hunger called for more. Again John Baptiste and Noah James went forth
in anxious search for marks of our buried cattle. They made
excavations, then forced their hand-poles deep, deeper into the snow,
but in vain their efforts--the nail and hook at the points brought up
no sign of blood, hair, or hide. In dread unspeakable they returned,
and said:

"We shall go mad; we shall die! It is useless to hunt for the cattle;
but the _dead_, if they could be reached, their bodies might keep us
alive."

"No," replied father and mother, speaking for themselves. "No, part of
a hide still remains. When it is gone we will perish, if that be the
alternative."

The fact was, our dead could not have been disturbed even had the
attempt been made, for the many snowfalls of winter were banked about
them firm as granite walls, and in that camp was neither implement nor
arm strong enough to reach their resting-places.

It was a long, weary waiting, on starvation rations until the
nineteenth of February. I did not see any one coming that morning; but
I remember that, suddenly, there was an unusual stir and excitement in
the camp. Three strangers were there, and one was talking with father.
The others took packs from their backs and measured out small
quantities of flour and jerked beef and two small biscuits for each of
us. Then they went up to fell the sheltering pine tree over our tent
for fuel; while Noah James, Mrs. Wolfinger, my two half-sisters, and
mother kept moving about hunting for things.