Each morning my notches on my calendar stick were made.

Gradually their number grew till at last the twentieth was duly cut.

But no Harrington came.
The wolves, smelling meat within, had now begun to gather round in increasing numbers.

They made the night hideous with their howlings, and pawed and scratched and dug at the snow by the doorway, determined to come in and make a meal of everything the dugout contained, myself included.
How I endured it I do not know.

But the Plains teach men and boys fortitude.