He held the envelope to the light, shook it tentatively, like
any woman, guessed hastily and hopefully at the contents, and
tore off an end impatiently. From the great fireplace Gene
watched him curiously and half enviously. He wished he could
get important-looking letters from New York every few days. It
must make a fellow feel that he amounted to something.

"Gene, you remember that story I read to you one night-- that
yarn about the fellow that lived alone in the hills, and how the
wolves used to come and sit on the ridge and howl o' nights--you
know, the one you said was 'out uh sight'? They took it, all
right, and--here, what do you think of that?" He tossed the
letter over to Gene, who caught it just as it was about to be
swept into the flame with the draught in Thurston, in the days
which he spent one of the half-dozen Lazy Eight line-camps with
Gene, down by the river, had been writing of the West--writing
in fear and trembling, for now he knew how great was his subject
and his ignorance of it. In the long evenings, while the fire
crackled and the flames played a game they had invented, a game
where they tried which could leap highest up the great chimney;
while the north wind whoo-ooed around the eaves and fine, frozen
snow meal swished against the one little window; while
shivering, drifting range cattle tramped restlessly through the
sparse willow-growth seeking comfort where was naught but cold
and snow and bitter, driving wind; while the gray wolves hunted
in packs and had not long to wait for their supper, Thurston had
written better than he knew. He had sent the cold of the
blizzards and the howl of the wolves; he had sent bits of the
wind-swept plains back to New York in long, white envelopes.