Before she reached the foot of the slope below Bald Knob she was very tired. The wind drifts had filled the path, so that she had to break her own trail. The fury of the storm was constantly increasing. In the comparative shelter of a little draw she stopped to decide what she had better do. It was still a mile and a half to town. She did not believe she could possibly make it even if she did not lose the way. Nor could she climb Bald Knob again to the Dodson camp. That would not be within her power. There was a little cabin in the next draw where Ralph slept when he did not care to go to town after spending the day on his Bald Knob property. It was usually stocked with supplies of food and fuel. No doubt it would be unoccupied now. She put her head down into the white blizzard and trudged round the edge of the ridge that divided the two small gulches. Three minutes later she pushed open the door of the cabin and walked in. A man sitting at a table jumped to his feet with a startled oath. “Goddamighty, who are you?” he demanded. Vicky was as much taken aback as he. “I thought the cabin was empty,” she explained. “I’m Victoria Lowell, the school teacher at Piodie. I’ve been up to my claim.” The man’s look was half a scowl and half a leer. He was a big round-shouldered ruffian with long hair and tangled, unkempt beard. There floated in her mind a vague and fugitive recollection of having seen him before somewhere. “Better dry yorese’f,” he said ungraciously. From the fireplace a big twisted piñon knot threw out a glow of heat. The girl took off her coat, shook the snow from the wet skirts, and moved forward to absorb the warmth. Her host pushed a chair toward her with his foot. She sank into it, worn out. Presently the moist skirts began to steam and the warmth of the fire made her drowsy. She aroused herself to conversation. “Sorry I had to trouble you. I was ’fraid I couldn’t make it to town.” “Hell’v a day,” he agreed. On the table were a whisky bottle and a glass. He indicated them with a sweep of his hand. “Have a nip. Warm you up, miss.” “No, thanks. I’m all right.” Over her stole a delightful lassitude, the reaction from her fight with the storm. She looked sleepily into the live coals. The howling of the storm outside was deadened enough to make a sort of lullaby. Her head began to nod and her eyelids closed. With a start she brought herself awake again. “Didn’t know I was so done up,” she murmured. “’S all right. Sleep if you want to, miss,” the man told her. Not for an hour or more did she open her eyes again. The table was set for a meal. A coffeepot was heating on some coals and a black kettle hung suspended from a crane above the fire. “Come an’ get it, miss,” the man said gruffly when he saw that she was awake. Vicky discovered that she was hungry. She drank the coffee he poured out and ate the stew he ladled from the kettle. He did not eat with her.