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 cut where the water would flow over the ice might mean a steer down with a broken leg. But soon after the first of the year the snaw began to come down in earnest. Tom wakened one morning to find the mountains glittering white, like snowy giants over which had been carelessly flung a robe of gray. And this gray was the pine trees, now strangely the color of sage. The ranch buildings seemed flattened out, familiar rocks had lost their contours, and with every breath of the icy wind the cottonwoods by the creek sent down soft snowfalls of their own.

He rode into a line camp that day, to hear that Gus, the Swede from the L. D., was still on his homestead and likely to be snowed in. Tom had no particular liking for Gus, but the law of the frontier was still the law of the back country; no man to be passed by in trouble. The next day he packed some of his small supply of food on an extra horse and rode the eight miles to Gus's cabin, near the foot of the mountains.

The snow was still falling, the road no road but only a track, and that deeply covered. But by watching his landmarks he found the place, and was only just in time. As he opened the gate he saw that the snow around the cabin was not broken, except for a few dog tracks, and that no smoke was arising from the chimney. He concluded that Gus had gone, and might have turned back, had he not heard the dog barking inside. Then he opened the door.

There was some daylight outside, but the one room was dark. There was no fire, but a heavy sickening stench hung over everything. There was no sound when he first opened the door; then a small black and white shepherd dog came crawling to him, and Gus's deeply accented and familiar voice spoke from one of the built-in bunks.

"Come in, stranger," it said. "You're yust in time."

Piled in the bunk on top of him was a heterogeneous collection of wearing apparel, a saddle blanket, and a coyote skin, badly cured and odorous, and above these coverings his gaunt unshaven face was lifted.

"Sick, Gus?"