he dead,
frost-hardened, brittle branches of the sturdy old pines rattled and
cracked and broke as it swept by laden with glittering crystals, stolen
from the range above, where it circled madly around the snowy peaks, and
whirled away great winding-sheets of snow--fine, sleety snow, that
filled the atmosphere with sharp prickly needles, that made their way
inside Old Platte's rough woolen shirt as he chopped away at the
woodpile, and made him shiver as they melted down his back. Everything
was frozen hard and fast; the Blue was silent in its bed; stones and
sticks adhered to the ground as if part and parcel of it, and each piece
of wood in the pile that Old Platte was working at stood stiffly and
firmly in its place. The wind, just before a snow-storm, always comes
down the canons in fierce premonitory gusts, and as it was desirable to
get in a good stock of wood before the snow-drifts gathered around the
cabin, Old Platte had been hacking manfully for some hours. The sun sunk
low in the hollow of the hills to the westward while he was still
working, and lit up with a cold yellow glare the snowy wastes and icy
peaks of the mighty mountains that stood guard over the Blue. The
whistling of the wind among the pines died gradually away, and the
silence that seemed to fall with the deepening shadows was only broken
by the ringing strokes of the axe and the crack of the splitting wood.
When he ceased the valley had faded into darkness, and the range with
its sharp outlines was only faintly discernible against the sombre gray
pall that had overspread the sky.

He made a broad stack of logs by the fireplace and a larger one outside
the door, and then stood by the threshold to take a look at the weather.
A great soft feather of snow came sailing slowly down and nestled in his
shaggy beard, and another fluttered on to the back of his hand. He
looked up through the darkness and saw that it was already beginning to
fall thickly, and then, with a self-satisfied glance of approval at his
provident woodpile, went into the cabin and fastened the door.

Thompson had shot a fine argal or Rocky Mountain sheep that morning, and
the broiled steaks were giving forth a most acceptable odor. He had
tried to get Gentleman Dick to taste of a choice piece, but he shook his
head wearily, as he had every time for some two weeks or more when
proffered food. He could eat nothing, and lay there propped up on rough
pillows, seeming scarcely conscious