ought of the laborers; and his breath pulled
sharply. Would they have enough men? It would be grueling work up
there, terrific work; would there be sufficient laborers who would be
willing to undergo the hardships for the money they received? Would--

In the night he awoke, again thinking of it. Every possible hand that
could swing a pick or jam a crowbar against grudging ice would be
needed up there. Every pair of shoulders willing to assume the burdens
of a horrible existence that others might live would be welcomed. A
mad desire began to come over him; a strange, impelling scheme took
hold of his brain. They would need men,--men who would not be afraid,
men who would be willing to slave day and night if necessary to the
success of the adventure. And who should be more willing than he? His
future, his life, his chance of success, where now was failure, lay at
Tollifer. His hands would be more than eager! His muscles more than
glad to ache with the fatigue of manual labor! Long before dawn he
rose and scribbled a note in the dim light of the old kerosene lamp in
the makeshift lobby, a note to Ba'tiste Renaud:

"I'm going over the range. I can't wait. They may need me. I'm
writing this, because you would try to dissuade me if I told you
personally. Don't be afraid for me--I'll make it somehow. I've got to
go. It's easier than standing by.

"HOUSTON."

Then, his snowshoes affixed, he went out into the night. The stars
were shining dimly, and Houston noticed them with an air of
thankfulness as he took the trail of the telephone poles and started
toward the faint outline of the mountains in the distance. It would
make things easier; but an hour later, as he looked for a dawn that did
not come, he realized that it had been only a jest of the night. The
storm clouds were thick on the sky again, the snow was dashing about
him once more; half-blindly, gropingly, he sought to force his way from
one pole to another,--in vain.

He measured his steps, and stopping, looked about him. He had traveled
the distance from one pole to another, yet in the sweep of the darting
sheet of white he could discern no landmark, nothing to guide him
farther on his journey. He floundered aimlessly, striving by short
sallies to recover the path from which the storm had taken him, but all
to no purpose. If dawn would only come!

Again and again, hardly realizing the dangers to which he was
subjecting himself, Housto