“It can’t be anything that will last,” replied Alice. “It isn’t time for the winter snows.”
“I know,” replied Peggy. “But it’s snowing perfect feather beds now, and no wind. Lucky this forest-ranger is here. The men may get lost in this storm.”
“Mercy! Don’t speak of such a thing!” exclaimed Alice; but she knew, just the same, that Ward and his party were high in the peaks, far, far above the cabin, and that the storm there would be proportionately fiercer. She listened with growing thankfulness to the outlaw’s blows upon the dry limbs of wood that he was chopping for the fire. He was very capable and would not desert them—of that she felt assured.
As the man worked on, the women both came to keen realization of the serious view he took of the storm. He mounted his horse and with his rope dragged great bundles of fagots from the thickets. As he came up, laden with one of his bundles of hard-won fuel, Mrs. Adams asked:
“You don’t think it will keep this up, do you?”
“You never can tell what will happen in these mountains. It doesn’t generally snow much till later, but you can’t bank on anything in this range.”
Alice called to him and he stepped inside. “What do you think we’d better do?” she asked.
“There isn’t a thing you can do, miss. It’s just a case of stick it out. It may let up by sundown; but, as it is, your party can’t get back to-night, and if you don’t mind I’ll camp down just outside the door and keep the fire going.”
“You will be a comfort to us,” she replied, “but I feel that—that you ought to be going. Isn’t it dangerous for you? I mean you will be shut in here.”
“If I’m shut in, others are shut out,” he answered, with a grim smile. “My job is to keep fire.” With these words he returned to his work of breaking limbs from the dead firs.