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<h2> CHAPTER XXXII. </h2>
<p><br/></p>
<p>We seemed to be in a road, but that was no proof. We tested this by
walking off in various directions—the regular snow-mounds and the
regular avenues between them convinced each man that he had found the true
road, and that the others had found only false ones. Plainly the situation
was desperate. We were cold and stiff and the horses were tired. We
decided to build a sage-brush fire and camp out till morning. This was
wise, because if we were wandering from the right road and the snow-storm
continued another day our case would be the next thing to hopeless if we
kept on.</p>
<p>All agreed that a camp fire was what would come nearest to saving us, now,
and so we set about building it. We could find no matches, and so we tried
to make shift with the pistols. Not a man in the party had ever tried to
do such a thing before, but not a man in the party doubted that it could
be done, and without any trouble—because every man in the party had
read about it in books many a time and had naturally come to believe it,
with trusting simplicity, just as he had long ago accepted and believed
that other common book-fraud about Indians and lost hunters making a fire
by rubbing two dry sticks together.</p>
<p>We huddled together on our knees in the deep snow, and the horses put
their noses together and bowed their patient heads over us; and while the
feathery flakes eddied down and turned us into a group of white statuary,
we proceeded with the momentous experiment. We broke twigs from a sage
bush and piled them on a little cleared place in the shelter of our
bodies. In the course of ten or fifteen minutes all was ready, and then,
while conversation ceased and our pulses beat low with anxious suspense,
Ollendorff applied his revolver, pulled the trigger and blew the pile
clear out of the county! It was the flattest failure that ever was.</p>
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<p>This was distressing, but it paled before a greater horror—the
horses were gone! I had been appointed to hold the bridles, but in my
absorbing anxiety over the pistol experiment I had unconsciously dropped
them and the released animals had walked off in the storm. It was useless
to try to follow them, for their footfalls could make no sound, and one
could pass within two yards of the creatures and never see them. We gave
them up without an effort at recovering them, and cursed the lying books
that said horses would stay by their masters for protection and
companionship in a distressful time like ours.</p>
<p>We were miserable enough, before; we felt still more forlorn, now.
Patiently, but with blighted hope, we broke more sticks and piled them,
and once more the Prussian shot them into annihilation. Plainly, to light
a fire with a pistol was an art requiring practice and experience, and the
middle of a desert at midnight in a snow-storm was not a good place or
time for the acquiring of the accomplishment. We gave it up and tried the
other. Each man took a couple of sticks and fell to chafing them together.
At the end of half an hour we were thoroughly chilled, and so were the
sticks. We bitterly execrated the Indians, the hunters and the books that
had betrayed us with the silly device, and wondered dismally what was next
to be done. At this critical moment Mr. Ballou fished out four matches
from the rubbish of an overlooked pocket. To have found four gold bars
would have seemed poor and cheap good luck compared to this.</p>
<p>One cannot think how good a match looks under such circumstances—or
how lovable and precious, and sacredly beautiful to the eye. This time we
gathered sticks with high hopes; and when Mr. Ballou prepared to light the
first match, there was an amount of interest centred upon him that pages
of writing could not describe. The match burned hopefully a moment, and
then went out. It could not have carried more regret with it if it had
been a human life. The next match simply flashed and died. The wind puffed
the third one out just as it was on the imminent verge of success. We
gathered together closer than ever, and developed a solicitude that was
rapt and painful, as Mr. Ballou scratched our last hope on his leg. It
lit, burned blue and sickly, and then budded into a robust flame. Shading
it with his hands, the old gentleman bent gradually down and every heart
went with him—everybody, too, for that matter—and blood and
breath stood still. The flame touched the sticks at last, took gradual
hold upon them—hesitated—took a stronger hold—hesitated
again—held its breath five heart-breaking seconds, then gave a sort
of human gasp and went out.</p>
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<p>Nobody said a word for several minutes. It was a solemn sort of silence;
even the wind put on a stealthy, sinister quiet, and made no more noise
than the falling flakes of snow. Finally a sad-voiced conversation began,
and it was soon apparent that in each of our hearts lay the conviction
that this was our last night with the living. I had so hoped that I was
the only one who felt so. When the others calmly acknowledged their
conviction, it sounded like the summons itself. Ollendorff said:</p>
<p>"Brothers, let us die together. And let us go without one hard feeling
towards each other. Let us forget and forgive bygones. I know that you
have felt hard towards me for turning over the canoe, and for knowing too
much and leading you round and round in the snow—but I meant well;
forgive me. I acknowledge freely that I have had hard feelings against Mr.
Ballou for abusing me and calling me a logarythm, which is a thing I do
not know what, but no doubt a thing considered disgraceful and unbecoming
in America, and it has scarcely been out of my mind and has hurt me a
great deal—but let it go; I forgive Mr. Ballou with all my heart,
and—"</p>
<p>Poor Ollendorff broke down and the tears came. He was not alone, for I was
crying too, and so was Mr. Ballou. Ollendorff got his voice again and
forgave me for things I had done and said. Then he got out his bottle of
whisky and said that whether he lived or died he would never touch another
drop. He said he had given up all hope of life, and although ill-prepared,
was ready to submit humbly to his fate; that he wished he could be spared
a little longer, not for any selfish reason, but to make a thorough reform
in his character, and by devoting himself to helping the poor, nursing the
sick, and pleading with the people to guard themselves against the evils
of intemperance, make his life a beneficent example to the young, and lay
it down at last with the precious reflection that it had not been lived in
vain. He ended by saying that his reform should begin at this moment, even
here in the presence of death, since no longer time was to be vouchsafed
wherein to prosecute it to men's help and benefit—and with that he
threw away the bottle of whisky.</p>
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<p>Mr. Ballou made remarks of similar purport, and began the reform he could
not live to continue, by throwing away the ancient pack of cards that had
solaced our captivity during the flood and made it bearable.</p>
<p>He said he never gambled, but still was satisfied that the meddling with
cards in any way was immoral and injurious, and no man could be wholly
pure and blemishless without eschewing them. "And therefore," continued
he, "in doing this act I already feel more in sympathy with that spiritual
saturnalia necessary to entire and obsolete reform." These rolling
syllables touched him as no intelligible eloquence could have done, and
the old man sobbed with a mournfulness not unmingled with satisfaction.</p>
<p>My own remarks were of the same tenor as those of my comrades, and I know
that the feelings that prompted them were heartfelt and sincere. We were
all sincere, and all deeply moved and earnest, for we were in the presence
of death and without hope. I threw away my pipe, and in doing it felt that
at last I was free of a hated vice and one that had ridden me like a
tyrant all my days. While I yet talked, the thought of the good I might
have done in the world and the still greater good I might now do, with
these new incentives and higher and better aims to guide me if I could
only be spared a few years longer, overcame me and the tears came again.
We put our arms about each other's necks and awaited the warning
drowsiness that precedes death by freezing.</p>
<p>It came stealing over us presently, and then we bade each other a last
farewell. A delicious dreaminess wrought its web about my yielding senses,
while the snow-flakes wove a winding sheet about my conquered body.
Oblivion came. The battle of life was done.</p>
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