THE POCKET HUNTER 



tempted a crossing by the nearest path, 

 beginning the ascent at noon. It grew 

 cold, the snow came on thick and blind- 

 ing, and wiped out the trail in a white 

 smudge ; the storm drift blew in and cut 

 off landmarks, the early dark obscured 

 the rising drifts. According to the Pocket 

 Hunter's account, he knew where he was, 

 but could n't exactly say. Three days be- 

 fore he had been in the west arm of Death 

 Valley on a short water allowance, ankle- 

 deep in shifty sand ; now he was on the 

 rise of Waban, knee-deep in sodden snow, 

 and in both cases he did the only allow- 

 able thing he walked on. That is the 

 only thing to do in a snowstorm in any 

 case. It might have been the creature 

 instinct, which in his way of life had room 

 to grow, that led him to the cedar shelter ; 

 at any rate he found it about four hours 

 75 



