EARLY the following morning several hundred searchers were at the scene of the snow slide in Cow Creek Canyon. Every precaution was taken not to have anyone walk along near the rim of the gorge a thousand feet above. There were still hundreds of thousands of tons of snow on the narrow plateau at the top, which any disturbance, even no greater than a stone thrown by the hands of a child, might start moving. If another slide should occur it would overwhelm and crush the intrepid searchers below.

A systematic probing of the snow with long iron rods had been begun at once and kept up perseveringly until three o’clock in the afternoon. Then one of the searchers touched clothing or something with his rod. The snow was quickly shoveled aside, and at a depth of about seven feet the body of Grant Jones was found lying flat upon his back with his right arm stretched out above his head, the left doubled under him. The face was quite natural—it wore a peaceful smile. None of his clothing had been disturbed or tom—even his cap and his skis were in place. The poor fellow had simply been crushed to death or smothered by the many tons of snow.

Immediately a makeshift sled was constructed by strapping two skis together sideways. On this the body was taken up the steep hills by a cautiously selected route to Battle, three and a half miles away, and thence on to Encampment, twelve miles farther, the improvised sled being drawn all the way by strong and willing men of the hills. Accompanying the remains were Roderick Warfield, Jim Rankin, Boney Earnest, and other faithful friends, while following came a great cortege of miners, mill hands, and mountaineers.

It was midnight before the mournful procession reached town. And awaiting it even at that late hour was a dense crowd, standing with bared heads and tear-stained faces. For in all the hill country the name of Grant Jones was a household word. His buoyant good-nature was recognized by everyone, and probably he did not have an enemy in all southern Wyoming where his brief manhood life had been spent. Fully a thousand people, of both sexes, of all classes and all ages, formed the escort of the little funeral sled on its last stage to the undertaker’s establishment. Here the body was received by Major Buell Hampton and the Reverend Stephen Grannon. It had been the Major’s duty that day to seek out the clergyman and bring him down in a sledge from the hills to administer the last sad rites for their dear dead friend.

Next day the search was resumed for Grady’s remains. Bud Bledsoe it was known had escaped—the Major had seen him running downhill after the disaster and others had tracked his footprints, to lose them in a clump of timber. So there was only one more body to be recovered. The task of probing with the long iron rods went on for several hours. The searchers knew the necessity of working both carefully and with speed, for another snow slide was imminent. And at last it came, toward the noon hour. But warning had been passed along, so that no lives were sacrificed, the only result being to pile a veritable mountain of snow over the spot where Grady’s body presumably lay. The search was abandoned, without regret on anyone’s part; in the spring the avalanche would give up its dead; until then the mortal remains of the unpopular and disgraced capitalist could well remain in their temporary sepulchre of snow, “unwept, unhonored, and unsung.”

But for Grant Jones there was public mourning, deep, sincere, and solemn. Toward evening the whole town of Encampment seemed to be wending their way to the little church where the Reverend Stephen Gran-non was to preach the funeral sermon. And these are the words which the venerable Flockmaster spoke to the hushed and sorrowing congregation.

“My friends, our hearts today commune with the battalions who have ‘crossed over.’ Love broods above the sleeping dust in a service of tears. The past is a dream—the future a mystery. Sometimes the tides of dissolution creep upon us silently. Again they are as stormy seas and rough breakers that sweep all with reckless cruelty into oblivion. But whether the parting be one way or the other, in peacefulness or in the savagery of a storm, to loving hearts it is ever a tragedy.

“The grief which is ours today is as old as the ages. It brings us into fellowship with the centuries. We know now why Eve wept for Abel and David lamented Absalom. Death is the most ancient sculptor in the world. Ever since men lived and died, death has made each grave a gallery and filled it with a silent statue. Death hides faults and magnifies virtues. Death conceals the failings of those who have passed while lovingly and enduringly chiselling their noble traits of character.

“Centuries of philosophy have not succeeded in reconciling men to the sorrows of dissolution. Death makes us all equal with a mutual sorrow. We cannot forget our friend who rests here in his final sleep. In happy symbolism his shroud was whitest snow, and love thrills our hearts with sympathetic memory. Such love is the kindest service of the soul.

“Affection for those who have departed has built the mausoleums of the world and makes every monument an altar of grief. Whether the hope of immortality is a revelation or an intuition is not under consideration today. Each man believeth for himself. We know that primitive man away back in Egypt buried his dead on the banks of the Nile and thought of immortality. We know that love throughout the ages has touched the heart with its wings, and hope from the beginning to the end whispers to us that ‘if a man die he shall live again.’ I believe that the doctrine of evolution gives a potent hope of immortality. Evolution takes the mud of the lake and makes a water lily—the hollow reed in the hand of the savage grows into a modern flute—the rude marks of primitive man in the stone age become poems and anthems in our own age. If mist can become stars—if dust can become worlds—if the immortality of biology is a truism—if love can come from sensations, if the angel of the brain can spring into being from simple cells, why then cannot the soul endure forever although undergoing transitions in the course of its divine development?

“I believe in the immortality of the soul. I believe in the religion of humanity. Yes, on the far away rim of eternity, Faith seeks a beckoning hand and the human heart pulses anew with inspiration and unfaltering belief in the immortality of the soul. Let us believe there are songs sung and harps touched and kisses given and greetings exchanged in that other world. It is better that all other words should turn to ashes upon the lips of man rather than the word immortality. Our hearts once filled with this belief—this great truth—then every tear becomes a jewel, the darkest night flees before the breaking dawn and every hope turns into reality.

“Before us, my friends, lies the dust of the dead—Grant Jones. Away from home—away from father and mother, brother and sister—far up in these hills where the shoulders of the mountains are clothed with treacherous banks of sliding snow—he was here seeking to carve out a destiny for himself, in the morning of early manhood. The Kismet of his life, clothed in mystery, caused him to lay down his tools and leave to others his but partially accomplished mission. He was journeying upward toward life’s mountain-crest—already the clouds were below him and the stars about him. For do we not know from his gifted writings that this man held communion with the gods? His heart beat full of loftiest hope. And then—even before high twelve—he fell asleep. He is gone; but a myriad of memories of his achievements gather thick about us. We see him as he was, and this virion will abide with us throughout the years.

“He was a student and a scholar. He read books that had souls in them—he read books that converse with the hearts of men and speak to them of an exalted life—a life that unfolds an ethical and a higher duty incumbent upon the children of men. He knew much about the literature of his day—was acquainted with the great authors through their writings. Keats was his favorite poet, Victor Hugo his favorite prose author and ‘Les MisÉrables’ his favorite book. Music had a thrilling charm for him. To his heart it was the language of the eternal. He heard songs in the rocks of towering cliffs, in primeval forests, in deep gorges, in night winds, in browned grasses and in tempestuous storms and in the pebbled mountain brooks.

“We need have no fear for his future, my friends—with him all is well. A heroic soul, a matchless man, cannot be lost. His heart was a fountain of love. Virtue was his motto—hope his star—love his guide. Farewell, Grant, farewell. When with the silent boatman we too shall cross the river of death and steal away into the infinite, we believe that you will be standing there in the rosy dawn of eternity to welcome us, to renew the sweet ties of love and friendship that here on earth have bound our hearts to yours.”

Thus spoke the Reverend Stephen Grannon, the Flockmaster of the Hills.