"All at once he runs onto four men huddled half-froze in a bunch right ahead of him. He knows in a flash who they are, an’ he draws fumblingly, an’ holds th’ gun in his two hands, they are so cold. One clean hit an’ five clean misses in twenty feet! They’re gropin’ for their guns when a sudden gust of wind whirls down from th’ top of th’ hill, pilin’ snow an’ ice on ’em till they can’t see nor breathe. An’ a couple of old trees come down to make things nicer. Hoppy is blinded, an’ when he gets so he can see again there’s one rustler’s arm stickin’ up out of th’ snow, but no signs of th’ other three. They blundered out into th’ open tryin’ to get away from th’ stuff comin’ down on ’em, an’ that means they won’t be back no more. "Hoppy manages to get to th’ cave, tie his cayuse to a fallen tree, an’ gather enough firewood for a good blaze, which he puts in front of th’ cave. It takes him a long time to use up his matches one by one, an’ then he pulls th’ lead out of a cartridge with his teeth, shakes th’ powder loose in it an’ along th’ barrel. Usin’ his cigarette papers for tinder he gets th’ fire started an’ goin’ good an’ is feelin’ some cheerful when he remembers th’ three rustlers driftin’ south. They was bound to hit a big arroyo that would lead ’em almost ag’in’ Number Two’s door. With th’ wind drivin’ ’em straight for it, Hoppy thinks it might mean trouble for Lanky or Skinny. He did n’t think about ’em only havin’ wool-lined slickers on, or he ’d ’a’ knowed they couldn’t live till they got halfway. They left their blankets in camp so they could work fast. "People have called us clannish, an’ said we was a lovin’ bunch’ because we stick together so tight. We ’ve faced so much together that us of th’ old bunch has got th’ same blood in our veins. We ain’t eight men—we ’re one man in eight different kinds of bodies. G—d help anybody that tries to make us less! It’s one thing to stand up an’ swap shots with a gunman; but it’s another to turn yore back on a cave an’ a fire like that an’ go out into what is purty nigh shore death on a long chance of helpin’ a couple of friends that was able to take care of themselves. That’s one of th’ things that explains why we made Shorty Jones an’ his eleven men pay with their lives for takin’ Jimmy’s life. Twelve for one! That fight at Buckskin ain’t generally understood, even by our friends. An’ Hoppy crowns his courage twice in that one storm. Ain’t he an old son-of-a-gun?