Garratt Skinner gathered in his numbed palm the last pipeful of tobacco in his pouch and, spilling the half of it--his hands so shook with cold, his fingers were so clumsy--he pressed it into his pipe and lit it.

Perhaps before it was all smoked out--he thought.
And then his hallucination returned to him.

Again he heard voices, very faint, and distant, in a lull of the wind.
It was weakness, of course, but he started up again, this time to his feet, and as he stood up his head and shoulders showed clear against the white snow behind him.

He heard a shout--yes, an undoubted shout.

He stared down the slope and then he saw.