DOWN THE POGONIP TRAIL.

It was cold, bitter, bitter cold, and the wind from off the mountains cut through even the warmest clothes. Jeff Kurland's clothes were not warm, for the long, dry summer had brought only disaster, and the few cattle he had been able to sell paid only for his groceries, leaving no margin for clothes.
Now he seemed to be facing another winter without snow, and it was melting snow which watered the grasslands far below, the grasslands where his cattle grazed. He bowed his head into the wind and headed his horse for the timber. Broke as a drunken miner after ten days in town, he would have no chance now of marrying Jill Bates.
The scarf tied around his head under his hat kept slipping down, but it did help to keep his forehead and the back of his neck warm. Without it, his brow would be cold as chilled iron, riding in this wind.
The mustang broke into a canter for the last few yards to the trees. They would be shelter from the wind, at least. Now if he could just catch Ross Stiber! Five thousand dollars was a lot of money. Then he could fix up the cabin, get married, and maybe buy a few head of cattle to increase
his small herd.
Only a few hours ago Sheriff Tilson had told him Stiber was believed to be hiding out somewhere in the icy peaks and ridges that loomed above Kurland's cabin. Tilson had warned him. The man was a killer. If Tilson was smart, he would not go up into those peaks after Stiber. Jeff' knew those peaks from harsh experience, and nothing could last a winter up there. All Tilson had to do was wait and watch. Stiber would have to come out.
The earth beneath his horse's hoofs was iron-hard, the sky above a dull, forbidding gray. Where the small creeks flowed, the rocks were sheathed with ice. On the trail that wound through the spruce he was at least out of the wind, and it was a mere three miles to his cabin.
Home! Four walls and a dirt floor, but a good fireplace and plenty of fuel. If a man was handy with an axe there was plenty of wood just from dead-falls, but food was scarce. What he would do if there were a heavy snowfall he could only guess. Even his visit to Jill had turned out badly. Not that she was anything but adorable, or lacked affection, but the house was so warm and pleasant that he shuddered to think of her comments if she were to see his own harsh cabin.
He felt shy in the Bates's house. His clothes were shabby, and his big hands were blue with cold. He could hardly tear himself away from the fire for the warm meal, and when Kurt Saveth had started to banter him about his rugged life he had frozen up inside, unable to find words with which to reply. He was cold, resentful, and unhappy. It was no wonder Jill's parents preferred Saveth to him. The worst of it was it was Saveth, from whom he bought supplies. It went against the grain to ask his rival for credit. Kurt knew how little he bought, how badly off he must be, and how things must be up there on his ranch.
The mustang's pace quickened. Cold as the barn might be, the horse was ready for it after the forty miles it had traveled this day. Jeff rode the gray into the yard and stepped down from the saddle. Leading the animal inside, he stripped off the gear, put a halter on him, and tied him to the manger. Then he forked down hay; at least he had plenty of that! He got out a blanket and covered the horse, buckling it in place. It was a light blanket, but at least it was some help against the cold. Fortunately, the barn was snug and secure from the raw wind. When Jeff Kurlandbuilt, he built well.
His steps were loud on the hard ground as he crossed the frozen yard. Lifting the latch, he stepped inside and, dropping his sack of supplies, he started for the fireplace to light a fire.
He stopped short. Neatly piled atop the ashes was a small cone of twigs and shreds of bark. "Don't make no sudden moves." The tone was harsh. "You just go ahead and light that fire. I was aimin' to do just that when you came into sight."
Without turning, Jeff struck a match and lighted the prepared fire. As it blazed up he added heavier sticks. Of course, it would be Ross Stiber, and the man was a killer. Jeff half-turned his head. "All right to get up now? I'm not armed."
"Get up an' start fixin' some grub. Hope you brought somethin' with you. You surely ain't fixed for winter." Jeff Kurland got up and glanced across the room at the man sitting on.the bunk. He was a big, raw-boned man, unshaved, and with a heavy jaw. His bleak gray eyes were taking in Jeff Kurland, his worn clothes and thin face. "I'm Stiber," he said,,"but it ain't goin' to do you one
particle of good."
