The wolves made the night hideous with their howls; they gathered around the dug-out; ran over the roof; and pawed and scratched as if trying to get in.
Several days and nights thus wore away, the monotony all the time becoming greater, until at last it became almost unendurable.

Some days I would go without any fire at all, and eat raw frozen meat and melt snow in my mouth for water.

I became almost convinced that Harrington had been caught in the storm and had been buried under the snow, or was lost.

Many a time during that dreary period of uncertainty, I made up my mind that if I ever got out of that place alive, I would abandon the plains and the life of a trapper forever.

I had nearly given up all hopes of leaving the dug-out alive.
It was on the twenty-ninth day, while I was lying thus despondently thinking and wondering, that I heard the cheerful sound of Harrington's voice as he came slowly up the creek, yelling, "whoa! haw!" to his cattle.