“What’s that?--no good, did you say? By Jove, you’ve saved our lives, just the same, old-timer! Don’t you worry a minute about what you had to leave for the dogs and birds; half a deer is better than no meat. You just stretch yourself out and rest your face and hands--and you, too, Phil. I’ll call you both when supper’s ready.” For the first time in many days they had a full meal for supper, and under the stimulus of a couple of juicy venison steaks, hot from the broiling twig, even Philip came out of his shell of hopelessness and joined in the discussion of the ways and means of escape. It was Garth who set the hopeful pace. “With a couple o’ days feedin’ up, I believe we can try it,” he ventured. “Snow’s deep yit, but it’s thawin’ days and freezin’ nights so ’t there’s a crust early mornin’s that’ll hold a man. Weather’s the only thing I’m afeard of.” “Oh, good Lord!” Bromley groaned. “Don’t tell us there’s more snow coming!” The giant wagged his beard. “Looks mighty like it, over on the western ranges. And the sun come up fire-red this mornin’. If it’ll only hold off for a day ’r so, till we get a li’l’ stren’th in our bones....” But the next morning when they turned out, the storm had come, silently and as a thief in the night; there was half a foot of fresh snow in their tiny dooryard, and the feathery flakes were still sifting down endlessly from gray skies with no signs of a break in them. After breakfast, Philip went back to his bunk and turned his face to the wall, leaving Bromley and Garth to wash the dishes and shovel the snow out of the small areaway. “Winter’s been sort o’ hard on that pardner o’ yourn,” Garth remarked, stopping to beat the snow from his battered hat. “Looks like he’d sort o’ lost his sand lately.” “We’re both tenderfoots, you must remember,” said the loyal play-boy. “It’s all new to both of us, Jim. But Phil will come out all right.” Then: “What is this fresh snow storm going to do to us?” “Depends on how long it’s goin’ to keep up. There’s enough now to block the trails for another week ’r so. I was afeard it was comin’.” “Well, we have meat enough to last for a while, anyhow,” Bromley put in hopefully. “And that’s thanks to you, Jim. We won’t say die till we’re dead.” All through the day the gray skies held their own and the snow sifted down as though it would never stop. By nightfall the six inches of new blanketing had grown to a foot, and the prospect of escape had withdrawn into a remote distance. When Bromley raked the coals out and made ready to broil the supper steaks, he was the only one of the three who preserved even a semblance of cheerfulness. Philip was cursing the weather bitterly; and Garth, stretched out in his bunk with a cold pipe clamped between his teeth, was scarcely more companionable.