"My horse he began to puff and blow and the snow began to bank up higher and higher in front of us and on top of us until, bymeby, he couldn't stand no more, and he jest laid down and died. Well, of course that put me afoot and I was almost despairin'. The snow was stacked up on top of me about ten feet deep and I was desprit, but I kept surgin' right ahead, punchin' a hole through that fluffy stuff, until she was twenty foot deep. But I wasn't afraid none--ump-um, not me--I jest kept a-crawlin' and a-crawlin', hopin' to find some rocks or shelter, until she stacked up on top of me thirty foot deep. _Thirty foot_--and slumped down on top o' me until I felt like a horny-toad under a haystack. Well, I was gittin' powerful weak and puny, but jest as I was despairin' I come across a big rock, right out there in the middle of that great plain or perairie. I tried to crawl around that old rock but the snow was pushin' down so heavy on top o' me I couldn't do nothin', and so when she was _fif-ty-two foot deep_ by actual measurement I jest give out an' laid down to die." He paused and fixed a speculative eye on Bill Lightfoot. "I reckon that would be considered pretty deep up in Coloraydo," he suggested, and then he began to roll a cigarette. Sitting in rigid postures before the fire the punchers surveyed his face with slow and suspicious glances; and for once Kitty Bonnair was silent, watching his deliberate motions with a troubled frown. Balanced rakishly upon his cracker box Bill Lightfoot regarded his rival with a sneering smile, a retort trembling on his lips, but Creede only leaned forward and picked a smoking brand from the fire--he was waiting for the "come-on." Now to ask the expected question at the end of such a story was to take a big chance. Having been bitten a time or two all around, the _rodeo_ hands were wary of Jeff Creede and his barbed jests; the visitors, being ignorant, were still gaping expectantly; it was up to Bill Lightfoot to spring the mine. For a moment he hesitated, and then his red-hot impetuosity, which had often got him into trouble before, carried him away. "W'y, sure it would be deep for Coloraydo," he answered, guardedly. Jefferson Creede glanced up at him, smoking luxuriously, holding the cigarette to his lips with his hand as if concealing a smile. "Aw, rats," snapped out Lightfoot at last, "why don't you finish up and quit? What happened then?" "Then?" drawled Creede, with a slow smile. "W'y, nothin', Bill--_I died_!"