All language subtitles for Death Valley Days S02E13 - Snowshoe Thompson

And now, Death Valley Days.

Hyah! Yah!

Yah! Yah!

Howdy, folks.
I'm the Old Ranger,

and I have another
interesting true story for you

about the historic
Death Valley country.

Our story tonight is dedicated

to the mail carriers
of the United States,

in memory of one of the most
remarkable and heroic men

who ever performed
this service...

It is a December night in 1855.

In the general store
of Placerville,

a gold camp on the slopes
of the snow-covered Sierras,

Jim Singleton, the storekeeper,

is just announcing the
engagement of his niece, Agnes,

to a young, Norwegian-born
rancher, John Thompson.

Hooray!

To the future
Mr. and Mrs. Thompson.

A long life and a happy one.

Hey, Fred Daniels.
Mr. Mining Recorder.

Glasses up.

Just because
the best man won here...

You keep out of this.

Major Chorpenning.
With the mail from the East.

You're almost two weeks overdue.

I'm lucky to be here at all.

I'll go out and unpack for
you. There's nothing to unpack.

Where's the mail?
Somewhere in the Sierras.

You left the mail up there?

I left more than that up there.

My partner, Ab Woodward.

Scalped by Injuns.

Last time I ever try to cross
those mountains in winter.

Snow 30 to 40 feet deep,

and cold.

Our pack animals all froze.

Here. Oh, no.

This is my last run.

What about your contract
with the government?

They can't hold me to it.

The job's impossible.
It pays good money.

$1,200 a trip. With your choice

of freezing to death
or being scalped.

Or being caught by an avalanche.

Nope. I'm all finished.

Nobody'll blame you, Major.

But it will be disappointing
not getting news from the East.

Letters piling up just
the other side of the Sierras.

What it actually means
is that we'll be cut off

from all overland communication
with the states.

Then suppose you
try it, Mr. Daniels.

I was just stating a fact.

It's getting late, John.

I'll see you home.

When do you two
plan to be married?

As soon as I get a house
built on my ranch.

He's already started
cutting the timber for it.

I'm going out there tomorrow.

It should be finished by spring.

Oh, that's nice.

Good night. Good
night. Good night.

I have a cherry bureau
which belonged to my mother,

and a platform rocker,

and a lovely walnut sideboard

that came all the way
around the Horn.

We can add to them,
John, as we, uh...

John? You're not listening.

I was thinking about Chorpenning
abandoning the mail service.

It seems a pity.
But if it's impossible

for him to get across
the mountains, John...

Men in Norway travel
the mountains in winter.

In snow as deep as the Sierras.

Cold even more intense.

On skis. I had my first pair
as soon as I could walk.

"Skis"? What do they look like?

I haven't seen any since I came
to this country as a boy of ten.

But I remember them perfectly.

I'm going to try it. Try what?

To make a pair of skis.

With the crude tools at hand,

John plunged into making
a pair of skis from memory.

Work on his honeymoon house
pushed into the background

by the challenge of conquering
those high Sierra snows.

Hour after hour, chip by chip,
they slowly took shape,

and at last were finished,

with turned-up peaks
like the prows on Viking ships.

They were big
and clumsy-looking,

and, being of green wood,
they were pretty heavy.

But that didn't bother him any.

Smearing burned cork on
his cheeks to protect his eyes

from the glare
of the sun on the snow,

he took his skis
to the nearby slopes.

Results, at first,
were a little discouraging.

But he stuck to it,

practicing and practicing
until he was satisfied

he could accomplish
what he wanted to on them.

Then...

You're proposing to cross
the Sierras on them things?

Yes. Alone?

Yes. The mail on your back?

John, it's suicide.
You'll never make it.

Let him try,
since he's so all-fired sure.

There's nothing to be
afraid of, darling.

Nothing?
Blizzards and avalanches.

You forget.
My ancestors were Vikings.

You can get lost. The trails
will be buried out of sight.

I'll have the rocks
and trees to guide me by day

and the stars by night.

Gentlemen, I'm taking bets

on what day in spring
the body will be found.

Step right up
and... Stop it, Fred.

That sack of mail
weighs a good 75 pounds,

according to the store scales.

That'll save some weight.

But what if you need it?
You might... Don't worry.

- Where's your blanket?
- I won't need any.

You'll need food.

I have some crackers
and dried meat in my pocket.

Snowshoe Thompson,

the great Viking!

Well, good-bye.

By sundown, John Thompson
was fighting his way

up the first slope
of the Sierras.