He came up behind Jeff and ran a hand over his pock- ets. He sounded surprised when he stepped back. "No gun, huh'? I already looked the cabin over, so where is it?"
"Ain't got one." Kurland was embarrassed. "Don't get any ideas about that there reeward. I'm wide
awake all the time, and I can shoot the buttons off your coat.
"I know that. I just haven't got a gun."
Kurland went to work preparing the meal. He was hungry after his long ride, and wanted to eat. He also wanted time to think his way out of the situation he was in. 
How much of a situation, he was not sure. The outlaw settled himself back against the wall, watching his every move. Stiber seemed to want to talk.
"You sure aren't fixed well, friend. I looked your place over. Isn't enough grub here to feed a rat. How could you expect to last out a storm, no more grub than you've got?"
He glanced at the sack Jeff had brought in. "An' you surely didn't pack much, considerin' you had a forty-mile ride."
Jeff was irritated, but he made no comment. What business was it of Stiber's to come nosing around, butting into his business? If he was going without now and again, it was his business and nobody else's. He got coffee on and mixed biscuits.
"Shoulder of venison on the chair yonder," Stiber suggested. Better fix it. I killed me a deer night before last.
Not much game around. Must be the drought. He glanced at Kurland. "Got your cattle, too, I'll bet."
He eased forward to the edge of the bunk again. "Hey?
You got any smokin' in that bag? I run out of it up yonder in the peaks. I might have stuck it out if it hadn't been for that."
Jeff reached into the sack and tossed Stiber a package of tobacco. "Keep it," he said. "I've got another."
Stiber caught the sack and lowered it between his knees and got out some papers. 'Thanks, amigo. Don't you just figure I'd have taken it, anyway? I could have. I probably would have, too. I wouldn't take both of them, though. A man can do without his grub, but his smokin'? No way.
"Up yonder in the peaks I smoked dried leaves; ain't done that since I was a youngster, shredded bark, just anything." He lit up and smoked in silence for several minutes. Then he said, "Who's the girl?"
Kurland's head came up sharply. He was as big as Stiber, but the hard months had made him lean. His eyes were bleak and dangerous. Stiber noticed it, and there was a flicker of humor in his eyes.
"Where's that picture? Did you take it?"
"What would I want with your picture? No, I didn't take it, an' I'm meanin' no disrespect. She's a right pretty girl, though."
She s a fine girl and a decent girl."
"Did I say she wasn't?" Stiber protested. "Sure, she's a fine girl. I know her."
You know her? Jeff was startled.
"Jill Bates'? I should smile, I know her. Don't look at me that way. Was a time when I wasn't no outlaw, havin' to hide out in the hills. I knew her when she was a youngster. Nine, ten years ago. I was a young cowpuncher then, drifted into this country after shootin' a man down at Santa Rita. That was my first shootin' and I was some upset. I wasn't fixin' to kill anybody. Then I met a girl up here. Blonde, she was. Cute as a bug's ear. Name of Clara Dawson."
Jeff grinned. "You should see her now."
"I don't aim to. Rather remember her as she was.
Comes to that, I don't look so fine my own self. It was different then. About that time I was cuttin' a wide swath among the women-folks.
"You should have seen me then! Had me a silver-mounted saddle and bridle. Had a fine black horse, best one I ever owned. Comanches got him. I was lucky to get away with my hair."
"Come an' get it," Jeff put plates on the table. "You canput up that six-shooter, too. I don't plan on bustin' your skull until we've had something to eat."
Stiber chuckled. "Don't try it, boy. That's a right pretty little girl, and I'd hate to put tears in her eyes. Pour me some of that coffee, will you? Been two weeks since I've drunk coffee."
Stiber waited until the coffee was poured. He tucked the pistol in his waistband. How come you haven t got a gun? I seen the holster."
Jeff flushed. "I borrowed money on it. From Kurt Saveth."
