ramped restlessly
through the sparse willow-growth seeking comfort where was naught but
cold and snow and bitter, driving wind; while the gray wolves hunted in
packs and had not long to wait for their supper, Thurston had written
better than he knew. He had sent the cold of the blizzards and the howl
of the wolves; he had sent bits of the wind-swept plains back to New
York in long, white envelopes. And the editors were beginning to watch
for his white envelopes and to seize them eagerly when they came, greedy
for what was within. Not every day can they look upon a few typewritten
pages and see the range-land spread, now frowning, now smiling, before
them.

"Gee! they say here they want a lot the same brand, and at any old price
yuh might name. I wouldn't mind writing stories myself." Gene kicked
a log back into the flame where it would do the most good. His big,
square-shouldered figure stood out sharply against the glow.

Thurston, watching him meditatively, wanted to tell him that he was
the sort of whom good stories are made. But for men like Gene--strong,
purposeful, brave, the West would lose half its charm. He was like Bob
in many ways, and for that Thurston liked him and, stayed with him in
the line-camp when he might have been taking his ease at the home ranch.

It was wild and lonely down there between the bare hills and the frozen
river, but the wildness and the loneliness appealed to him. It was
primitive and at times uncomfortable. He slept in a bunk built against
the wall, with hard boards under him and a sod roof over his head. There
were times when the wind blew its fiercest and rattled dirt down into
his face unless he covered it with a blanket. And every other day he
had to wash the dishes and cook, and when it was Gene's turn to cook,
Thurston chopped great armloads of wood for the fireplace to eat o'
nights. Also he must fare forth, wrapped to the eyes, and help Gene
drive back the cattle which drifted into the river bottom, lest they
cross the river on the ice and range where they should not.

But in the evenings he could sit in the fire-glow and listen to the wind
and to the coyotes and the gray wolves, and weave stories that even the
most hyper-critical of editors could not fail to find convincing. By
day he could push the coffee-box that held his typewriter over by the
frosted window--when he had an hour or two to spare--and whang away at
a rate which filled Gene with wonder. Sometimes he rode