Original subtitles

THE OLD RANGER: And now,Death Valley Days.

♪♪ [ trumpet ]

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.

ALL: 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.

MAN: 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.[ all gasping ]

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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

MAN: 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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

[ men laughing ]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?

[ chuckles ] That'’s right.

MAN: 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-- SINGLETON: 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? FRED: 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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

[ sighs ]

Well, anyway, the timber for our house

will be well seasoned.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

[ door opens, closes ]

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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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! [ crying ]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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.

[ labored breathing ]

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.

LIZZIE: 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.

[ bells jingling ] MAN: 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.

[ door opens, closes ]

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.

[ door opens ]

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.

THE OLD RANGER: 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.