BLACK POWDER, GRAY HOPE:
NEW AMERICANS

Chapter One

The Snow Falls Silent

     Three old gnarly oak trees stand silent guard over a small forest of aspen and birch trees that have grown since the original forest was cut down. The three oak are survivors, much too small for anyone of the early pioneers to be bothered to cut. Now, forty years later the oaks are massive twisted behemoths with bare branches. Light, flaky snow falls silent into the arms of the oaks; the white feathers make small drifts on those strong oaken branches. All around the oaks are their neighbors, birch with golden yellow leaves around their feet and aspen and elm with curled brown leaves covering the ground. It has been an unusually mild fall; a few small rain storms have knocked the last of the leaves to the ground where they remain a wet spongy mat.
     Two cherry trees stand in the small clearing near the oaks; they are testament to their stubborn endurance. A small boy named James Joel Harant planted these two trees where they would be protected by other trees, in a clearing open to the morning sun. The light snow falls into their branches; a few flakes begin to pile onto the cold hard cherries that still cling to the thin branches. Most of the snow has begun to cover the fallen fruit where it sat forgotten, beginning to rot on the ground. It is a peaceful scene until a large, four-legged animal plods slowly up to a nearby oak tree.
     It is a large Guernsey bull, named General Thomas, but nicknamed 'The General' by the young men who see to his feed and happiness. He is an aged replica of his former self, with horns on his head and gray whiskers around his snout and sagging skin where he has lost weight inside his fawn and white hide. He stands next to the oak tree for several minutes; his shoulder muscles flicker and the snow flies off his shoulders. The silence in the clearing is broken when General Thomas „huffs? loudly. He huffs twice more, as if he means to clear his throat for a speech. Then he looks around the clearing and sees the cherry trees. Something reminds him of the pleasant feeling he gets from eating rotten cherries. 'The General' walks to the trees and looks down at the snow covered fruit on the ground,
     Off to the east a break in the cloud cover allowed the sun to cast a bright yellow beam from the far horizon. The light fell on General Thomas where he stood eating cherries. The snow continued its silent fall.