Tough.  Stiber was eating with obvious enjoyment.
"You cook a mighty fine meal. You sure do." He looked up. "You fixin' to marry that Bates girl? If you are, you better go out and rob yourself a bank. You can't bring the likes of her to a place like this."
Jeff slammed down his fork. Listen! You bust in here an' take a meal at gunpoint an' you can do it. I'd begrudge no man a meal! But you keep your nose out of my private business or I'll bust it all over your face!"
Stiber chuckled, lifting a protesting hand. "No offense! I was just talkin', that's all. As for bustin' my nose, even if I didn't have a gun you couldn't whip one side of me. Not that I'm aimin' to give you the chance.
"You fix a good meal, friend, but you make a wrong move and it will be the last one you ever fix. I've got five thousand.in blood money restin' on my head, and that's a lot of money to a man in your fix."
Jeff ate in silence while the outlaw continued to talk. From time to time Jeff’s thoughts returned to the subject of that. reward. Five thousand dollars was a lot of money,and the man was wanted for a killing.
What was in Stiber's mind now? He scarcely dared try to leave the country, yet it was impossible to live among the peaks in this weather. It would be worse before it got better. Of course, if he had a good hideout -- 
It was then Jeff Kurland remembered the cave on Copper Mountain.
Could that be where Stiber was hiding' Sheriff Tilson had said that Stiber did not know this country, yet if
 Stiber had been around here ten years ago, something Tilson obviously did not know, he might know of the cave on Copper Mountain.
Where else could a man live in those mountains in such cold. But had Stiber ever come through a pogonip fog in this country? Did he know what it was like when the fog turned to ice and settled in a chill blanket over everything?
If a man was caught in a cave, he'd better have plenty of food and be prepared to wait it out, because escape would be impossible. And unless Jeff Kurland was mistaken, the weather was shaping up for something like that now.
Within the past few minutes he seemed to feel warmer, and not only because the room was heating up.
The outlaw's droning voice penetrated Jeff's thoughts.
"That Jill Bates, she's growed into a mighty handsome woman! Used to fetch her candy, I did, and maple sugar. That was when I was courtin' Clara. Thought the world of that kid. Even let her ride my black horse one time."
He pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "Got to be goin'. You split that grub in half, and leave me the sack. Ain't likely you'll have callers but I can't chance it."
"Listen," Jeff protested, "that's all the grub I've got! And I've no money!"
Ross Stiber chuckled. "You ain't sold your saddle yet, and I'll just bet that Kurt Saveth would like to buy it off you!"
"Sell my saddle? I'm not that broke! You know damned well that when a cowpuncher sells his saddle he's through finished!"
"Then maybe you ain't quite finished. Why don't you go slaughter one of Cal Harter's Pole Angus steers' I hear theirs is the best beef you can find."
When he was gone Jeff dropped into a chair, thoroughly discouraged. With the little grub he had brought in he might have made it. As it was, he didn't have a chance.
Half the little food he had was gone, and he had no money nor any chance to get any. Nor would anybody be hiring hands in this kind of weather. They had let go what extra hands they had for the winter season, keeping on just a few trusted standbys. It looked like the end of everything. His chance to have his own ranch, his chance to marry Jill, all gone down the drain.
He had started his own outfit three years before, with three hundred head of cattle. It was a herd carefully built from strays or injured cattle. Here and there he bought a few head, mostly calves from cattle drives, where the calves were an impediment. He had driven his herd into these high green valleys and built his cabin. In the months that followed he had labored to build a small dam for a reservoir against the hot, dry months.
Grass grew well along the bottoms, and he had worked from daylight until dark mowing hay with a scythe and stacking it against the long winter ahead. He had built shelters of poles and brush, knowing the snow would bank against it and add to the warmth. Nobody had held cattle up this high, but he believed he could do it. A few years back he had come upon some wild cattle who had survived a winter in the high country.
His first year had gone well. Although he lost a few head, the calves more than made up for it, and during the summer they increased and grew fat. Then had come a bitter winter that shut down early, locking the land in an icy grip that broke only in the late spring.
