frost-caked window, rubbed a spot with his hand and stared into the
dimness of the flying snow, toward his station.

"Guess I'll have t' call for volunteers if I get in there to-day.
We'll have to tunnel."

Ba'tiste and Houston joined him. The box car that served as a station
house--always an object of the heaviest drifts--was buried! The big
French-Canadian pulled at his beard.

"Peuff! Eet is like the ground hog," he announced. "Eet is
underground already."

"Yeh. But I've got to get in there. The wire might be working."

"So? We will help, Baree and Ba'teese. Come--we get the shovels."

Even that was work. The town simply had ceased to be; the stores were
closed, solitude was everywhere. They forced a window and climbed into
the little general merchandise establishment, simply because it was
easier than striving to get in through the door. Then, armed with
their shovels, they began the work of tunneling to the station. Two
hours later, the agent once more at his dead key, Ba'tiste turned to
Houston.

"Eet is the no use here," he announced. "We must get to camp and
assemble the men that are strong and willing to help. Then--"

"Yes?"

"Then, eet will be the battle to help those who are not fortunate.
There is death in this storm."

Again with their waist-belt guide lines, they started forth, to bend
against the storm in a struggle that was to last for hours; to lose
their trail, to find it again, through the straggling poles that in the
old days had carried telephone wires, and at last to reach the squat,
snowed-in buildings of camp. There, Ba'tiste assembled the workmen in
the bunk house.

"There are greater things than this now," he announced. "We want the
strong men--who will go back with us to Tabernacle, and who will be
willing to take the risk to help the countryside. Ah, _oui_, eet is
the danger that is ahead. How many of you will go?"

One after another they readied for their snowshoes, silent men who
acted, rather than spoke. A few were left behind, to care for the camp
in case of emergencies, to keep the roofs as free from snow as possible
and to avoid cave-ins. The rest filed outside, one by one, awkwardly
testing the bindings of their snowshoes, and awaiting the command. At
the doorway, Ba'tiste, his big hands fumbling, caught the paws of
Golemar, his wolf-dog, and raised the great, shaggy creature against
his breast.

"No," he said in kindly, indulgent fashion. "Eet