He stopped attending gatherings.
He avoided town whenever possible.
And when neighbors suggested he might someday marry again, he looked at them so coldly that they never mentioned it twice.
Eventually, even the people who remembered him as a friendly young rancher began describing him as a strange mountain man.
He didn't care.
Being feared was easier than being pitied.
Then came the winter of 1882.
A brutal storm descended on the mountains while he was returning from a hunting trip.
He had crossed the northern ridge many times before.
But that afternoon, the weather changed with terrifying speed.
Wind erased his tracks.
Snow blinded him.
His horse slipped on an icy slope, throwing him into a shallow stream.
The horse scrambled free and disappeared into the storm.
He managed to climb out, but his clothing was soaked and one glove had been torn away.
His left hand began freezing almost immediately.
He wrapped it in his scarf.
He tried to follow the ridge.
Then he lost the trail.
By nightfall, he could barely feel his feet.
His breathing had become shallow.
Every step required more effort than the one before.
He stumbled through drifts deeper than his knees, searching for anything resembling shelter.
Then he saw a light.
At first, he thought it was a star.
Then he realized it was moving.
A lantern.
He dragged himself toward it.
The last thing he remembered clearly was reaching a rough wooden door and striking it with his fist.
Then someone opened it.
A woman's voice cried out.
And darkness swallowed him.
For years, he believed that woman might have been an invention of his fevered mind.
He remembered fragments.
A soft voice telling him to swallow broth.
A cool cloth against his forehead.
A fire crackling nearby.
And enormous, gentle hands adjusting the blankets around him.
Sometimes he thought he remembered singing.
Other times he thought he remembered a woman laughing at something ridiculous he said while delirious.
But the details never formed a complete picture.
When his fever finally broke, he woke alone on a narrow cot near a dying fire.
There was a bowl of broth beside him, clean bandages around his injured hand, and a note telling him where to find food and water.
He waited for the person who had helped him.
Nobody came.
After several hours, he decided he needed to reach his ranch before another storm arrived.
He left what money he possessed on the table, wrote a brief note of thanks, and departed.