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Dave Conroy, whos breath had hung stubby icicles on his moustache, paused upon the very summit of the pass
The river as shallow and his hands rested on its gravelled bottom ( Dave had fallen in the river)
He knew he was only 3 miles away from the cabin and nothing would stop him now
The wind was rising with the sundown. It wisped snow against his face, cut through the weave of his woolen mitts, set the forest moaning beside him.
The fire had leapt from the cabin, stiff, branchless trees, like a parade of skeletons climbing up the mountainside
The world was growing small, dying slowly in the darkness of the night.
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