“What the hell’s the country comin’ to?” Bud Cole complained to Bill Mather. “The world musta slipped a couple of cogs north.” “Maybe,” Bad Land agreed. “Tough on cowboys.” The others slept, killed time with penny ante, cursed the weather, swapped range lore. Charlie Shaw brooded in the cook tent. It would clear with a hard frost. New-born calves dying in snowbanks in the last of May. April showers bring May flowers! Damn such weather! Upon a convenient hillock a dozen riders laid ropes on a varied collection of dead-pine snags, dragged them down before the bed tent. They were saturated with pitch. One father of roots would burn for three days. They made bets on its duration. Once ignited, neither snow, wind, rain nor buckets of water could extinguish that pitch-fed flame. It made a pleasant glow between the opened flaps of the tent. Also it made a serviceable beacon in the dark, a mark for the relief men on night guard, a wavering yellow tongue like a lighthouse on a rocky coast. The third night of the deep snow, when the fall had ceased, when the blustering northwest wind sank to a murmur, and sharp frost was setting a crust on the damp drifts, a man staggered into the circle of light. He had on overalls and a short sheepskin coat. He was an oldish man, with a tangled beard extending fanwise from his chin, a black beard like those of the prophets. All but two of the Wineglass crew were in their blankets. These two were Charlie Shaw and Bud Cole, squatting between the bed tent and the glowing pine snag, talking in undertones. They looked at this apparition, wavering on its feet. He didn’t belong in either outfit. “Hello,” Charlie greeted. “This is tough weather to be runnin’ around loose. You lost, or are you just goin’ some place?” “Both, I guess. What outfit is this?” “The Wineglass from Lonesome Prairie,” Charlie told him. “Come on up to the fire.” They rose from their boot heels with an exclamation. The man took a step, swayed, moved uncertainly. “Don’t be scared,” Charlie said kindly. It struck him that this old fellow was furtive--and he had seen men on the dodge, edging cautiously into a camp for food and shelter. “I ain’t scared,” the man mumbled, in little more than a whisper. “I’m played out, that’s all.” “You been wanderin’ afoot in this snow?” Bud asked. “Since last night,” he answered. As if shelter, warmth and the presence of men jarred loose some prop which had sustained him, he put one hand to his face and lurched, and would have fallen if Bud and Charlie had not caught him. He sagged in their grip. His head dropped to his breast. “For the love of Pete!” Bud said. “The old boy’s certainly all in. Now what in blazes----” “Pack him over to the chuck tent an’ get some dry clothes on him, an’ throw some hot coffee into him,” Charlie answered, with the practical wisdom born of experience.