Read Bendigo Shafter (1979) for Free Online

did also. My brother needed his tools, and she brought goods to open a store.
    It was not recommended to bring over 2500 pounds, although those with strong teams packed more than that, figuring by the time rough country was met they would have eaten their load to half its size, and such was the case.
    The days at our town went swiftly by, but I did not neglect going up the ridge to look over the country around, and I often rode abroad with Ethan for hunting or to learn the country.
    Our town was located in South Pass, the great, wide open pass taken by all the wagons bound westward. To the north of us the Wind River Mountains towered against the sky, and we longed to explore them as Ethan had.
    We saw no Indians, but were not relieved, for they would return. The young Indian would find others like himself, and they would come to steal horses or take scalps.
    When I could find the time away from the widow's home I helped Cain, for we had large plans between us. We were setting up the smithy, and when it was done we planned to build a mill for the grinding of flour. For this we needed logs cut, squared, and left to season.
    Our mother's family was a family of builders, Cain told me. They built ships, steamboats, bridges, and houses. Part of her family came down from Canada and were French once upon a time. Ma could speak French, he added, and was an educated woman.
    Little enough I knew of my mother and I treasured the times when Cain spoke of her; nor did I know aught of my family before Pa, although Cain being older had heard more.
    There was not much food among us. We ate sparingly and looked upon the months to come with unspoken fear. As long as the heavy snow lasted there was no fresh meat, and we had eaten deep into our supplies, saved against the cold months. Our stock had grown poorly due to lack of forage, and as we looked upon them we worried. During this time only Ethan seemed to find game, and that was little enough.
    Usually I was the first to rise. After my eyes opened I would lie within the comfortable warmth of my blankets, staring at the gray ashes in the fireplace and wondering if any spark remained that I could coax into flame.
    Suddenly, I would move, throwing back the blankets. I would rush across the room, shivering in the bitter cold, stir the coals, pile on a few slivers of pitch pine and bits of shredded bark to any hint of an ember, then blow the coals to a tiny blaze. Once the flames began to crackle I would heap on wood and duck back under the covers until the room had lost its chill.
    We banked our fires against the morning, but pine burns with a quick, hot blaze, leaving little behind. When we tried a back-log it would as often as not slowly gather all the fire into itself, then smolder and go out. There were a number of ways of nursing a fire through the night, and sometimes they worked.
    The first one up in the morning would crack the ice in the water bucket, or if it was frozen to the bottom, which happened often enough, place it close enough to the fire so it would melt.
    Once there were three days of such bitter cold that nobody ventured out but to water and feed the stock, rustle fuel for the fires, or do the few odd chores that had to be done each day.
    We had dug a halfway sort of shelter for the stock from the side of a slope near the town and banked high the snow around it. We had almost no feed for them, but we had cut a hole in the creek ice so they could water. During the worst of the cold it had to be reopened every time they went for a drink, which was twice each day.
    We had managed to cut a little hay in the meadow but used it sparingly, fearful of the months to come.
    On the fourth day of the bitter cold worry began to draw lines upon the faces of the men. The women-folks made light of it to save their men trial, but food was scarce, and the bitter cold killed any chance of hunting, for the wild game would be holed in, waiting out the weather.
    Come daylight on the sixth day I