They were willing enough to go together to do this difficult thing.

But had they not lifted together at the stump and failed to do the thing which he had done single-handed?
That thought stuck in his memory and would not out.

And suppose he, Bull, were to accomplish this great feat and return to the shack?
Would not Bill Campbell feel doubly repaid for the living he had furnished for his nephew?
More than once the grim old man had cursed the luck that saddled him with a stupid incubus.
But the curses would turn to compliments if Bull left this little man, this catlike and dangerous fighter, this Pete Reeve, dead on the trail.
Not that all this was clear in the mind of Bull, but he felt something like a command pushing him on that difficult south trail, through the storm and the snow that would now be piling above the timberline.

He waited until there was no noise but the snoring of the sleepers and the rush and roar of the wind which continually set something stirring in the room.

These sounds served to cover effectually any noises he made as he felt about and made up his small pack.