He glanced out upon the ravine. Large soft flakes of snow were falling lazily through the trees.
"I'll get my blankets and grub under cover, and get some more wood for the night. It's going to be cold."
He heaped the remains of the wood he had gathered upon the fire, and with great difficulty, for his foot was growing more and more painful with every move, he set about gathering wood, of which there was abundance near at hand, and making himself snug for the night. He brought up a pail of water from the Creek, and tethered his broncho where there was a bunch of grass at the bottom of the ravine. Before he had finished these operations the ground was white with snow, and the wind was beginning to sigh ominously through the trees.
"Going to be a blizzard, sure," he said. "But let her blow. We're all right in here. Hello! where are those dogs? After the wolves, I'll be bound. They'll come back when they're ready."
With every moment the snow came down more thickly, and the wind grew toward a gale.
"If it's going to be a storm, I'd better lay in some more wood."
At the cost of great pain and labour, he dragged within reach of the cave a number of dead trees. He was disgusted to find his stock of provisions rather low.
"I wish I'd eaten less," he grumbled. "If I'm in for a three days' storm, and it looks like that, my grub will run out. I'll have a cup of tea to-night and save the grub for to-morrow."
As he was busy with these preparations, a sudden darkness fell on the valley. A strange sound like a muffled roaring came up the ravine. In a single minute everything was blotted out before him. There hung down before his eyes a white, whirling, blinding, choking mass of driving snow.
"By Jove! that's a corker of a blizzard, sure enough! I'll draw my fire further in."