lest they cross the river on the ice and range where they should
not.

But in the evenings he could sit in the fire-glow and listen to
the wind and to the coyotes and the gray wolves, and weave
stories that even the most hyper-critical of editors could not
fail to find convincing. By day he could push the coffee-box
that held his typewriter over by the frosted window--when he had
an hour or two to spare--and whang away at a rate which filled
Gene with wonder. Sometimes he rode over to the home ranch for
a day or two, but Mona was away studying music, so he found no
inducement to remain, and drifted back to the little, sod-roofed
cabin by the river, and to Gene.

The winter settled down with bared teeth like a bull-dog, and
never a chinook came to temper the cold and give respite to man
or beast. Blizzards that held them, in fear of their lives,
close to shelter for days, came down from the north; and with
them came the drifting herds. By hundreds they came, hurrying
miserably before the storms. When the wind lashed them without
mercy even in the bottom-land, they pushed reluctantly out upon
the snow-covered ice of the Missouri. Then Gene and Thurston
watching from their cabin window would ride out and turn them
pitilessly back into the teeth of the storm.

They came by hundreds--thin, gaunt from cold and hunger. They
came by thousands, lowing their misery as they wandered
aimlessly, seeking that which none might find: food and shelter
and warmth for their chilled bodies. When the Canada herds
pushed down upon them the boys gave over trying to keep them