“My man is terrible profane at times. Some men go and get drunk now and again to relieve their feelings, but my man don’t do that. He just swears something awful, and when it’s all over he’s all right again. He was awful to you, but when he found out you didn’t hear him, he was terrible shocked, and came out of his mad like the man in the Scriptures. He met his match at last, and I do hope he’ll quit.”
I have heard that the Indians never torture or mutilate a deaf man. They seem to think that he is specially protected by the Great Spirit. Here was a white man with much the same feeling, and I have seen a like forbearance in other cases. I think the great majority of human beings seldom or never take deliberate advantage of the hard of hearing; they may be amused at our blunders or annoyed by our mistakes, but they hesitate to treat us with the severity they could justly accord one in full possession of his faculties. Some deaf man could probably point to bitter personal experiences, but this is my own feeling. The above encounter also helps to prove what I feel to be a psychological truth—that most of our fear comes as a result of sounds registered by the brain. I frankly confess that if I could have heard this big man I should not have gone within a hundred and fifty feet of him. I shall discuss this phase of fear later; but I learned early in my affliction that:
“Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.”
One January night I was caught out in a Colorado blizzard. Only those who have felt and seen the icy blasts pour down out of the mountain canyons and roar over the plains, driving the hard flakes like the volley from a thousand machine guns, can realize what it means to face such a blast. The cattle turn from such a wind and drift before it, half-frozen, heads lowered, moaning with pain. A herd of horses will bunch together, heads at the center, ready to lash out at the wolves. I was riding carelessly, rubbing my frosted ears, when the pony stepped into a prairie-dog hole, fell and threw me into the snow. Then with a snort, reins dragging, he started at a wild run directly into the storm. I stood in the snow, in the midst of whirling blackness, with nothing to guide me except the rapidly filling tracks of the deserting horse. I knew he was headed for home, and I followed as best I could, feeling for his tracks in the snow. After wading for a few rods, I saw far ahead what seemed like a dim star, close to the earth. It grew brighter as I approached, and sooner than I expected I stumbled upon a small group of buildings and a sod corral—The star proved to be the light in the house window. My horse stood with drooping head in front of the door.