All night he climbed...

and all the next day,

eating as he went,
washing the food down

with handfuls of snow.

Around midnight
of the second night,

he reached the summit and
started on the downward grade.

It was late in the afternoon
of the third day

when he reached
the Carson Valley

and skied into the little
settlement of Genoa.

Anyone tell me where
I can find the postmaster?

Well, yes. I'm the postmaster.

Hey, is that mail
you have on your back?

Yes, sir. Well,
where you from, son?

From Placerville.

Placerville?

Here you are, sir. You...

You came all the way on foot?

Well, yes and no.

I came on these skis.

Those oversized barrel staves?

That's right.

How long did it take you?

Three days.

Three days?

Mister, the drinks are on me.

Thanks, but all I want
is some sleep.

I can take care of that too.
There's a bunk in the back room.

Good. If you folks
have any mail to go west...

I got a big pile of it. I'll be
leaving first thing in the morning.

Man alive! Can I ask
you something, mister?

What's your name?

Well, just call me
"Snowshoe Thompson."

Over 5,000 claims
filed this past year

at a dollar a claim.

Why, that means you've
made over $5,000. That's right.

And all without budging
outside my office.

And I'll make more next year.

People coming in all the time.

- Agnes, I tell you...
- He's back!

John's back!

Oh, John, you're safe.
Thank goodness.

I've been so worried about you.

So you couldn't make it.
You had to turn back.

Turn back, nothing.
He made a round-trip.

I don't believe it.

In less than a week? Impossible.

Maybe this'll convince you.

A letter from my sister
in Missouri!

Here's a shopping list
a woman in Genoa gave me.

She wants some turkey red
and thread to match.

The mountain labored

and brought forth
the spool of thread.

Was it terrible going, John?

The trip east was the slow
one. That took three days.

But coming back,
the climb is shorter,

and there's a longer
downhill run.

I made that in two days.

Imagine. And Chorpenning
was over two weeks.

Next time I'll know
better what's ahead.

- You're going again?
- Sure, he is.

To deliver the thread
to the lady in Genoa.

If I don't, there'll be no
mail delivered all winter.

That's all right. We'll wait and
be married a few months later.

I knew you'd understand.

And so, Snowshoe Thompson

began making regular runs
across the Sierras

between California and Nevada.

It didn't matter
what the weather.

He started out just the same

and always came through on time.

He traveled, always,
as he had that first trip...

Unarmed and without a blanket.

If he camped for the night,
he hunted himself

a stump of a dead pine tree
and set fire to it,

and laid down
with his head pillowed

on Uncle Sam's mail sack.

The sacks he carried sometimes
weighed as much as 90 pounds...

A load that would have
broken the backs of most men

climbing up those heights.

It wasn't all mail, either.

Folks asked him
to do errands for them.

Once, he even carried
a small printing press

across the Sierras
for the Genoa newspaper.

When spring came
and the snows melted,

there was no longer need
of Snowshoe Thompson.

Others with pack animals
could carry the mail.

I'm so proud of you, John.

The job you've done.

Now we can be married.

I mean, as soon as the house
is built on the ranch.

What's the matter, John?
You haven't changed your mind?

Oh, no, Agnes.
I love you more than ever.

It's just that...
I haven't any money.

Not a cent.

But what about your pay
for carrying the mail?

I haven't collected any.

The fact is I clean forgot
to make a deal

or ask for a contract.

Oh, John.

I'll make up for it this summer.

A Mr. Colewell, a friend of mine
in the Sacramento Valley,

has offered me
a job on his ranch.

I'll save every penny I earn.

Then in the fall,
we'll build our house.

Will that be all right with you?

It'll have to be, I guess.

Yes, of course, John.

But when fall came, a group
of citizens from Placerville

called upon Thompson
at his ranch.

You're the only man in the
country can do it, Snowshoe.

And if you don't, it means
being without mail all winter,

except what comes
the long way around by ship.

Not just us in Placerville, but
the folks in all the gold camps.

That stretch across the Sierra is the
one missing link in the Overland Mail.

Snow's getting deep
up there already.

Then you'll do it?

There's only one thing.

I just can't afford to do it for
nothing like I did last winter.

No reason why you should.

All you've got to do is tell the
postal supervisor in San Francisco.

He'll see that
you're taken care of.

Good. That's all
I wanted to know.

Thompson didn't get around
to writing the supervisor

until the winter was half over,

he was so busy making his
weekly trips over the mountains.

