McCutchen
and Miller were the only ones able to do anything toward saving the poor
creatures who were huddled together at the miserable camp. All the other
men were completely disheartened by the fearful calamity which had
overtaken them. But for the untiring exertions of these two men, death
to all would have been certain. McCutchen had on four shirts, and yet he
became so chilled while trying to kindle the fire, that in getting warm
he burned the back out of his shirts. He only discovered the mishap by
the scorching and burning of his flesh.
What a picture of desolation was presented to the inmates of Starved
Camp during the next three days! It stormed incessantly. One who has not
witnessed a storm on the Sierra can not imagine the situation. A
quotation from Bret Harte's "Gabriel Conroy" will afford the best idea
of the situation:
"Snow. Everywhere. As far as the eye could reach fifty miles, looking
southward from the highest white peak. Filling ravines and gulches, and
dropping from the walls of canyons in white shroud-like drifts,
fashioning the dividing ridge into the likeness of a monstrous grave,
hiding the bases of giant pines, and completely covering young trees and
larches, rimming with porcelain the bowl-like edges of still, cold
lakes, and undulating in motionless white billows to the edge of the
distant horizon.
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