When he took stock he found he had lost over a hundred head, and the others were gaunt and unfit for sale. The summer had been hot and dry, and as it grew hotter and dryer he had fought with all he had to keep his cattle in shape and get them through until fall. Late rains, on which he had depended, changed to snow, and now he was into the second of the awful winters. Bigger cattlemen
than he were hard hit, but they had large herds and could stand some loss. Every one he lost hurt severely. With all his money gone, he had sold off his gear until all he had left was his Winchester .44 and his riding gear.
Wearily, he got to his feet, banked the fire, and crawled into his bunk, too exhausted to even worry.
He awakened to utter blackness and cold. Huddling in his blankets, he dreaded the thought of the icy floor and the shivering moments before he got the fire going.
The instant his feet hit the floor he felt an icy chill, and knew at once what it was.
The pogonip! The dreaded fog that even the Indians feared, an icy fog that put a blanket of death over every shrub, every tree, even every blade of grass. Bitterly cold, and the ground so slick it was inviting broken legs to even move, the air did strange things with sound so that voices 
far away could be distinctly heard.
Kicking back the blanket, he pulled on his socks and raced across the floor to stir up the fire. Uncovering some coals, he threw kindling into the fireplace and then raced back to the warmth of his bed to wait until some of the chill had left the cabin.
The kindling caught fire and the flames leaped up. After a while he got out of bed, added more fuel, and put coffee water on the fireplace stones. Then he dressed, and as he tugged on his boots he saw the cigarette ashes spilled on the floor from Stiber's cigarette.
Where was he now'? Had he reached the cave on Copper Mountain? Or had he realized what a trap it might be?
The cave was deep, and held a certain amount of warmth, but to have reached it Stiber would have had to travel half the night over rough and dangerous trails. Yet he might have done just that.
On the third day of the pogonip snow fell, covering the ice with a few scant inches of snow. Taking his rifle and slipping on his snowshoes, he started his hunt. From now on life would be a grim struggle to stay alive. He cruised through the woods, seeking out likely places for deer. He had been out for more than two hours and was slowly working his way back toward his cabin when he saw a mule deer floundering in the deep snow. It was not until he killed it that he discovered its leg was already broken, evidently from a fall on the deadly ice.
The following day it snowed again, snowed slowly, steadily. Cold closed its icy fist upon the mountains, and his thermometer dropped to ten below, then to twenty below zero. On the morning of the tenth day it was nearly fifty below; his fuel supply was more than adequate, but it kept
him adding fuel every fifteen to twenty minutes.
Long since, knowing the cold at this altitude, he had prepared for what was to come, stopping up all the chinks in the log walls, few though they were. He had squared off the logs with an adze when building the cabin, and they fit snugly. Only at the corners, carefully joined though they were, did some cold air get in. With newspapers he had papered the inside of the cabin, adding several layers of insulation.
With careful rationing of his venison, he figured he could get through the cold spell if it did not last too long.
Despite himself, he worried about the fugitive on Copper Mountain, if that was indeed where he was. Unless Stiber had been able to kill some game, he would by this time be in an even worse situation than himself. And in this kind of weather there would be no game in the high country.
Awakening a few days later, Jeff Kurland lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head. The thought of Stiber alone on Copper Mountain would not leave him. Outlaw and killer he might be, but it was not Jeff’s way to let even an animal suffer. If Ross Stiber had been in the cave on Copper Mountain he would surely have come out by now, and there was no other way out except right by this cabin.
He made his decision suddenly, yet when he thought of it he knew the idea had been in his mind for days. He was going to scale Copper Mountain and find out just what had happened to Stiber. The man might have broken a leg and be starving in his cave.
The air was crisp and still, colder than it seemed at first. Buckling on his snowshoes and slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Jeff Kurland hit the trail. Knowing the danger of perspiring in this cold, he kept his pace down, despite his anxiety. Sweat-soaked undergarments could quickly turn to a sheath of ice in such intense cold. After that, freezing to death was only a matter of time.
