r that lay buried deep in every
cell--the long, bitter night without shelter, food or blankets; but
even the labor of fire-building appalled his spirit. I would be a
mighty task, fatigued as he was: first to clear away the snow, cut down
trees, hew them into lengths and split them--all with a light camp ax
that only dealt a sparrow blow--then to kneel and stoop and nurse the
fire.

His woodsman's senses predicted a bitter night, in spite of the warmth
of the day. It would harden the snow again, but it would also wage war
against his life. All night long he would have to fight off sleep so
that he could mend the fire and cut fuel. It mustn't be a feeble,
flickering fire. The cold could get in then. All night long the flame
must not be allowed to flag. In his fatigue it would be so easy to dose
off,--just for a moment, and the fire would burn out. In that case
the fire of his spirit would burn out too,--just as certain, just as
soon.

Late afternoon: already the shadows lay strange and heavy in the distant
tree aisles. And all at once he paused, thrilled, in his tracks.

A little way to the east, on the bank of a small creek, his father and
his traitorous partner had once had a mining claim,--a mine they had
tried unsuccessfully to operate before Bronson had made his big strike.
They had built a small cabin, and for nearly thirty years it had stood
moldering and forgotten. Twice in his life Bill had seen it,--once as
a boy, when his father had taken him there on some joyous, holiday
excursion, and once in his travels Bill had beheld it at a distance.
Its stove had rotted away years since; it contained neither food nor
blankets nor furniture, yet it was a shelter against the night and the
cold. And even now it was within half a mile of where he stood.

Exultant and thankful, Bill turned in his tracks and mushed over toward
it.

XXI

There was plenty of heart-breaking work to do when Bill finally reached
the little cabin. The snow had banked up to the depth of several feet
around it and had blown and packed against the door. He took off one of
his snowshoes to use as a shovel and stolidly began the work of removing
the barricade. There was no opening the door against the pressure of
the snow. Besides, the bolt was solidly rusted.

But after a few weary strokes it occurred to him that the easiest way
would be to cut some sort of an opening in the top of the door, just
large enough for his body to