Bruce never had considered marrying; the thought of it for himself always made him smile. But why couldn't he--the thought now came gradually, and grew--why _shouldn't_ he assume the responsibilities Slim shirked if conditions were the same and help was still needed? In expiation, perhaps, he could halfway make amends. He'd write and mail the letter in Ore City as soon as he could snowshoe out. He'd express them half the dust and tell them that 'twas Slim's. He'd----"OO--oo--ough!" he shivered--he'd forgotten to stoke the fire. Oh, well, a soogan would do him well enough. He pulled a quilt from under Slim and wrapped it about his own shoulders. Then he sat down again by the fireless stove and laid his head on his folded arms upon the rough pine table. The still body on the bunk grew stark while he slept, the swift-running river froze from shore to shore, the snow piled in drifts, obliterating trails and blocking passes, weighting the pines to the breaking point, while the intense cold struck the chill of death into the balls of feathers huddled for shelter under the flat branches of the spruces. V "THE JACK-POT" As Uncle Bill Griswold came breathless from the raging whiteness outside with an armful of bark and wood, the two long icicles hanging from the ends of his mustache made him look like an industrious walrus. He drew the fuel beside the tiny, sheet-iron camp stove, and tied fast the flap of the canvas tent. "We're in a jack-pot, all right." He delivered the commonplace pronunciamento in a tone which would have conveyed much to a mountain man. To Mr. Sprudell it meant only that he might expect further annoyance. He demanded querulously: "Did you find my shirt?" Uncle Bill rolled his eyes with a droll grimace of despair toward the mound of blankets in the corner whence came the muffled voice. The innocence of a dude was almost pitiful. He answered dryly: "I wouldn't swear to it--I wouldn't go so far as to make my affadavvy to it, but I think I seen your shirt wavin' from a p'int a rock about seventy mile to the south'ard--over t'ward the Thunder Mountain country." "Gone?" "Gone"--mournfully--"where the woodbine twineth." "And my trousers?" "Where the wangdoodle mourneth fer his lost love. Blowed off. I got your union suit out'n the top of a pine tree. You've no more pants than a rabbit, feller. Everything went when the guy-ropes busted--I warned you to sleep in your clothes." "But what'll I do?" Sprudell quavered. "Nothin'." His tone was as dry as punk. "You kin jest as well die in them pink pajammers as anything else." "Huh?" excitedly. The mound began to heave. "I say we're in for it. There's a feel in the air like what the Injuns call 'The White Death.' It hurt my lungs like I was breathin' darnin' needles when I cut this wood. The drifts is ten feet high and gittin' higher." Laconically: "The horses have quit us; we're afoot."