The Jack-Pot

"Huh?" excitedly. The mound began to heave.

"I say we're in for it. There's a feel in the air like what the Injuns call 'The White Death.' It hurt my lungs like I was breathin' darnin' needles when I cut this wood. The drifts is ten feet high and gittin' higher." Laconically: "The horses have quit us; we're afoot."

"Is that so? Well, we've got to get out of here--I refuse to put in another such night. Lie still!" he commanded ferociously. "You're letting in a lot of cold air. Quit rampin' round!" From which it may be gathered that Mr. Sprudell, for purposes of warmth and protection, was sleeping with the Chinese cook.

"Three in a bed is crowded," Uncle Bill admitted, with a grin. "To-night you might try settin' up."

A head of tousled white hair appeared above the edge of the blankets, then a pair of gleaming eyes. "I propose to get out of here to-day," Mr. Sprudell announced, with hauteur.

"Indeed?" inquired Uncle Bill calmly. "Where do you aim to go?"

"I'm going back to Ore City--on foot, if need be--I'll walk!"

Uncle Bill explained patiently: "The trail's wiped out, the pass is drifted full of snow, and the cold's a fright. You'd be lost inside of fifteen yards. That's loco talk."

"I'm going to get up." There was offended dignity in Mr. Sprudell's tone.

"You can't," said the old man shortly. "You ain't got no pants, and your shoes is full of snow. I doubts if you has socks till I takes a stick and digs around where your tepee was."