The trail wound upward through a beautiful forest of lodge-pole pine which slowly gave way to scattered spruce as he climbed higher on the mountain. Despite the slow pace he made good time, and would reach the most difficult stretch shortly before noon. Deliberately, he refused to think about the return trip.
Pausing once, on a flat stretch of trail, he looked up at the mountain. "Kurland," he told himself, "you're a fool." What he was doing made no kind of good sense. Ross Stiber had chosen the outlaw trail, and if it ended in a cave on Copper Mountain instead of a noose it was only what he might have expected. It might even be what Stiber would prefer.
Jeff knew the route, although he had visited the cave but twice before. After reaching the shelf there would be no good trail, and his snowshoes offered the only way of getting there at all.
The air was death still, and the cold bit viciously at any exposed flesh. He plodded on, taking his time. Fortunately, on this day there was no wind. His breath crackled, freezing as he breathed. He walked with extreme care, knowing that beneath the snow there was ice, smooth, slick ice.
When he reached the stretch of trail along the face of Red Cliff, he hesitated. The snow was very thin along that trail where the wind had blown, and beneath it was the slick ice of the pogonip. The slightest misstep and he would go shooting off into space, to fall on the ice-covered boulders four hundred feet below.
On this day he was wearing knee-high moccasins with thick woolen socks inside. They were better for climbing, and worked better with the snowshoes.
Removing the snowshoes, he slung them over his back and, keeping his eyes on the trail a few feet ahead, he began to work his way along the face of the cliff.
Once fairly on his way there was no turning back, for turning around on the slick trail, while it could be done, was infinitely more dangerous than continuing on. It took an hour of painstaking effort to traverse the half-mile of trail, but at last, panting and scared, he made it. Ahead of
him towered the snow-covered bulk of what was locally called Copper Mountain.
He scanned the snow before him. No tracks. Not even a rabbit had passed this way. If Ross Stiber was actually living on the mountain, he had not tried to come this way.
Carefully, he worked his way up along the side of the mountain, keeping an eye out for Stiber. The man might see him, shoot, and ask questions later. If there were anything left alive to question.
White and silent, the mountain towered above the trees, and Jeff paused from time to time to study it, warily, for fear of avalanches. Under much of that white beauty there was pogonip ice, huge masses of snow poised on a surface slicker than glass, ready to go at any instant. He put his
snowshoes on once more and started, very carefully, along a shoulder of the mountain.
Only a little way further now. He paused, sniffing the air for smoke. There was none. Nor was there any sound.
The mouth of the cave yawned suddenly, almost unexpectedly, for with snow covering the usual landmarks he had no longer been sure of its position. The snow outside the cave was unbroken. There were no tracks, no evidence of occupation.
Had he come all this way for nothing?
He ducked his head and stepped into the cave. Unfastening his snowshoes, he left them at the entrance and tiptoed back into the cave. Lighting a branch of fir for a torch, he held it high to get the most from its momentary light. It was then he saw Stiber.
The outlaw lay upon a bed of boughs covered with some blankets and his coat. Nearby were the ashes of a fire,long grown cold. Here, away from the mouth, the cold was not severe, but, taking one glance at Stiber's thin, emaciated face, Jeff Kurland dropped to his knees and began to kindle a fire. He got the fire lighted using half-burned twigs and bits of bark, then he hurried outside the cave for more fuel. All that in the cave had evidently been burned long since. As the flames leaped up and the cave lightened, Stiber's eyes opened and he looked at Kurland. "You, is it'? How did you get here?"
"The same way you did. Over the trail from my place. I was worried."
"You're a fool, if you worried about me. I ain't worth it, and you've no call to worry."
"I was afraid you'd busted a leg."
"You guessed right," Stiber said, bitterly. My leg is busted. Right outside the cave, on the first morning of that ice fog. I dragged myself back in here and got some splints on it."
"How's your grub?"
"Grub'? I run out seven days ago."
