animals had left the wagons behind. It occurred to me trrat maybe there had been an Indian massacre. Some of the wagons had been turned over, but none showed signs of burning. I hurried down the hill, waded Several times during the day I caught a glimpse of a fleeting shadow sha-dow in the nearby timber. I figured it was a wild dog or a wolf. Old Port noticed it too, and on several occasions occa-sions charged into the woods after it. When I called to him he always returned. That night as we crouched close to our little fire for warmth, I noticed a change in Port. Insteadof resting his big head on his paws and going to sleep, as one would expect a dog to do after a long day of travel, his head was high, looking this way and that way into the dark woods. When the moon came up, the animal that had been following us began to yap in the nearby woods. It sounded like a wolf, not a dog. Port was on his feet, looking at me and whining, then looking in the direction of the yapping wolf. It was as if he was asking permission to leave. I figured the wolf was a female, probably in heat, and my first reaction reac-tion was to tie up Port and keep him on a leash until we were out of range of this enticing female. A man just didn't let his dog run off with a wolf in heat, not if he wanted the dog back again in the near future. fu-ture. But as I reached for the rope, I had second thoughts. I didn't like thinking of Port as my property. Of his own free will he had run away from his master, the Keokuk sheriff, sher-iff, to join me. He had willingly attacked Dick Boggs, who was trying to club me as I climbed through the little window in his burning cabin. Port was my friend, not my possession. I called him to me. "Port, old friend," I said, patting pat-ting him on the head, "you run off with that wolf and she'll probably lead you to others. They'll try to kill you. You'll have to fight and win to be one of them. You'll have to find your own food, because I won't be here when you get back." Port looked at me as I talked. When I finished, he looked back to the woods. "Go, if you want to," I said. He looked back at me one more time before charging into the darkness. dark-ness. I waited at the camp most of the next day, thinking he might re- tools, seed gram, a cook stove, plow, and boxes of supplies that the former owner would never be able to use. I reached inside my shirt and pulled out Caroline's manuscript, still wrapped in the deer skin, and shoved it into one of the boxes. "Take good care of this stuff," I said to the fellow who had accompanied accom-panied me to the wagon. "We'll be back for it." I declined their invitation to spend the night under one of the canvas wagon tops. There were several hours of daylight remaining. remain-ing. I was beginning to worry about Caroline, Sarah and little Pat. It appeared more storm clouds were blowing in from the northwest. There was a good chance the snow had come for the winter, and the marchers didn't have sufficient supplies to weather a prolonged storm. I had to reach them quickly. As I pushed upstream along the Sweetwater River, I thought it strange how game could disappear with the first snow, especially the buffalo. There had been thousands in the area just a few weeks earlier. Now there were none. I remembered ten years ago when my old friend Beaver George had told me about the white buffalo. buffa-lo. "When snow flies, and the brown buffler disappear to the south, look to the tops of the mountains moun-tains for the white buffler," he said. Over the years I had sometimes some-times wondered what he meant by "white buffler." Albino buffalo, I supposed, or some other kind of animal that lived in the snow-covered snow-covered mountains, perhaps goats or sheep. When it was too dark to travel, 1 |