“Well,” he remarked grimly one morning, when the boys asked him at breakfast about his plans, “you can go back to bed, for all I care.  I’ve done everything I can do—­till we get that snowstorm.  All we can do now is sit tight and trust to luck.”

“What day uh the month is this?” Applehead wanted to know.  His face was solemn with his responsibility as a weather prophet.

“The twentieth day of March,” Luck replied, with the air of one who has the date branded deep on his consciousness.

“Twentieth uh March—­hm-mm?  We-ell, now, I have knowed it to storm, and storm hard, after this time uh year.  But comin’ the way she did last fall, ‘n’ all this here wind ‘n’ bluster ‘n’ snowin’ on the Zandias and never comin’ no further down, I calc’late the chances is slim, boy—­’n’ gittin’ slimmer every day, now I’m tellin’ yuh!”

“Well, say!  Ain’t yuh got a purty fair pitcher the way she stands?” Big Medicine inquired aggressively.  “Seems t’ me we’ve done enough ridin’ and actin’, by cripes, t’ make half a dozen pitchers better’n what I’ve ever saw.”

“That isn’t the point.”  Luck’s voice was lifeless, with a certain dogged combativeness that had come into it during the last two months.  “We’ve got to have that storm.  This isn’t going to be any make-shift affair.  We’ve got some good film, yes.  But it’s like starting a funny story and being choked off before you get to the laugh in it.  We’ve got to have that storm, I tell you!” His eyes challenged them harshly to dispute his statement.

“Well, darn it, have your storm, then.  I’m willin’,” Big Medicine bellowed with ill-timed facetiousness.  “Pink, you run and git Luck a storm; git him a good big one, guaranteed to last ’im four days or money refunded.  You git one—­”

“Listen, Bud.”  Luck stood suddenly before Big Medicine, quivering with nervous rage.  “Don’t joke about this.  There’s no joke in this at all.  No one with any brains can see anything funny in having failure stare him in the face.  Twelve of us have put every ounce of our best work and our best patience and every dollar we possess in the world into this venture.  I’ve worked day and night on this picture.  I’ve worked you boys in weather that wasn’t fit for a dog to be out in.  I’ve seen Rosemary Green slaving in this dark little hole of a kitchen because we can’t afford a cook for the outfit.  You’ve all been dead game—­I’ll hand it to you for that—­every white chip has gone into the pot.  If we fail we’ll have to borrow carfare to get outa here.  And here’s Applehead.  We’ve used his ranch, we’ve used his house and his horses and himself; we’ve killed his cattle for beef, by ——!  And we’ve got just that one chance—­the chance of a storm—­for winning out.  One chance, and that chance getting slimmer every day, as he says.  No—­there’s no joke in this; or if there is, I’ve lost my appetite for comedy.  I can’t laugh.”  He stopped as suddenly as he had begun his rapid speech, caught up his hat, and went out alone into the soft morning sunlight.  He left silence behind him,—­a stunned silence that was awkward to break.