Jeff opened his pack and got out some black tea. He was a coffee man, himself, but he carried the tea for emergencies, and now he brewed it hot and strong.
"Try this," he said when it was ready, "and take it easy. The cup's hot."
With water from his canteen and some dried venison he made a broth, thickening it a little with corn flour.
Stiber put his cup down and eased himself to a sitting position. "Figured tea was a tenderfoot drink," he said, "but it surely hits the spot."
"Best thing in the world if you're in shock or rundown.
Wait until you get some of this broth."
Later, a flush on his cheeks and warmed by the hot drinks and the fire, Ross Stiber looked over at Kurland with cold gray eyes. "Well, this is your show. You're here, and the grub you brought won't last more than two days.
What d' you figure to do'?"
Kurland had been thinking of that. In fact, he had been thinking of it all the way up, and there was only one possible answer.
"Come daybreak I'm packing you out of here."
"You've got to be crazy. You couldn't pack a baby over that icy trail! And I'm a full-grown man."
"Get some sleep," Kurland said, "and shut up before I change my mind and leave you here."
At daybreak he was up. Deliberately, he kept his thoughts away from the ordeal before him. It was something he had to do, no matter how much he feared it, no matter how much he disliked the injured man.
He helped Stiber into all the clothes he had, then wrapped him in a heavy blanket. "You will be heavy, but you'll not be moving, and I don't want you frozen, You will be just that harder to carry."
With a stick, Stiber hobbled to the cave mouth. The morning was utterly still and bitterly cold. "You'll never make it. Go down alone and send them after me."
"They wouldn't come. Nobody but a damn' fool would tackle that trail before spring, and I'm the damn fool."
He studied the trail for a moment, calculating. It did no good to look. He already knew how tough it was, and what he had to do.
"Once I get you on my back," he said, "don't move.
Don't talk, don't even wiggle a toe."
When he had his snowshoes adjusted, he took the injured man on his back and started over the snow. The man was heavy, and there was no easy way to carry him. "You'll have to hang on," he said. "I'll need my hands."
Step by careful step, he worked his way over the snow toward the head of the eyebrow trail along the cliff face.
At the near end of that trail he lowered the injured man to the snow.
Leaving Stiber on the snow he slung his snowshoes over his back and went out on the narrow thread of trail. The very thought of attempting to carry a man over that trail on his back sent cold prickles of fear along his spine. Yet there was no other way.
Now, scouting the trail with care, he tried to envision every step, just how he would put his feet down, where there was the greatest danger of slipping, where he could reach for a handhold.
Reaching the end of the trail, he left the snowshoes and rifle, then returned for Stiber. Resolutely, he refused to accept the obvious impossibility of what he intended to do. A man would die if he did not get him out. That he might die in the attempt was not only possible, it was likely. Yet he had spent years in' the mountains, and he knew his strength and his skill. He had to depend on that.
Was he good enough'. That was the question. When he returned he sat down beside Stiber. The
outlaw looked at him quizzically. "I wasn't really expectin' you back."
"You're a liar. You knew damned well I'd be back. I'm just that kind of a damned fool."
"What happens now?"
"I'm packing you, piggyback, over that trail."
"Can't be done. There's no way it can be done. Man, I weigh two hundred and twenty pounds."
"Maybe two weeks ago you weighed that. I'd lay fifty bucks that you don't weigh over two hundred right now."
Using a nearby tree Stiber pulled himself erect and Kurland backed up to him. Careful not to injure the broken leg Kurland took the man on his back. "Now, whatever you do, don't even wiggle. You can throw me off balance on that trail. If you do, we're both gone."
He avoided looking at the trail now. He knew very well what faced him and that he must take the trip one step at a time. The slightest misstep and both would go over the brink. Under the snow was the ice of the pogonip.
Carefully, he put a foot out, testing for a solid foothold. Wearing moccasins, he could feel the unevenness, even grip a little with his toes. Little by little, he edged out on the trail. Icy wind plucked at his garments and took his breath. He did not look ahead, feeling for each new foot-
hold before he put his weight down.
