He slept in a bunk built against the wall, with hard boards under him and a sod roof over his head.

There were times when the wind blew its fiercest and rattled dirt down into his face unless he covered it with a blanket.

And every other day he had to wash the dishes and cook, and when it was Gene's turn to cook, Thurston chopped great armloads of wood for the fireplace to eat o' nights.

Also he must fare forth, wrapped to the eyes, and help Gene drive back the cattle which drifted into the river bottom, lest they cross the river on the ice and range where they should not.
But in the evenings he could sit in the fire-glow and listen to the wind and to the coyotes and the gray wolves, and weave stories that even the most hyper-critical of editors could not fail to find convincing.

By day he could push the coffee-box that held his typewriter over by the frosted window--when he had an hour or two to spare--and whang away at a rate which filled Gene with wonder.