Mysterious Footprints in the Snow

The snow began to fall early this morning, and as it is unaccompanied by wind we have the novel spectacle of a smooth white world; still it does not look like anything serious.  We have been gradually growing later at night and later in the morning.  Today we did not breakfast till ten.  We have been becoming so disgusted with the pickled pork, that we were glad to find it just at an end yesterday, even though we were left without meat, for which in this climate the system craves.  You can fancy my surprise, on going into the kitchen, to find a dish of smoking steaks of venison on the table.  We ate like famished people, and enjoyed our meal thoroughly.  Just before I came the young men had shot an elk, which they intended to sell in Denver, and the grand carcass, with great branching antlers, hung outside the shed.  Often while vainly trying to swallow some pickled pork I had looked across to the tantalizing animal, but it was not to be thought of.  However, this morning, as the young men felt the pinch of hunger even more than I did, and the prospects of packing it to Denver became worse, they decided on cutting into one side, so we shall luxuriate in venison while it lasts.  We think that Edwards will surely be up tonight, but unless he brings supplies our case is looking serious.  The flour is running low, there is only coffee for one week, and I have only a scanty three ounces of tea left.  The baking-powder is nearly at an end.  We have agreed to economize by breakfasting very late, and having two meals a day instead of three.  The young men went out hunting as usual, and I went out and found Birdie, and on her, brought in four other horses, but the snow balled so badly that I went out and walked across the river on a very passable ice bridge, and got some new views of the unique grandeur of this place.  Our evenings are social and pleasant.  We finish supper about eight, and make up a huge fire.  The men smoke while I write to you.  Then we draw near the fire, and I take my endless mending, and we talk or read aloud.  Both are very intelligent, and Mr. Buchan has very extended information and a good deal of insight into character.  Of course our circumstances, the likelihood of release, the prospects of snow blocking us in and of our supplies holding out, the sick calves, “Jim’s” mood, the possible intentions of a man whose footprints we have found and traced for three miles, are all topics that often recur, and few of which can be worn threadbare.

I L B.