We Sacketts had never had much to do with, and back in the mountains we learned to make out on mighty little, but we learned how to rustle. There wasn't one of us boys who hadn't traveled miles by himself and lived off the country before he was sixteen.
Since then I'd had very little but rough time, what with soldiering and all. A Montana-from-Texas cattle drive is not exactly a place for softening up, and it seemed like I'd spent half my life getting along on less than nothing.
Hardship was a way of life to me, and there were few times when I wasn't hungry, cold, or fighting rough country for a living. Being snowed in up here in these mountains wasn't a pleasant thing, but somehow I'd survive. But those others now ... ?
When I got back to camp the horses were close around the cave. I brought them inside and wiped them off. Mostly I fussed over them to keep their spirits up. They were smart enough to know we were in trouble, but being cared for made them confident that all was well.
I wished I could be so sure myself.
When I had my fire going I took off my sheepskin coat and shed my vest before putting the coat back on. I always try to have a little something extra to put on when out in cold weather. Main thing a man has to avoid is sweating. When he stops moving that sweat can freeze into an icy sheet inside the clothes.
I fixed myself some grub, and sat by the fire with Blackstone open. Time to time, I'd squint in the firelight to make something out.
These last few months, after I went to bed, sometimes I'd lie awake into the night, a-contem-plating things I'd read, or trying to say things, using the words taken from that book. By the time spring came I had hoped my talking would be better.
And, time to time, I had thought of Ange. . . . About the time I was doing for her and she was half-dead from starvation and exhaustion, when I thought maybe this was my woman. I spent a sight of time daydreaming around, just contemplating her, and all about her.
But there wasn't much left to think about She'd made that plain the other night in the store. Might have been better to let Batch shoot me. Only I didn't believe that. I've heard of men killing themselves over a woman -- most fool thing I ever heard
Women are practical. They get right down to bedrock about things, and no woman is going to waste much time remembering a man who was fool enough to kill himself. Thing to do is live for love,
Though most women-folks would a sight rather see a man dead than with another woman.
Only that evening alone, with the fire bright in .the cave, I got something all bunched up in my throaty Just a- wishing and a-dreaming over Ange and that red-gold hair.
After I'd eaten, I packed a bait of grub for morning, fixed over my snowshoes a mite, and settled down for the night, stowing the book away in my saddlebag.
A good hour before suntime I rolled out of my soogan and stowed it away. I fixed myself some breakfast and went down to the creek with the horses. Breaking a hole with my axe, I watered them there, I knocked some grass free of snow and ice, but it wasn't enough . . . the day wasn't long enough to get enough.
Strapping on the snowshoes and slinging a pack, I took a length of rope and my Winchester and started out. It was shy of daybreak when I reached the trail into the canyon.
The first thing I saw was a smear on the snow of the trail, almost halfway down. Something had fallen on the trail.
Carefully, using hand-holds on the rock wall where I could find them, I started down the trail, and when I got to the smear I could see a little snow had already blown over it. So it must have happened during the night. And whatever it was had fallen over the edge.
I edged close to the rim. Here and there the wind had piled the snow until it had built up a cornice. If a man should rest his weight on it, down he would go. Leaning over, I looked down.
It was Ange.
She was lying on a ledge maybe twenty feet down. Snow had blown over her. That red-gold hair lay like a flame on the snow, caught in the first light that filtered through the dawn clouds.
Putting my rifle down, I hunted around, till I found a mess of bristle-cone roots exposed by a slide. I knotted my rope to them and went over the side, landing beside her in a shower of snow. The ledge on which she lay was deep in snow and not over six or seven feet across, and maybe three times that long.
She was not dead.
I picked her up in my arms and held her close, trying to get her warm, and whispered all sorts of nonsense to her.
I tied a bowline around her body under her arms, snug enough so she couldn't slip through. Then, hand over hand, clambering for foot-holds in the rock, I pulled myself back up to the trail. When I had caught my breath, I hoisted her up.
By the time I had her on the trail it was day and there was plenty of light Unknotting the bowline, I coiled my rope, strapped on my snowshoes, and picked her up. She had a bad knot on her head, but the thickness of her hair and the snow had probably cushioned the blow, so I doubted if she was hurt much.
I hadn't taken two steps before I heard a shout, far below, and a rifle shot that must have been very low, because it came nowhere near me. I turned, and saw several black figures against the snow of the canyon, far below. Ange stirred, and opened her eyes. Quickly, pulling back as far as I could against the cliff wall, I put her down on her feet.
Tell? Tell, is it really you? I thought--'
'You all right?'
I fell... I thought I fell over the edge.'
'You did.' Rifle in one hand, and her hand in the Other, I eased along the trail, hugging the rocks. Another shot
