“Plumb spoiled.”  Luck threw his cigarette stub viciously into the blaze.  “All that drifting herd, all that panoram of Andy and Miguel—­all—­everything I took to-day, with the exception of those last scenes with the cow and calf.  The one where the cow is down and the snow drifting over her, and the calf huddled there by the carcass,—­that’s dandy.  Camera and negative were cold as the outside air by that time.  That one scene will stand out big; it’s got an awful big punch, provided I had the stuff leading up to it, which I haven’t got.”

“Hell!” said Andy softly, voicing the dismay of them all.

Presently old Applehead unlimbered himself from his chair and went out into the cold and darkness.  When he came back, ribbing his knuckles for warmth, he stood before the fireplace and ruminated dispiritedly before he spoke.

“Ain’t ary hope of it blizzardin’ to-morrer, boy,” he broke his silence reluctantly, “’less the wind changes, which she don’t act to me like she’s got ary notion of doin’; she’s shore goin’ to blind ye with sun to-morrer, now I’m tellin’ yuh.”

“Well, there won’t be any more static in my film,” Luck declared with sudden decision, and carried his camera outside.  When he returned Applehead eyed him solicitously.

“We-ell, this ain’t but the middle uh November, yuh want to recollect,” he said.  “We’re liable to have purtier storms ’n what this here one was, ‘fore winter’s over.  Cattle’ll be in worse condition, too,—­ribs stickin’ out so’st you kin count ’em a mile off ‘n’ more.  Way winter’s startin’ in, wouldn’t s’prise me a mite if we had storms all through till spring opens up.”

Luck knew the old man was trying in his crude way to encourage him, but he made no reply, and Applehead relapsed into drowsy meditation over his pipe.  The boys, yawning sleepily, trailed off to bed in the Ketch-all cabin.  Rosemary and Annie-Many-Ponies, having finished washing the dishes and tidying the kitchen, came through the room on their way to bed, Annie-Many-Ponies cunningly hiding the little black dog behind her skirts.  Rosemary frowned at the two and went to the door and called Compadre; but the blue cat, scenting a dog in the house, meowed his regrets and would not come.

“I’ll take ’im down with me,” said Applehead, rising stiffly.  “He cain’t take no comfort in the house no more—­not till he spunks up and licks that thar dawg a time er two.  Comin’, Luck?” he added, waiting at the door.  But Luck was staring into the fire and did not seem to hear him, so Applehead went off alone to where the Happy Family were already creeping thankfully into their hard bunks.

The house grew still; so still that Luck could hear the wind whispering in the chimney, coming from the quarter which meant clearing weather.  He sighed, flung more wood on the coals to drive back the chill of the night, and got out his scenario and some sheets of blank paper and a pencil.  He had sold his typewriter when he was raising money for this trip, and he was inclined now to regret it.  But he sharpened the pencil, laid a large-surfaced “movie” magazine across his knees, and prepared to revise his scenario to meet his present limitations.