Suddenly Wade emerged from out the fog into brilliant sunshine.  In amaze he halted.  This phenomenon was new to him.  He was high up on the mountain-side, the summit of which rose clear-cut and bold into the sky.  Below him spread what resembled a white sea.  It was an immense cloud-bank, filling all the valleys as if with creamy foam or snow, soft, thick, motionless, contrasting vividly with the blue sky above.  Old White Slides stood out, gray and bleak and brilliant, as if it were an island rock in a rolling sea of fleece.  Far across this strange, level cloud-floor rose the black line of the range.  Wade watched the scene with a kind of rapture.  He was alone on the heights.  There was not a sound.  The winds were stilled.  But there seemed a mighty being awake all around him, in the presence of which Wade felt how little were his sorrows and hopes.

Another day brought dull-gray scudding clouds, and gusts of wind and squalls of rain, and a wailing through the bare aspens.  It grew colder and bleaker and darker.  Rain changed to sleet and sleet to snow.  That night brought winter.

Next morning, when Wade plodded up to Moore’s cabin, it was through two feet of snow.  A beautiful glistening white mantle covered valley and slope and mountain, transforming all into a world too dazzlingly brilliant for the unprotected gaze of man.

When Wade pushed open the door of the cabin and entered he awakened the cowboy.

“Mornin’, Wils,” drawled Wade, as he slapped the snow from boots and legs.  “Summer has gone, winter has come, an’ the flowers lay in their graves!  How are you, boy?”

Moore had grown paler and thinner during his long confinement in bed.  A weary shade shone in his face and a shadow of pain in his eyes.  But the spirit of his smile was the same as always.

“Hello, Bent, old pard!” replied Moore.  “I guess I’m fine.  Nearly froze last night.  Didn’t sleep much.”

“Well, I was worried about that,” said the hunter.  “We’ve got to arrange things somehow.”

“I heard it snowing.  Gee! how the wind howled!  And I’m snowed in?”

“Sure are.  Two feet on a level.  It’s good I snaked down a lot of fire-wood.  Now I’ll set to work an’ cut it up an’ stack it round the cabin.  Reckon I’d better sleep up here with you, Wils.”

“Won’t Old Bill make a kick?”

“Let him kick.  But I reckon he doesn’t need to know anythin’ about it.  It is cold in here.  Well, I’ll soon warm it up....  Here’s some letters Lem got at Kremmlin’ the other day.  You read while I rustle some grub for you.”

Moore scanned the addresses on the several envelopes and sighed.

“From home!  I hate to read them.”

“Why?” queried Wade.

“Oh, because when I wrote I didn’t tell them I was hurt.  I feel like a liar.”

“It’s just as well, Wils, because you swear you’ll not go home.”

“Me?  I should smile not....  Bent—­I—­I—­hoped Collie might answer the note you took her from me.”