"We'll knock over a lot of trees between now and dinner-time," promised Hazelton, as he hurried away.
"Now, Reade, you'd better give up your idea of getting to Dugout for the present," resumed Jim Ferrers.
"But the work? We've got to keep the men busy, and we must keep the blasts a-going."
"You'll have to forget it for a week or so," insisted the Nevadan.
"Your freezing to death in a gale of snow wouldn't help matters any."
"But I must get to Dugout," Tom pleaded.
"You won't try it unless you're crazy," Jim retorted. "If you make an attempt to stir from camp this afternoon, Reade, I'll call on the men to hold you down until I can tie you. Do you think I've waited, Reade, all these years to find a partner like you, and then allow him to go off in a blizzard that would sure finish him?"
"Then, if you're sure about this, Jim, I won't attempt to go until the weather moderates."
"When the time's right I'll go," proposed Ferrers. "A pony is no good on this white stuff. From some of the Swedes we've had working out in this country I've learned how to make a pair of skis. You can travel on skis where a pony would cut his legs in two against the snow crust."
"Then, if I'm not going to Dugout, I'll go out and swing an axe for a while," Tom suggested. "I want to be of some use, and I can't sit still anyway."
"Oh, sit down," urged Ferrers, almost impatiently, as he filled his pipe and lighted it. "I'll amuse you with some stories about blizzards on this Range in years past."