232 The Ptarmigan Family 



and by the time a mile lay behind my forehead 

 was damp, in spite of an air that nipped like a 

 mink-trap. At length we reached the edge of a 

 tongue of fir woods, where Joe paused. Before, 

 spread a mile-broad open, where some old fire 

 had bitten to the bone. In summer this was an 

 artistic waste of lichened rocks, with low, lean 

 scrub between ; now it spread like a frozen sea 

 with stiffened billows half buried in purest snow. 

 For minutes he stood, reading the sign as a hound 

 reads the air, his eyes scanning every yard of 

 white from his feet to the irregular sky line. 



"Mebbe car'boo," he muttered, as he rolled his 

 eyes toward a slight depression which I should 

 have passed by. Then he stooped and thrust his 

 hand into the snow. 



" Big bull — old," was all the comment he made 

 as he straightened up and again led the way. 



Evidently the open had no attraction for him, 

 for he swung off to the right, keeping along the 

 edge of the cover. Here what breeze there was 

 had full sweep, and it nipped keenly at the nose, 

 cheeks, and chin. Already my heavy mustache 

 was burdened with ice, and a certain caution about 

 breathing had developed. But Joe did not appear 

 to bother about trifles like that, although his 

 bronzed face did show a warmth of color. His 

 steady, remorseless gait never changed, and the 

 rear view of him suggested that he was apt to go 