And when he finally got
an answer towards spring...

It seems Chorpenning still
holds the government contract

to carry mail between
Salt Lake and the coast.

Only now he's carrying it
on the southern route,

looping down by way of
San Bernardino to San Diego.

But that doesn't go
anywhere near Carson Valley.

But it is mail service
to the coast.

They can't very well give
the contract to two parties.

So you spent another
winter without pay.

I guess I'll have to hire
myself out to Colewell again.

And we'll have to postpone
our wedding for another year.

Well, anyway,
the timber for our house

will be well seasoned.

But when another winter
rolled around,

it was the same story.

Snowshoe Thompson had by now
become an institution.

They couldn't
get along without him.

So, once more, he bridged the
gap in the Overland Mail route.

A one-man link completing
that 3,000 mile chain.

I'm sorry, Fred, but that's the
evening John is due back from Genoa,

and I want to save it for him.

How much longer are you gonna
let that fella keep you dangling?

It's going on four years now.

I agree with you, Fred. She's
wasting her time waiting for him.

He hasn't even given you
a ring yet, has he?

No, he hasn't.

Well, if you want one,
a big diamond,

you know where you can get it.

Good night. Good night.

Good night. Good night.

Agnes, you're a fool.

Here's one of the best-fixed
young men in Placerville

anxious to marry you...
Please, Aunt Lizzie.

And you stay engaged
to that John Thompson.

I-I love him. I grant
you, he can ski.

But as a husband and a provider,

all he's got is a mortgaged
ranch with no house on it.

Give him time. Time? Hmph!

Agnes, a girl
can't wait forever.

I'll, uh... I'll talk with him.

The very minute
he gets back from Genoa.

Yes, Aunt Lizzie
the very minute he gets back.

With another round-trip
to Genoa almost over,

John skied steadily
toward Placerville and Agnes,

his personal problems far
outweighing the mail sack on his back.

They're right. It isn't fair

to keep you waiting like this.

The wonder of it is
that you've waited this long.

Oh, John.

The only problem
is the same old problem.

Money?

John, I have good news for you.

Uncle Jim said
he'd give you a job

in the store for the summer,
at good pay. In the store?

Yes. We can get married
right away, this spring,

live here in Placerville, and
move out to the ranch later.

Well, that's mighty kind of
him, and I do appreciate it, but...

Well, the thought of working
indoors all summer,

inside four walls...

So you are stalling.

Oh, darling, no.

You don't want to marry me.
You never have.

Agnes... You care
more for the wind

and the sky and the snow
than you do for me. No, no.

The mountains... they're your
real love. Sweetheart, wait.

Wait? That's all I've been
doing for three years,

with everybody gossiping,
feeling sorry for me.

Trying to stand up for you
to my family.

Turning down other men.
Well, I'm all through!

I'm all through! Agnes, please.

I can't stand it,
seeing you cry.

Of course I'll accept
your uncle's offer.

You will? And we'll be married.

When?

The winter's almost over.

In a few weeks now, the passes
over the Sierras will be open again,

and I can quit the mail service.

Say the first week in April?

Is that a promise? I promise.

Well, as luck would have it,

spring was late
in coming that year,

and the snows which should have
begun to disappear on the mountains

showed no signs of melting.

Snowshoe Thompson
was on the western run,

heading for Placerville
and his wedding,

when he stopped at a cabin
in a mountain valley.

Jake? Oh, Jake?

I've got that tobacco for you.

Help. Help!

Help. Help!

Help! Help! Help!

Thank God. I prayed you'd come.

What's wrong? Legs. Frozen.

I've been laying here
for 12 days,

living on raw flour.

No matches to light a fire with.

I made up my mind
to wait one more day.

Then... Then I...

You won't need it, my friend.

I'll build a fire
and cook you some grub.

Then I'll ski down to Genoa,

fetch a sled that we can
move you on down to a doctor.

Leaving the miner

as comfortable as possible
under the circumstances,

John headed for Genoa.

You're sure you won't
wait until daylight?

I gotta get
that poor fella down here.

Look for us day after tomorrow.

That'll be Tuesday. Yes.

Doc, you'll be on hand?
'Cause he's in bad shape.

I'll be here.

Is it really true you set the
date? Of course it's true.

My wedding dress is finished,
and the wedding cake is baked.

I'll believe it when
I see a ring on your finger.

Then come to the house
this Thursday evening.

The ceremony's at 8:00.

