"Never heard of anyone who could beat a blizzard," Jack Dryden reflected, squatting before his potbellied stove. Methodically, he piled in coal and struck a match on his boot's sole. He held his frozen hands toward the flames. "The prairie is ruthless, son, particularly in winter."
Clem sat stiff-backed in his chair. Whacky Jacky scared him. Most of the town folk avoided the old trapper. One never knew how to react to a sudden movement or an incorrect statement. He was known to break up a saloon over nothing less than a wrong word in an overheard conversation.
"Move your family into town the first chance you get," Jacky continued, facing Clem. His shaggy gray hair surrounded his face like an unruly cloud. Tobacco juice stained his equally raggedy whiskers. "There's safety in numbers, young man. Leave the open prairies to those who know the land."
Clem believed he could winter it out on his claim. The shanty and surrounding land were all he owned in the world. If he left it, claim jumpers might move in during the spring rush. He discussed it with Clara, and both agreed to remain.
The previous spring, claim jumpers killed a man who had wintered in town. When the snow let up, he rode out to check his property only to find a few roughneck squatters living in his shanty. He confronted them, and they shot him at point-blank range.
Their claim contained everything the Holmes owned. They would have to start over again if they lost it to claim jumpers. It would mean returning to Cincinnati in defeat.
"Where you from?" Whacky Jacky broke into his thoughts.
Clem looked up, startled. For a moment, he stared at his companion without recognizing him. Then, his mind focused, and he glared at Jack Dryden.
"Cincinnati," the new pioneer responded, "born and raised."
"Easy living in Cinci," Dryden remarked. "Ain't never been that far east. Born on the Oregon trail in Nebraska territory. Pa was a fur trader, and Ma a half-breed. Been roaming about the west half of the continent all my life. Spent a season in California mining for gold and a summer up in the Yukon. This country ain't for tenderfeet. Take my advice: winter in town. Next spring, hightail it back to O-HI-O."
Clem Holmes bristled. He did not appreciate Jack Dryden's suggestion. Determined to succeed, he decided to remain in Dakota territory. Regardless of the hardships, he planned to build his claim into a working farm. He would plant a wheat crop and a vegetable garden in the spring.
In a small wooden box, Clara kept a collection of seed packets. Next fall, they would reap carrots, corn, potatoes, turnips, and string beans. Diligently, the family would work together to plant in the spring and harvest in the fall.
As the family prospered, their shanty would expand. Clara dreamed of a kitchen addition; Clem longed for a private bedroom—and perhaps upstairs rooms for Jess and Matt. The children were growing up and would require their privacy.
"The Holmes aren't quitters, Mr. Dryden," Clem announced, holding his ground. "We aim to settle in this country. The government's giving us this land on a bet. It's a bet we're going to win."
"Suit yourself, Mister," his companion snarled, jabbing his pipe in Clem's direction. Then, he poked the smoking device in his mouth and scratched a match on his bootsole. He touched the flame to his tobacco and puffed. "You ain't suited for life this side of the Mississip. Go home while you can."
"I aim to stay," Clem cried indignantly. "Half the folks out here ain't suited for life west of the Mississip. We're going to stay, and we're going to build up this country—whether you like it or not."
Rising, the pioneer struggled into his coat and strode toward the door. He had no intention of arguing with the crazy frontiersman. Angrily, he yanked open the door and stepped outside. The blizzard wind howled past, nearly knocking his feet from under him. Clem slammed it closed and leaned against it. His heartbeat panicked in his thin chest.
Clem Holmes sank to the floor and pulled his knees up. Wearily, he rested his chin on them. Above him, Dryden loomed. He did not know which was worse: facing the storm or remaining in the shanty.
