in the snow. It certainly was cold, was his thought. When he got back
to the States he could tell the folks what real cold was. He drifted on
from this to a vision of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek. He could see
him quite clearly, warm and comfortable, and smoking a pipe.

"You were right, old hoss; you were right," the man mumbled to the old-
timer of Sulphur Creek.

Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and
satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting.
The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no
signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog's experience
had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the
twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with a
great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened
its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man
remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept
close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal
bristle and back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the
stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it
turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew,
where were the other food-providers and fire-providers.




THAT SPOT


I don't think much of Stephen Mackaye any more, though I used to swear by