I became
alarmed for the safety of Scotch. By and by I had to cut steps in the
ice. This made the climb too perilous for him, as he could not realize
the danger he was in should he miss a step. There were places where
slipping from these steps meant death, so I told Scotch to go back. I
did not, however, tell him to watch my snowshoes, for so dangerous was
the climb that I did not know that I should ever get back to them
myself. However, he went to the snowshoes, and with them he remained
for eight cold hours until I came back by the light of the stars.

On a few occasions I allowed Scotch to go with me on short winter
excursions. He enjoyed these immensely, although he had a hard time
of it and but very little to eat. When we camped among the spruces in
the snow, he seemed to enjoy sitting by my side and silently watching
the evening fire, and he contentedly cuddled with me to keep warm
at night.

[Illustration: THE CLOUD-CAPPED CONTINENTAL DIVIDE]

One cold day we were returning from a four days' excursion when, a
little above timber-line, I stopped to take some photographs. To do
this it was necessary for me to take off my sheepskin mittens, which I
placed in my coat-pocket, but not securely, as it proved. From time to
time, as I climbed to the summit of the Continental Divide, I stopped
to take photographs, but on the summit the cold pierced my silk gloves
and I felt for my mittens, to find that one of them was lost. I
stooped, put an arm around Scotch, and told him I had lost a mitten,
and that I wanted him to go down for it to save me the trouble. "It
won't take you very long, but it will be a hard trip for me. Go and
fetch it to me." Instead of starting off hurriedly, willingly, as he
had invariably done before in obedience to my commands, he stood
still. His alert, eager ears drooped, but no other move did he make.
I repeated the command in my most kindly tones. At this, instead of
starting down the mountain for the mitten, he slunk slowly away toward
home. It was clear that he did not want to climb down the steep icy
slope of a mile to timber-line, more than a thousand feet below. I
thought he had misunderstood me, so I called him back, patted him, and
then, pointing down the slope, said, "Go for the mitten, Scotch; I
will wait here for you." He started for it, but went unwillingly. He
had always served me so cheerfully that I could not understand, and it
was not until late the next afternoon that I realize