e-powdered snow like a thin fog. From the valley a
rush of wind comes up to meet it, and the two battle for supremacy.
While the conflict rages fresh clouds of snow rise in other directions
and rush to the scene of action. Encountering each other on the way they
struggle together, each intolerant of interference, until the shrieking
is heard on every hand, and the snow fog thickens, and the dull sun
above grows duller, and the lurid "sun dogs" look like evil coals of
fire burning in the sky.

Now, from every direction, the wind tears along in a mad fury. The
forest tops sway as with the roll of some mighty sea swept by the sudden
blast of a tornado. In the rage of the storm the woodland giants creak
out their impotent protests. The wind battles and tears at everything,
there is no cessation in its onslaught.

And as the fight waxes the fog rises and a grey darkness settles over
the valley. The forest is hidden, the hills are gone, the sun is
obscured, and a fierce desolation reigns. Darker and darker it becomes
as the blizzard gains force. And the cries of the forest beasts add to
the chaos and din of the mountain storm.

The driving cold penetrates, with the bite of invisible arrows, to the
interior of the dugout. The two men who sit within pile up the fuel in
the box stove which alone makes life possible for them in such weather.
The roof groans and bends beneath the blast. Under the rattling door a
thin carpet of snow has edged its way in, while through the crack above
it a steady rain of moisture falls as the snow encounters the rising
heat of the stifling atmosphere.

"I knew it 'ud come, Nick," observed one of the men, as he shut the
stove, after carefully packing several cord-wood sticks within its
insatiable maw.

He was of medium height but of large muscle. His appearance was that of
a man in the prime of life. His hair, above a face tanned and lined by
exposure to the weather, was long and grey, as was the beard which
curled about his chin. He was clad in a shirt of rough-tanned buckskin
and trousers of thick moleskin. His feet were shod with moccasins which
were brilliantly beaded. Similar bead-work adorned the front of the
weather-proof shirt.

His companion was a slightly younger and somewhat larger man. The
resemblance he bore to his comrade indicated the relationship between
them. They were brothers.

Ralph and Nicol Westley were born and bred in that dugout. Their father
and mother were long sin