We really slept well. In the morning I awoke first, and looking out, saw nothing but thick, falling snow. I nudged my companion, and together we crept to the mouth of the cave. The snow was more than a foot deep in front of us, and falling so fast that only the nearest of the big pines below could be seen. The weather was not cold, certainly not much below freezing, but it caused our damp clothing to feel like ice against the skin. We crept back into our nest, shivering again.
"With this snow on the ground, it would be useless to try to take anything from the Kootenays," I said.
"True enough. They could follow our tracks and easily overtake us," Pitamakan agreed.
As he said no more for a long time, and would not even answer when I asked a question, I, too, became silent. But not for long; so many fears and doubts were oppressing me that I had to speak. "We had better start on, then, and try to cross the summit."
Pitamakan shook his head slowly. "Neither we nor any one else will cross the summit until summer comes again. This is winter. See, the snow is almost to our knees out there; up on top it is over our heads."
"Then we must die right here!" I exclaimed.
For answer, my partner began the coyote prayer song, and kept singing it over and over, except when he would break out into prayers to the sun, and to Old Man—the World-Maker—to give us help. There in the low little cave his song sounded muffled and hollow enough. Had I not been watching his face, I must have soon begged him to stop, it was so mournful and depressing.
But his face kept brightening and brightening until he actually smiled; and finally he turned to me and said, "Do not worry, brother. Take courage. They have put new thoughts into me."
I asked what the thoughts were, and he replied by asking what we most needed.
"Food, of course," I said. "I am weak from hunger."