*****

     “Father, he is an old bull …past his prime,” said the young man at the kitchen table. His father Patrick is a man in his prime, rough around the edges but wise in the ways of nature. He wore a floppy black fedora over his four-day whiskers. He reached up and scratched his nose. Then he looked at his wife where she stood stirring a pot on their black cook stove. She wore a flannel shirt and trousers against the cold; her red-gold hair fell in cascades of curls to her shoulders.
     “Kelsey?” said Patrick from the table.
     “Do not bring me into this,” she laughed and raised an eyebrow. Her expression was aimed at her husband Patrick, the older man sitting with his hands around a ceramic mug of coffee. Patrick had just finished shaving and combing his wet hair. She watched him stand up and move to where his flannel shirt hung on a clothes rack, almost dry.
     “That shirt is damp,” added his wife.
     “True. But I have to go fetch 'The General.' Lord knows where he has gotten to.”      Patrick began to button his shirt and smiled at his son James. “It was good of you to milk Bonnie and Blue and Belle. The milk wagon will be here shortly. You wait for the wagon, empty the cans and wash them, then drive your mother over to church.” The small community was proud of its church; Southside held ten houses, a feed store and creamery; its church was the social center of the village, just 30 miles southeast of New Ulm on the Cottonwood River.
     Patrick studied the weather and saw snow covering the ground. “First snow,” he said then reached for his black fedora hat and ignored his wife?s frown when he put the hat on. “It?ll keep the snow off my ears,” he said with a laugh. He sat down by the table, placed white cotton socks on his feet and looked at his wife. “These socks are nice and warm.” Patrick pulled on his boots, grabbed his coat and moved to the door.
     His wife Kelsey moved toward the door. “You remember the blizzard of ?73, I know you do.” Patrick stopped. She came to him and put her hands on his arms. “Be careful,” she said and turned her face to the right. He leaned forward and quietly said “Love you” and planted a kiss on her cheek.
     “Yes, dear,” he said slightly louder with a demure smile. At the kitchen table James laughed and said something about the „same old routine?. Patrick stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him. Outside the snow cover was three inches deep. He looked over at their barn where the door was shut. Snow covered the roof. His wagon was under a lean-to by the barn. He knew James would clean off any moisture before allowing his mother to sit for the trip into Southside. He reached to his left, picked up his walking stick and walked around the barn toward the north pasture.
     In the protected ground under nearby elm trees Patrick saw no evidence of General Thomas passing underneath. Farther out in the wetter grass he could see depressions filled with snow that hinted 'The General' had walked to the north. Patrick followed the depressions for fifteen, and then thirty minutes as Thomas walked out of their pasture, through a small copse of trees, across another pasture and into some uncut corn, left for the deer. The corn was partially knocked down. ‘Yes,’ thought Patrick, ‘Just like a bull in a corn field,’ and wondered if anyone would laugh at his joke.
     From his coat he produced a tin whistle and put it to his lips and blew. In times past, when he wanted the 'General' a blast on the whistle would bring him with that perturbed look a bull gets when he is disturbed during his meditations. This time there was no response.
     Patrick made a second blast on the whistle and put it into his coat. He stepped through the corn brake and followed in the general direction he believed his fourteen-year old bull would have followed. 'The Gen'ral Number 3' had been a valiant and stalwart producer for thirteen of his years, producing new calves every spring for Patrick and his neighbors. This past year the owner of the creamery imported a newer Guernsey bull, named 'Spring Storm Prince', registered in the Herd Book in Wisconsin. Thomas did not get as many requests for 'appointments' as in past years.
     Patrick walked north across the stubble of his neighbor?s wheat field without seeing any sign of Thomas. In the distance he saw a small trail that led to a stream and thought, ‘Lookin’ for a drink, were you?’ When he walked down the trail he saw heavy hoof prints in the soft mud and knew 'The General' had walked to the stream. On the bank he saw scrape marks, as if Thomas had tried to climb up the bank but was prevented by the wet mud.
     The man was anxious; there were small snow drifts on his shoulders. He looked up and down the stream. A blast of wind came from the west, blowing snow past Patrick. ‘What’s that about?’ he wondered, readily cognizant that when blizzards blew up on the prairie land of southern Minnesota, a person should not be caught on foot The wind calmed and Patrick moved down the shore, looking for signs of his great noble companion.
     About a mile further on the stream turned sharply to the north and there was a flat sandy beach. Patrick saw the deep holes made by a heavy bull climbing onto the sand then walking across the flat grassy landing. He pulled out his whistle and blew a strong din into the trees ahead. From behind him a strong wind pushing snow suddenly hit him with gale force winds. This time the blast was strong, then moderated slightly, then became a steady strong wind.
     “We are in trouble,” said Patrick as much to himself as to General Thomas. Patrick followed the trail to the east, toward a large forest on the backside of Simpson?s farm. ‘That’s another mile,’ he thought, vaguely aware of the snow blowing past him. He drove his hands into his pocket and pulled out his gloves, but then touched his cheek. It felt very cold. ‘Strange,’ he thought, 'it does not get this cold in December.’ A neighbor had once proclaimed that if your cheek feels cold and hard the temperature may be below 10 degrees Fahrenheit. Patrick put on his gloves, grabbed his walking stick and set off for Simpson?s forest, determined to find his old bull.
     “Three days from now we begin a new century,” he said then added “you old fool, wandering around out here looking for what? Wheat? Barley?” He stopped walking when he realized he could not see Simpson?s forest. The blowing snow was now a white-out, tons of accumulated fluffy frozen moisture blowing straight across the fields. “Or maybe I should refer to myself as an old fool?”
     Patrick walked forward trying to keep his bearing. The tops of trees appeared above the white blast and he walked into the shelter of the trees. Ahead he saw the tops of a large oak tree and wondered if General Thomas would be near it. Outside the forest the wind speed increased. An unusual high pressure cell approached from the northwest, pushing the wind into gusts of 40 to 50 miles per hour, while the thermometer fell below zero. The newspapers would later describe the blizzard of December 28, 1899 as a quick attack with formidable winds inside freezing temperatures