It lay to a depth of several feet on the roof over my head.

My woodpile was covered by the snow that drifted in and it was with great difficulty that I could get enough wood to keep my little fire going.

And on that fire depended my life.

Worse than all these troubles was the knowledge that the heavy snow would be sure to delay Harrington.
I would lie there, day after day, a prey to all sorts of dark imaginings.

I fancied him killed by Indians on the trail, or snowbound and starving on the Plains.