They never found any living relative, and only late in the spring was the fate of the poor father revealed.  He and his cattle were found side by side in a deep swale, where they had foundered in the night and tempest.

As for little Flaxen, she soon recovered her cheerfulness, with the buoyancy natural to childhood, and learned to prattle in broken English very fast.  She developed a sturdy self-reliance that was surprising in one so young, and long before spring came was indispensable to the two “old baches.”

“Now, Bert,” said Ans one day, “I don’t wan’ to hear you talk in that slipshod way any longer before Flaxen.  You know better; you’ve had more chance than I have ­be’n to school more.  They ain’t no excuse for you, not an ioty.  Now, I’m goin’ to say to her, ’Never mind how I talk, but talk like Bert does.”

“Oh, say, now, look here, Ans, I can’t stand the strain.  Suppose she’d hear me swearin’ at ol’ Barney or the stove?”

“That’s jest it.  You ain’t goin’ to swear,” decided Anson; and after that Bert took the education of the little waif in hand, for he was a man of good education; his use of dialect and slang sprang mainly from carelessness.

But all the little fatherly duties and discipline fell to Anson, and much perplexed he often got.  For instance, when he bought her an outfit of American clothing at the store they were strange to her and to him, and the situation was decidedly embarrassing when they came to try them.

“Now, Flaxie, I guess this thing goes on this side before, so’s you can button it.  If it went on so, you couldn’t reach around to button it, don’t you see?  I guess you’d better try it so.  An’ this thing, I judge, is a shirt, an’ goes on under that other thing, which I reckon is called a shimmy.  Say, Bert, shouldn’t you call that a shirt?” holding up a garment.

“W-e-l-l, yes” (after a close scrutiny).  “Yes:  I should.”

“And this a shimmy?”

“Well, now, you’ve got me, Ans.  It seems to me I’ve heard the women folks home talk about shimmies, but they were always kind o’ private about it, so I don’t think I can help you out.  That little thing goes underneath, sure enough.”

“All right, here goes, Flax; if it should turn out to be hind side before, no matter.”

Then again little Flaxen would want to wear her best dress on week-days, and Ans was unable to explain.  Here again Bert came to the rescue.

“Git her one dress fer ev’ry day in the week, an’ make her wear ’em in rotation.  Hang ’em up an’ put a tag on each one ­Sunday, Monday, an’ so on.”

“Good idea.”

And it was done.  But the embarrassments of attending upon the child soon passed away; she quickly grew independent of such help, dressed herself, and combed her own hair, though Anson enjoyed doing it himself when he could find time, and she helped out not a little about the house.  She seemed to have forgotten her old life, awakening as she had from almost deathly torpor into a new home ­almost a new world ­where a strange language was spoken, where no woman was, and where no mention of her mother, father, or native land was ever made before her.  The little waif was at first utterly bewildered, then reconciled, and by the time spring came over the prairie was almost happy in the touching way of a child deprived of childish things.

Oh, how sweet spring seemed to those snow-weary people!  Day after day the sun crept higher up in the sky; day after day the snow gave way a little on the swells, and streams of water began to trickle down under the huge banks of snow, filling the ravines; and then at last came a day when a strange, warm wind blew from the northwest.  Soft and sweet and sensuous it was, as if it swept some tropic bay filled with a thousand isles ­a wind like a vast warm breath blown upon the land.  Under its touch the snow did not melt; it vanished.  It fled in a single day from the plain to the gullies.  Another day, and the gullies were rivers.

It was the “chinook,” which old Lambert, the trapper and surveyor, said came from the Pacific Ocean.

The second morning after the chinook began to blow, Anson sprang to his feet from his bunk, and standing erect in the early morning light, yelled:  “Hear that?”

“What is it?” asked Bert.

“There!  Hear it?” Anson smiled, holding up his hand joyfully as a mellow “Boom ­boom ­boom” broke through the silent air.  “Prairie-chickens!  Hurrah!  Spring has come!  That breaks the back o’ winter short off.”

“Hurrah! de ’pring ees come!” cried little Flaxen, gleefully clapping her hands in imitation.

No man can know what a warm breeze and the note of a bird can mean to him till he is released, as these men were released, from the bondage of a horrible winter.  Perhaps still more moving was the thought that with the spring the loneliness of the prairie would be broken, never again to be so dread and drear; for with the coming of spring came the tide of land-seekers pouring in:  teams scurried here and there on the wide prairie, carrying surveyors, land agents, and settlers.  At Summit trains came rumbling in by the first of April, emptying thousands of men, women, and children upon the sod, together with cattle, machinery, and household articles, to lie there roofed only by the blue sky.  Summit, from being a half-buried store and a blacksmith’s shop, bloomed out into a town with saloons, lumber-yards, hotels, and restaurants; the sound of hammer and anvil was incessant, and trains clanged and whistled night and day.

Day after day the settlers got their wagons together and loaded up, and then moved down the slope into the fair valley of the sleepy James.  Mrs. Cap Burdon did a rushing business as a hotel-keeper, while Cap sold hay and oats at rates which made the land-seekers gasp.

“I’m not out here f’r my health,” was all the explanation he ever made.

Soon all around the little shanty of Anson and Bert other shanties were built and filled with young, hopeful, buoyant souls.  The railway surveyors came through, locating a town about three and another about twelve miles away, and straightway the bitter rivalry between Boomtown and Belleplain began.  Belleplain being their town, Bert and Anson swore by Belleplain, and correspondingly derided the claims of Boomtown.

With the coming of spring began the fiercest toil of the pioneers ­breaking the sod, building, harvesting, ploughing; then the winter again, though not so hard to bear; then the same round of work again.  So the land was settled, the sod was turned over; sod shanties gave way to little frame houses; the tide of land-seekers passed on, the boom burst, but the real workers, like Wood and Gearheart, went patiently, steadily on, founding a great State.