A wild battle with the storm followed. Panting, freezing, aching in every muscle, yet doggedly determined, he fought his way from hilltop to hilltop.
“Ought to be getting near the place,” he told himself as he found himself in a valley broader than any other he had crossed. “Nothing looks familiar. Can’t see far. Blamed snow keeps blowing so.”
Suddenly he stopped short. A black hulk loomed just before him. His heart skipped a beat? What was it? A cabin? Some Indian’s hut? A miner’s shack? What a boon in a wild night such as this!
He was not left long in doubt. Pressing eagerly forward for twenty yards he at last paused to exclaim: “Willows! Just willows with dead leaves on!”
But willows were something. They meant a shelter from the blasts of wind which had been slowly beating the life out of him. They meant, too, a possible fire.
“I’ll just get into them and see what can be done,” he mumbled as he once more beat his way forward.
So great was the relief from getting away from the knife-edged wind that he felt there must be somewhere among the willows a hidden fire.
“Might make one, at that,” he told himself.
Struggling through the dense growth, he came at last to an open spot some five yards in diameter which, he decided, was probably a frozen pool. About this the willows grew to a height of eight feet. The protection from the gale was complete.
“I’ll camp here till it blows over!” he thought as he began cutting down some slender willows with his sheath knife. These he spread on the smooth surface of the bare spot. Above them he built a tent-shaped shelter with only one end open. This completed, he began making a pile of dry twigs and leaves. Over this at last he piled larger, green branches. Finally he dug down in the soft snow to where deep beds of mosses lay. These were soft and dry.