By the time I reached my horse on the floor of the basin, snow was beginning to fall. And when I got back to camp, the timbered mountain slopes were all white. That night we had the first heavy snow of the season. But in the morning the clouds lifted and unveiled the cliffs and canyons and high peaks. Then I went forth for camera pictures, following the tracks of birds and animals in the snow. The valley was filled with winter scenes of wonderful beauty. As the sun rose over the mountains, icicles and ice draperies pendent from cliffs and trees glistened like diamonds in its bright rays. The branches of firs and pines drooped with heavy burdens of snow. The undergrowth was covered with delicate draperies; boulders and fallen trees had smoothly rounded caps. Brooks were covered with ice, crystal clear—with here and there snow arches and arcades and other marvelous ice structures. Tracks of coyotes and timber wolves crossed and recrossed the trail. I saw footprints of a snowshoe rabbit; they resembled snowshoe tracks, because of the long fur on its feet; and the tiny tracks of mice and their tunnels in the snow; where rabbits had played and a squirrel had left a cone. There were tracks of willow ptarmigan; of a little “crying hare”; and the splay footprints of a wolverine, called “Mountain Devil” by the Indians, because of its meanness and wonderful cunning. But our work in the forest was brought to a sudden close by my narrow escape from death. Little Creek and I were felling together a large spruce. He was chopping on one side and I on the other. When the tree began to fall, I saw it coming my way and jumped for a place of safety. But the top unexpectedly struck a leaning tree, throwing the butt of our tree into the air; and then it came rolling down towards us. It narrowly missed Little Creek. I heard him give a mighty yell; but there was no escape for me. The trunk of the tree hurled me to one side, and then the light went out. When I opened my eyes, Little Creek was bending over me. I thought my end had come; I could not breathe, neither could I move. Then my breath slowly returned. I sat up and tried my limbs; to my surprise I could move them all. But my clothes were torn and soaked with blood. The jagged butt of the great tree had struck me as it rushed past, making a ragged wound six inches long in my side; and that scar I shall always carry. If I had been a few inches nearer the tree, I would have been crushed. CHAPTER XVII THE BLIZZARD That fall the good weather lasted until late on the plains. The days passed clear and calm, as if waiting for a wind to bring the change. One morning in November, I left my lodge at Mad Wolf’s home in the valley, to ride after stray horses and cattle. The day was mild for so late in the year. As I rode northward along the foot of the mountains, a warm wind came from the east and clouds gathered over the Rocky Mountain range from north to south. But overhead the sky was still clear.