ould drop in a snowdrift an' let you go on--to
die. Then I could save myself. But I'm going to take your word--an' do
the other thing. I'VE GOT A MATCH."

"A MATCH!"

"Just one. I remember dropping it in my pants pocket yesterday when I
was out on the trail. It's in THIS pocket. Your hand is in better shape
than mine. Get it."

Life had leaped into Brokaw's face. He thrust his hand into Billy's
pocket, staring at him as he fumbled, as if fearing that he had lied.
When he drew his hand out the match was between his fingers.

"Ah!" he whispered excitedly.

"Don't get nervous," warned Billy. "It's the only one."

Brokaw's eyes were searching the low timber along the shore. "There's a
birch tree," he cried. "Hold it--while I gather a pile of bark!"

He gave the match to Billy, and staggered through the snow to the bank.
Strip after strip of the loose bark he tore from the tree. Then he
gathered it in a heap in the shelter of a low-hanging spruce, and added
dry sticks, and still more bark, to it. When it was ready he stood with
his hands in his pockets, and looked at Billy.

"If we had a stone, an' a piece of paper--" he began.

Billy thrust a hand that felt like lifeless lead inside his shirt, and
fumbled in a pocket he had made there. Brokaw watched him with red,
eager eyes. The hand reappeared, and in it was the buckskin wrapped
photograph he had seen the night before, Billy took off the buckskin.
About the picture there was a bit of tissue paper. He gave this and the
match to Brokaw.

"There's a little gun-file in the pocket the match came from," he said.
"I had it mending a trapchain. You can scratch the match on that."

He turned so that Brokaw could reach into the pocket, and the man
hunter thrust in his hand. When he brought it forth he held the file.
There was a smile on Billy's frostbitten face as he held the picture
for a moment under Brokaw's eyes. Billy's own hands had ruffled up the
girl's shining curls an instant before the picture was taken, and she
was laughing at him when the camera clicked.

"It's all up to her, Brokaw," Billy said gently. "I told you that last
night. It was she who woke me up before the fire got us. If you ever
prayed--pray a little now. FOR SHE'S GOING TO STRIKE THAT MATCH!"

He still looked at the picture as Brokaw knelt beside the pile he had
made. He heard the scratch of the match on the file, but his eyes did
not turn. The living, breathing face of the most beautiful t