AS YOU HAVE GUESSED by the fact that you are reading my Last Will & Testament and this account of my short & wretched life, my career as a hermit ended in failure.

When Violetta said all those cruel things it hurt almost as much as being sawed in half might have done.

So I got angry. I discovered long ago that there is not enough space in my heart for anger and hurt both.

Being angry made my vision clear and the knot melt away from my throat.

Being angry made me feel strong.

Being angry almost made me happy.

When I got out of that mill house I ran through the woods & over the stream & across the meadow to where Cheeya stood tugging mouthfuls of cold, sweet grass with a loud crunching noise.

He looked up at me as I came near. I threw my arms around his neck. He felt strong & warm & calm. He snorted down the back of my neck as if to say, “Where were you?”

“I hate people,” I said in Lakota. “I hate them all. Let’s get out of here.”

I swung up onto his back & looked around. Clouds were coming from the west and they smelt full of snow, so I pointed Cheeya east & we went back the way we had come: down the trail called Johnson’s Cutoff & through King’s Canyon towards Carson City.

But we were not going to Carson.

We were heading towards the desert, which is where hermits like Blue Supper live.

Soon we had left King’s Canyon behind and were fairly flying across flat, scrubby ground. Cheeya & I avoided the Toll Roads and kept to the places where sagebrush grew. Nobody saw us, and nobody knew where we were.

We had only been riding a few hours when the clouds caught up with us & the temperature dropped like a brick in a bucket. By and by, the first flurries of flakes began to swirl around me and Cheeya. It was fast becoming a blizzard.

I know from my childhood in the Black Hills that blizzards can keep you trapped for months. Sometimes all winter. That was why my Indian ma and I would shelter in towns from November to May. Like it or not, I had to swallow my desire to be a hermit and head back for Carson. But I had barely turned Cheeya south when the flakes began to fall, so fast and thick that I could hardly see.

I slowed Cheeya to a walk, fearful of a combined threat of quicksand and snow.

This blizzard would kill me as surely as being buzzed in half.

We rode for a while longer, going slower and slower.

Suddenly a small house loomed up out of the whiteness.

Praise God! We were saved!

Then my heart sank. Coming closer, I could see it was only a roofed wagon partly sunk into the sand & leaning over. On the side were letters that read: HABERSHAM’S ELIXIR.

I guessed Mr. Habersham or one of his drummers had decided to avoid the Toll Roads like me and got stuck in the sand and his axle broke so he unhitched his mule or horse and rode for help. That must have been a while ago, for the writing on the side was peeling and faded.

There were no wheels on that wagon and as I dismounted and peered inside, I saw that someone had pulled up the boards at the bottom so that big box rested right on the sand. They had probably chopped up the floorboards and wheels for firewood.

Cheeya is not tall, so there was just about room for both of us to squeeze inside. I made Cheeya back in so he could look out at the snowy blizzard.

There had once been a padded seat at the front for the driver. Someone had pulled this off & put it inside to make a sort of couch or short bed. That same someone—or maybe someone else—had also dug a fire pit near the open front under a kind of wooden overhang. I saw traces of burnt sagebrush in it. Someone had sheltered here before: maybe a hermit, like Blue Supper.

I was thinking these things as I took off Cheeya’s saddle & vigorously brushed the snow off him with my gloved hands. (I was glad of Mrs. Murphy’s black gloves and the woolen scarf I had borrowed.) When we were both a little warmed by my stroking him, I unfolded his saddle blanket & shook it out & spread it over his back.

Next I went outside in the silently swirling snow & used the sharp end of my Indian ma’ s flint knife to cut some sagebrush. Then I used that same knife to clear out the fire pit at the entrance of the shelter. I filled that square pit with sagebrush. I made tinder by taking some fluff from Cheeya’s blanket & mixing it with some of the tender parts of the tops of sage. I put it in a curved piece of sagebrush bark & used a Lucifer in my pocket to light it. When the flame was burning steadily in the bark, I put this kindling in with the sage until I had a nice fire going. I kept adding sagebrush. After about an hour I had that pit filled to the brim with glowing coals. That fire would keep me and Cheeya warm all night.

Also, I could make water by putting snow in my slouch hat and holding it over that fire until the snow melted. You have to warm water made of melted snow or it will chill you.

I gave Cheeya a good drink of lukewarm water from my hat. I also gave him my last pieces of maple sugar but I kept the three pieces of jerky for my own supper. Then I sat by the fire and when I was warm enough I began to write this account.

The good thing about sagebrush is that it makes hot coals with hardly any smoke so it did not vex Cheeya, who had been badly spooked by a fire two months before.

The bad thing about this fire is that it is a futile attempt to extend my sad & sorry life by another few days.