Usually the Spirit Speaks in a Still, Small Voice, But This Time it Whistled
During the entire winter of 1925, following the birth of Wilma, I hauled posts and wood from the west side of Bunkerville Mountain. On one trip I stopped as usual at the Whitney Pockets for noon. I watered my horses and fed them a bit of grain and had cooked dinner for myself. Afterward I hitched up and started on. Just after leaving the campground the road crossed a little wash and went up a sidling dugway. Just as I got to the top of the hill I heard a shrill whistle like someone wanted me to stop. (It was the custom for travelers meeting in the desert to always stop and exchange information and news and a whistle was this signal.) I looked all around but could see no one. I climbed on the high ledges so I could see in every direction, but could still see no one.
It was in the days of Queho. He had killed three men and one woman five or six years previously and had never been captured. He was still in the country so I was very nervous.
I walked back down the road and as I was going down the dugway I mentioned earlier I found that my bedroll had fallen from the wagon. When I had taken my grub box out to prepare dinner, I had set my bedroll on the water barrel and had neglected to put back down in the wagon. A feeling of peace came over me and I knew it was all right to go on. It would have been serious if I had arrived in the snow-covered mountains without my bedroll. A little thing, but it goes to show how the Lord looks after us. The still, small voice often speaks to us, but this time it whistled.