Sweat broke out on his face, trickled down beside his nose. Desperately, he wanted to wipe it away but there was no chance, for his arms were locked under Stiber's knees.
How long a trail was it? A half-mile?' He could not remember. His muscles ached. Dearly, he wanted to let go, just a little, to rest even for a moment. Once, just past the middle, his foot slipped on the icy trail, and for an instant their lives hung in the balance. Jeff felt himself going, but Stiber's knees gripped him tighter.
"Get your feet under you, lad." Stiber's voice was calm.
"I've got hold of a root."
Darkness was falling when at last they came to the cabin. Over the last miles Kurland had dragged Stiber on a crude travois made of branches, holding the ends of two limbs in his hands while dragging Stiber over the snow, lying on his makeshift litter. When they reached the cabin,
he picked the big man up and carried him inside, and dumped him on the bunk.
The cabin was icy inside, and hurriedly Jeff Kurland built his fire. Soon there was a good blaze going, and warmth began to fill the room. An hour later, Stiber looked at him over a bowl of hot soup.
Now you can turn me in for that reeward," he said, almost cheerfully.
Kurland's head snapped up. He felt as though he had been slapped.
"Go to blazes! I didn't risk my neck getting you down off that mountain just to see you hung. When you can walk, you get out of here, and stay out!"
"No need to get your back up. I wouldn't blame you. I et up half your grub, and caused you no end of grief."
Jeff Kurland did not reply. He knew only too well the long, difficult months that lay ahead, and that when spring came there would be hardly enough cattle left to pay off his debts, if there were any at all. He would have nothing with which to start over.
Moreover, if he did not report Ross Stiber, and if he was caught with the man in his cabin, he could be accused of harboring a criminal. The fact that the man had a broken leg would help him none at all.
At the same time, he knew he could not turn him in.
One cannot save a man's life without having a certain liking for him thereafter, nor can a man share food with another without developing a feeling of kinship, for better or worse,
He did not want Stiber in his cabin. He resented the man. His food was all too limited, and game was scarce.
Nor did he like Stiber's company, for the man talked too much. Yet he could not turn him in. He would wait until the leg was mended, when Stiber would have a running chance, at least.
The cold held the land in a relentless grip. More and more snow fell. Finally, desperate for food, he killed one of his steers. The fuel supply burned low, and Kurland fought his way through the snow to the edge of the timber, where he felled several trees and bucked them up for fuel. Stiber watched, with small gray eyes holding a flicker of ironic humor.
"You live through this winter an' you'll have a story to tell your grandchildren."
Kurland g1ared. "What grandchildren'? What chance would I have to marry Jill with a setup like this'?" He waved a hand at the earthen floor and the shabby bunk. "I was hoping for some good years. I was planning to build a cabin up yonder, where there's a view, close to the spring.
It would have been a place for any woman."
"You should have kept your gun. You could have stuck up the Charleston stage. She carries a sight of money sometimes."
"I'm no thief You tried it, and where did you wind up?
Half-frozen in a cave on Copper Mountain!"
That's no more than plain truth," he admitted. Well, each to his own way. I took mine because I killed a man. He wasn't much account, either. I end up starvin' in a cave, and you starve in this miserable cabin. Neither of us gets much of a break."
"I'll make my own breaks," Kurland replied. "Just wait until spring. I'll get me a riding job and save some money."
Stiber's tone was mocking. "At forty a month how much are you goin' to save? You think that girl will wait? Maybe somebody else is shinin' up to her'? Somebody who doesn't freeze and starve on hopes'? You think she'll wait? A time comes for marriage, and a woman marries, doin' the best
she can. You're dreamin', boy."
Maybe he was. Jeff Kurland stared into the fire. He had been taking too much for granted. What made him think she loved him? Because he loved her? Because he wanted her love so much?
