The Children's Blizzard(16)

In the winter, the worst indication was one for a “cold wave,” which meant that a front of plunging temperatures following significant snow was to be expected. Today’s indication had not called for a cold wave. No warning flags would have been raised to warn anyone—but even if they had been, Gavin knew, they were of little help except to those living within sight of a train station. Or those who had access to one of the major newspapers, like the Bee.

Homesteaders, naturally, did not.

“The readings last night and this morning didn’t indicate this, this—this disturbance from the west,” Corporal Findlay sputtered. “At least as far as I know. I’m not the one in charge, that’s Woodruff. Well, actually, Greely in Washington.”

“Readings?” An old farmer—Sam Benson—guffawed. “What the hell does that mean? I can predict the weather just by looking at the sky.”

    “Did you predict this?” Findlay shot back.

Benson didn’t say another word.

“Trust the red man when it comes to weather,” Ol’ Lieutenant chimed in as he pulled out a book—Silas Marner. The man was famous for reading whenever he wasn’t pouring liquor; the book looked ridiculous in his giant hands the color of spring mud. He wore glasses, perched way down on the end of his nose; the glasses, with his tight, short coils of grey hair, gave him the look of a quiet schoolteacher. A look completely at odds with the rumors that he’d once shot ten Indians while out on patrol, even with his trigger hand bandaged after a horse bit him. Those Buffalo Soldiers sure were tough sons of bitches, Gavin knew. They had to be, back in the day. And now here was Ol’ Lieutenant trying to better himself by reading books that men like Gavin had read long ago, in the quiet halls of eastern schools. You had to admire a man like that.

“Did you see any of them in town today?” Ol’ Lieutenant asked, without glancing up from the page of his book.

There was silence as, one by one, men shook their heads.

“That means they knew.”

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to plan my life around whether or not the Injuns come into town?” somebody asked, to the collected chuckles of men who normally spared no thoughts for the Natives now that they were all safely corralled on their reservations, only venturing out, with passes granted to them by their military guards, to sometimes sell their wares in town.

“It isn’t letting up any,” Forsythe said, pacing back and forth from the windows to the bar.

Findlay got up and started putting on his coat. “I need to get the latest readings in and telegraph them to Saint Paul.” He left without a word; the other men just shook their heads, still not willing to give this newfangled weather prediction any merit.

    Of course, every man there recognized that it would be beneficial to know what the weather was going to be like from day to day. But out here on the plains, weather didn’t cooperate like it did in the East, where you could look at the western sky, lick a finger and hold it up to the wind, sniff the air, and plan your day. Here, the weather might blow down straight from the Arctic Circle or roar up from the Gulf of Mexico or march in steadily from the Pacific, and sometimes it did all three at once.

No civilized man could indicate it—not even an army man.

“I wonder if I should go to the schoolhouse,” one shopkeeper mused, looking worried. “Davey can’t walk home in this alone.”

“They won’t let school out in this kind of weather,” someone assured him.

“But maybe they will. That damn schoolteacher’s from the East, he don’t know our weather.”

“I’m worried about my horse,” Johnny Swanson fretted. “I don’t like leaving her out there in this, if it ain’t blowing over. I’m gone, gentlemen.” And he threw on his hat and coat, opening the door and letting in a cold blast of air and snow that made more than a few swear. Others, thinking about their horses tied up to the hitching posts, too, followed him. So did Davey’s father, the shopkeeper.

“That sleighing party, that’s what’s on my mind,” Forsythe said quietly, as he drummed his fingers on the bar next to Gavin.

Gavin jerked his head up from his second shot of whiskey. “Damn. That’s right. They’re out there in this.”

    The two men exchanged looks. Then Gavin downed that shot, threw some money on the bar, and shrugged his arms back into his coat as Forsythe pulled his on.

“You two are going out in this? What are you, heroes?” Ol’ Lieutenant snorted; the newspapermen were not exactly respected in a town like Omaha, where people were suspicious of those who made their living trading words, not goods. Gavin snorted. These rubes.

“Hardly.” He could already imagine the headline—Great Loss of Life! A Day of Pleasure Turns Deadly! Sleighing Party Becomes Funeral Party!

And he didn’t have to worry about Forsythe getting the headline alone this time; a storm like this was big enough for the two of them. Maybe this was it—maybe this was the event that would get Gavin back to New York, finally. A storm of epic, tragic proportions—the stories would write themselves! Pulitzer would have to bring him back to the fold; already he was thinking of how many ways he could describe what the wind was doing—roaring, blowing, pummeling, assaulting, punching, whistling, screaming…