es and coyotes throve
that winter, for the steers, imprisoned in the heavy snow, furnished
an easy "kill." Sage chickens were smothered under the drifts, rabbits
were smothered in their holes.

It was a winter of continuous and unspeakable tragedy. Men rode out
into the storms and never reached their destinations, wandering
desperately in circles and sinking down at last, to be covered like
the cattle with the merciless snow. Children lost their way between
ranch-house and stable and were frozen to death within a hundred yards
of their homes. The "partner" of Jack Snyder, a pleasant "Dutchman,"
whom Roosevelt knew well, died and could not be buried, for no pick
could break through that iron soil; and Snyder laid him outside the
cabin they had shared, to remain there till spring came, covered also
by the unremitting snow.

Here and there a woman went off her head. One such instance was
productive of a piece of unconscious humor that, in its grimness, was
in key with the rest of that terrible winter:

Dear Pierre [wrote a friend to Wibaux, who had gone to
France for the winter, leaving his wife in charge of the
ranch].--No news, except that Dave Brown killed Dick Smith
and your wife's hired girl blew her brains out in the
kitchen. Everything O.K. here.

Yours truly
Henry JACKSON

Early in March, after a final burst of icy fury, a quietness came into
the air, and the sun, burning away the haze that lay over it, shone
down once more out of a blue sky. Slowly the temperature rose, and
then one day, never to be forgotten, there came a warm moistness into
the atmosphere. Before night fell, the "Chinook" was pouring down from
beyond the mountains, releasing the icy tension and softening all
things.

Last Sunday [the Dickinson _Press_ recorded, on March 5th]
the welcome Chinook wind paid us a visit, and before noon
the little rills were trickling down the hills and the brown
herbage began to appear through the snow in every direction;
the soft, balmy wind fanning the cheek brought memories and
hopes of spring to the winter-wearied denizens of our
community.

"Within a day or so," said Lincoln Lang afterward, "the snow had
softened everywhere. Gullies and wash-outs started to run with
constantly increasing force, until at length there was a steady roar
of running water, with creeks out of bo