Petaluma High School - Trojans Yearbook (Petaluma, CA)

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(Senior Prize Story) T HE snow was swirling down so thick that one could hardly see six feet ahead. It was miserably cold. The wind blew the icy flakes blindingly into the face of Paul Baxter, who, on bis snow shoes, was floundering through the loose, unpacked drifts. Paul was afraid, not of the snow and the forest, but of death. Less than a year ago he had been working on his father’s farm in Michigan, the diaft came, he was selected, and would have had to go to war, hut lie was afraid, so he slipped into Canada, bought some traps, supplies, and a gun, and penetrated the Northern wilds. Winter had not set in yet, so Paul hunted and fished, meanwhile going deeper into the wilder¬ ness. During his northern journey he met Pierre Fontac. Pierre was also a trapper. One person gets very lonely during the long, cold winters of the north, so Pierre and Paul agreed to work and live together. They built their cabin and settled down for the winter, which was soon to come. They got their traps ready and then passed the time hunting and fishing. ()ne cold night Pierre said, “Tomorrow there will be snow. Soon we can get work. ’’ Sure enough, the next morning the ground was covered with a white mantle. Winter had set in. In a week, there was a foot of well packed snow on the ground and Pierre and Paul started out in opposite directions to set their traps. They planned their courses so that they would form semi-circles joining opposite the camp. Thus they would always return together from the tending of the traps. Late that night they came in tired, but happy. They had seen man tracks that day and things looked hopeful for the coming winter. ' - Tlie next day as they were lounging about camp waiting for time to In ing results, a stranger appeared at the door. He explained that he had a camp further north, but that he had decided to go to war, and was on his way to enlist. I aul thought that he had escaped all chance of hearing of the war but apparently lie had not. As it had turned colder, the stranger decided to spend the night with them, much to Paul’s displeasure. He had no liking for this person who reminded him of that which he was endeavoring to escape, so he crept into his bunk early. The next morning when Paul awoke, he found Pierre and the sti anger up. 1 hey were cooking breakfast and appeared to be in a hurry. — 24 —

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THE ENTERPRISE ’18 ness of his escaping now; nevertheless, determined to do his father’s bidding, he headed straight for the remaining German ,trying to force a collision and take the chances of reaching the ground alive. But the gunner’s aim was true, and a bullet hit him, causing his machine to swerve, lose its balance and crash to the ground. When he was picked up his first thought was for his Bible and he motioned to his rescuers to remove it from the pocket in his coat. As they did so, his lips moved, and stooping nearer, these were the words that they heard faintly, “Boys, send this home—and—keep me facing,” his hand pointed to the front line of trenches, “there — and tell the folks that I died — game.” Here his lips relaxed and a faint smile crept over his face as his eyes closed forever. At home, in front of the fire, sat the old folks again; his father reading the paper and his mother still knitting the sweater. “Alec, do you suppose that our boy is still facing the enemy?” said his mother, looking up from her work. “Sure, he is,” Alec answered, “He’ll NEVER turn his back to -Here he stopped short and his face turned white as his eyes gazed wildly at the paper before him. Then slowly, with a trembling finger, he pointed out the following lines in the Casualty List as he handed the paper to his wife: DIED IN ACTION: Capt. Alec Sinclair. Killed in air combat with four German planes. Three planes destroyed before he was killed. His last words were, “Tell the folks I died game.” Tears filled both the parents’ eyes as they read, and they sat look¬ ing long into the fire. Then slowly, with faltering steps old Alec Sin¬ clair came over to his wife’s chair and put his arm about her shoulders, and together they gazed at the picture of their boy. At last he said, “Capt. Alec, my boy, we’re proud of you; you kept your face to the enemy. God bless you, my son.” A few days later a small package came to the old couple. Wlien they opened it, they found a small Bible, with a bullet hole in one corner, and this note: “Capt. Sinclair received only one wound — in front.” Over there, Somewhere in France is a grave on the side of a hill which slopes toward the enemy, and on the grave at its head is the fol¬ lowing inscription:: Captain Alec Sinclair, He Still Faces The Enemy. CHARLES WILSON, ’19. — 23 —

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THE ENTERPRISE ’18 “Paul,” said Pierre after breakfast, “I had a talk with our friend last night and I have decided to go with him to war. Do you go with us?” “I—no, I—I can’t,” faltered Paul. “All right, I give you my traps. Good-bye,” and swinging packs of provisions on their shoulders and taking their guns, Pierre and the stranger departed. Paul stood in the door and watched them go. Finally they disap¬ peared over a low hill. As he slowly turned to go in, the mournful cry of the timber wolf echoed through the woods. He was alone — alone in the North Woods. The following morning Paul started out to make a round of his traps. Now that there was only one to do the work it would be much harder, so he decided to bring some of them in closer to camp. It would take at least two days to do this, so he took supplies with him. Paul did not anticipate that the traps would be so well filled. His success led him to believe that perhaps it would be better not to move them. He therefore decided that when he reached the point where Pierre’s course met his he would build a rough shelter, where he could store the pelts which he collected on the first half of his journey. By the time Paul reset his traps and reached the halfway point, it was quite late. He now noticed for the first time that it was colder and that the sky was darkly overcast. After eating heartily of his supplies, he crawled in under some overhanging pine branches, rolled up in his blanket and went to sleep. To-morrow he would build his shack. Late in the night he awoke. Snow was falling fast. The wind was whistling through the trees. It was miserably cold. The cry of the wolf again reached his ears. The sharp-fanged animals were getting hungry, now that the snow covered all the food. No, tomorrow he must not build his shelter; he must push on and save the furs in his traps from destruction. In the morning it was still colder. The snow had piled up in large drifts and was still falling. Paul may have been afraid of death, but he was not afraid of hardships, so placing his furs high in a tree out of harm’s way he pushed on. Anyhow it would be easier to keep warm by moving than by lying under a shelter. Paul Baxter had never before been in a northern blizzard. His traps were filled, but he made poor progress that day, not covering half of the distance. It was still snowing and getting colder all the time. He could not stop now. If he did, it would mean certain death. He must keep on until lie reached his camp. The cry of the wolf was much near¬ er to-night. Throwing away his coveted furs he struggled on, lighting matches that he might be able to read his compass and thus keep on the right trail. Behind, the wolf cry was becoming very clear and close. It was here that we first met Paul. It was all he could do to drasr one — 25 —