Meanwhile, John's thoughts

were a long way from the wedding

as he faced the superhuman task

of dragging the sled
with the suffering miner

over the rugged mountains
between him and Genoa.

The fact that he made it
is only another tribute

to a man whose strength
and courage are a legend.

Nothin' to do but operate.

I expected it.

All right. Go ahead.

Trouble is I've got
no chloroform.

Don't need chloroform.

Just give me
a bottle of whiskey.

In some cases,
that would be all right.

But in your weakened condition,

the shock of the operation
would be too severe

without anesthetic.
I'll go get some.

I'm afraid that's impossible.

The nearest place
would be Sacramento.

Can he wait five days?
That isn't the question.

Maybe I can make it back
in four with no pack on my back.

Oh, now, look, son.
You've been on those skis

for three days and nights
without any rest.

I'll be back as fast as I can.

Saturday or Sunday.

Now, don't you let John see
you beforehand. It's bad luck.

I guess Uncle Jim
must've warned him,

'cause he hasn't been near
the house since he got back.

Fact of the matter is,
he ain't back yet.

Why, he was due in yesterday
at the latest.

Why didn't you
say something before now?

Didn't want to worry you.

He probably had an extra-heavy
load, being it's his last trip.

He'll be here. He promised.

Well, the bridegroom.

Where you been? It's almost
time for your wedding.

Had to go to Sacramento for some
chloroform for the doc in Genoa.

On my way back with it now.

Fella there with frozen
legs fighting gangrene.

Every minute counts.
Tell Agnes, will you? Sure.

I can't believe it.

Here in Placerville
and not letting me know.

Leaving town an hour
before his wedding.

I saw him, talked with him.

And he gave no reason?

In too much of a hurry
to get away.

That don't sound like John.

Whoa!

It's the Grimes.
They always get places early.

I'll tell 'em Agnes has been took
sick. The wedding has been postponed.

No.

Tell them the wedding
has been called off for good.

Agnes!

I wouldn't marry
John Thompson now

if he was the last man on Earth.

Here's the chloroform, Doctor.

God bless you, Snowshoe.

I don't know of any other fella

that would've done it.

No other fella could've done it.

You get some rest now, or I'll
have two patients on my hands.

I've gotta get back
to Placerville.

What if the mail
is late for once?

It's not this mail
I'm worried about, Doctor.

It's this male.

I was supposed
to be married two days ago.

If you ask me, he's got
another girl in Genoa.

Please, I don't even
want to talk about him.

Then let's talk about us.

I love you, Agnes.
Have for a long time.

I can give you
everything you want.

Make up to you
for all the... Agnes.

Take your hands off my girl.

I'm not your girl
any longer, John Thompson.

Not after the way
you treated me.

I'm sorry,
but every minute counted.

I had to get back to Genoa.

I know. To her.

"Her"?

A girl on each side
of the mountains.

Didn't you explain to her
where I was?

I don't know
what you're talking about.

I told you that night I met
you why I couldn't stop.

The doc was waiting to operate. That
man would've died of blood poisoning.

Both legs frozen.

Is that true, Fred?

First I've heard of it.

You lie.

Tell her you lied. Tell her,

or I'll break
every bone in your body.

All right!

I lied, Agnes.

I'm so ashamed, John.

To think I could've
ever doubted you.

Will you forgive me?

I've made my last run, darling.

I'm all through. I swear it.

Oh, no, you're not.

You could no more stay out of
those mountains than an eagle could.

It's your world.
You belong there.

I belong with you.

Welcome home,
Snowshoe. Welcome home.

"Home" is right.

I guess this is
good a time as any,

seeing as we've got
you two here together.

Jim, get it out of the safe.

We all got to thinking, Snowshoe,
of the raw deal you've had.

Carrying mail winter
after winter for nothing,

so we passed the hat.

Not only here in Placerville,

but around the diggings
and all the camps

where you delivered
letters and papers.

We can't pay you for what
it's been worth to us.

Anyway, there's enough
to pay off your mortgage

and build your house.

It's our wedding present to you.

Oh, thanks.

Thanks.

Snowshoe Thompson carried
the mail over the Sierras

for 20 winters.

He died at his ranch
at the age of 49

and lies buried beside
his wife and son

in the little cemetery in Genoa,

where the mountains
he loved and braved

look down upon
his last camping place.

The father of skiing
in the United States

and worthy foreigner
of those couriers

who neither snow, nor rain,
nor heat, nor gloom of night,

stays from the swift
completion of their rounds.