er week after that, in which spring taunted the
hills, causing the streams to run bank-full with the melting waters of
the snow, in which a lone robin made his appearance about the
camp,--only to fade as quickly as he had come. For winter, tenacious,
grim, hateful winter, had returned for a last fling, a final outburst
of frigid viciousness that was destined to wrap the whole range country
in a grip of terror.

They tried the bobsled, Ba'tiste and Houston, only to give it up. All
night had the snow fallen, in a thick, curtain-like shield which
blotted out even the silhouettes of the heaviest pines at the brow of
the hill, which piled high upon the ridges, and with great sweeps of
the wind drifted every cut of the road to almost unfathomable depths.
The horses floundered and plowed about in vain efforts at locomotion,
at last to plunge in the terror of a bottomless road. They whinnied
and snorted, as though in appeal to the men on the sled behind,--a sled
that worked on its runners no longer, but that sunk with every fresh
drift to the main-boards themselves. Wadded with clothing, shouting in
a mixture of French and English and his own peculiar form of slang,
Ba'tiste tried in vain to force the laboring animals onward. But they
only churned uselessly in the drift; their hoofs could find no footing,
save the yielding masses of snow. Puffing, as though the exertion had
been his own, the trapper turned and stared down at his companion.

"Eet is no use," came finally. "The horse, he can not pull. We must
make the trip on the snowshoe."

They turned back for the bunk house, to emerge a few moments
later,--bent, padded forms, fighting clumsily against the sweep of the
storm. Ghosts they became almost immediately, snow-covered things that
hardly could be discerned a few feet away, one hand of each holding
tight to the stout cord which led from waist-belt to waist-belt, their
only insurance against being parted from each other in the blinding
swirl of winter.

Hours, stopping at short intervals to seek for some landmark--for the
road long ago had become obliterated--at last to see faintly before
them the little box-car station house, and to hurry toward it in a fear
that neither of them dared to express to the other. Snow in the
mountains is not a gentle thing, nor one that comes by fits and gusts.
The blizzard does not sweep away its vengeful enthusiasm in a day or a
night. It comes and it stays--departing for a