He had never so much as spoken of his dreams to her, just the simple facts of the case, yet how many times must she have heard that? Every cattleman, sheepman, and mining man had the same dream. And all the while there was Kurt Saveth, who had a small but charming home in town which he had inherited from his folks; he also had a successful store, and people around all the while, not a lonely cabin in the far-up mountains.
Footsteps crunching in the snow caused his head to lift.
Ross Stiber's grab for his pistol was just an instant slower than Jeffs. "Not today, Stiber!. We will have no shooting here!"
There was a loud knock, and at his "Come in!" the door opened and Sheriff Tilson entered, followed by Kurt Saveth, looking handsome in a new mackinaw, and following him,
Doc Bates, and, of all people, Jill!
His face flushed with shame. He had not wanted her to see how he lived until he had something better, something fit to show her. He saw her glance quickly around, but as her eyes came to him he looked quickly away.
All right, Stiber, you re under arrest." He turned to Jeff. What s this mean, Kurland? You harborin this outlaw?"
"He has a broken leg," Jeff spoke with dignity. "What could I do, carry him down on my backs"
You could report it," Tilson replied. You re in trouble, young man."
"He found me dyin' in the cave on Copper Mountain, Sheriff. He packed me over Red Cliff trail on his back."
“You expect me to believe that? After that pogonip a rabbit couldn't come down that trail, to say nothing of a man packin' another man on his back."
"He done it," Stiber insisted. "I'd come down and taken grub away from him, but when he figured I was starving he came up and got me. I'm his prisoner. If there is any reward he should get it."
Tilson laughed with humor. He glanced around at Saveth.
"Hear that? They'd probably split it. Your guess that Stiber was hidin' here was a good one, Kurt. He had to be here, because there's no other place on the mountain where he could keep warm."
Doc Bates looked around from examining Stiber's leg.
"This man does have a broken leg, Tilson."
"That doesn't make Kurland's story true. No man in his right mind would risk that trail. Kurland will be lucky if we don't prosecute him."
Jeff Kurland felt nothing but disgust and despair. He did not care about the reward. He had never thought seriously of that, anyway, but he sensed that Saveth disliked him and wanted him out of the way. Well, this ended it.
When the cold broke he'd sell whatever he had left and head south.
Then he felt a hand slip into his. Startled, he looked down to see Jill had moved close beside him.
She was looking at Ross Stiber. I remember you. You re Jack Ross, the rider from Cheyenne."
"You've a good memory, ma'am. Look, don't you believe what they're saying. All they want is that reward money.
You've got your hand on the best and squarest man I know. If you take your hand off his arm you'll have lost the best of the breed."
"We'll fix a travois and haul him down to jail," Tilson said, and he glanced at Jeff. "You'll have a tough time provin' you didn't harbor a criminal."
"Sheriff," Doc Bates interrupted, "I know this man Stiber. He may be wanted as an outlaw, but I can put fifty men on the stand that will testify he's no liar. Before he got into trouble Jack Ross, that's how we knew him, was a respected man and a top hand. If he says Kurland brought him over the Red Cliff trail, I’ll believe him. So will those others."
And I’11 swear to it on the stand,' Stiber added. He had me. I was his prisoner."
“We'll see about that," Saveth said.
Tilson was irritated. "Let's get out of here," he said.
"Doc You comin' with us?"
"I guess we all are," Bates said. "We wouldn't want anything to happen to our prisoner now, would we?"
Tilson went outside to put together a travois, and Stiber 
turned quickly to Jill. "Ma'am? You won't be tellin' Clara that I'm Jack Ross now, will you? I wouldn't want her to see me in jail. Not that she meant much to me. Fact is, I was glad to get away. She struck me as one of those who'd get mean and cantankerous as she grew older."
You were right about that, Jeff assured him. She has a disposition like a sore-backed mule. Just ask Tilson."
"Does he know her?"
"Know her? He married her!"
All the way to town Sheriff Tilson wondered if Ross Stiber wasn't a little crazy. He kept chuckling and laughing, and what did a man with a broken leg, maybe headed for a hanging, what did he have to laugh about?