All through the day the clouds hung so low that it seemed to Roger that he could touch them, and the stillness and silence became painful; it was so quiet that the weight grew oppressive, yet speech or sound of any kind grated on the nerves. Throughout the entire day Rivers scanned the sky closely, and the afternoon was well advanced when he called out suddenly: "It'll be a little east of northeast!" and pointed to the direction. Roger's gaze followed and turning, he saw a little swirl of the clouds. Then, as though some gigantic hand had suddenly unclenched and pointed an accusing finger at the little group that had defiantly dared the dangers of its domain, a spume of snow was whipped from the gray above, and with a shriek whose vindictiveness seemed almost personal the tempest struck. "Get under, Doughty," called Rivers, who, standing in the lee of one of the small trees, was closely watching the nature of the storm, "get into the tent!" But Roger did not want to miss the sight of his first big gale in the northern mountains, so risking a reproval for not obeying, he crawled along the ground against the wind to where Rivers stood. "I never saw a real blizzard before," he shouted in his chief's ear, as an excuse for his presence. The older man smiled grimly, but seeing that there was as yet no danger, permitted the boy to remain. He pointed, however, to the peak above them, which sheltered the camp from the full fury of the storm. "How would you like to stand up there and watch it?" he shouted back. Roger's reckless spirit prompted him to reply that he wouldn't mind, but before he could formulate the words a sudden gust tore up a large tree whose roots had been too near the edge of a precipice and sent it thundering down into the chasm below. "I'd like to," he yelled, "but I guess I'd have to be chained down." Then one blast, stronger than any that had come before, eddied back from the cliff and struck Roger full in the face just as he had stepped forward to reply to Rivers. Some instinct led him to throw both hands over his face, which, leaving him at the mercy of the wind, caused him to be knocked flat like a ninepin, with the same feeling as though he had been struck by a solid object. But it was the last impulse of the squall, and before Roger had arisen to his feet, the white glint at the point where the gale had been born had disappeared, the clouds fell together, and quietly and without hurry the snow began to fall. [Illustration: WHERE AN ETERNAL GALE RAGES. On the topmost crests of the Alaskan Mountains. Working out fine calculations in an icy storm. _Photograph by U.S.G.S._] "Not hurt, I suppose?" queried Rivers as Roger scrambled to his feet. "Not a bit," said Roger breathlessly, "but it seems like a week and a half since I got my wind." "But why did you let go?" "I don't know, Mr. Rivers; it felt as though some one was going to hit me in the face, and I just threw up my hands to defend myself."