The Ghost Whistle

Snow! Nothing but snow everywhere. For three days the white flakes had been drifting out of a leaden sky, hiding the dump heaps round Uncle Bob's cabin, burying deeper the body of the son he had loved. For three days the mountaineers of the section had waded stoically back and forth between the general store and their homes.

Then came the blizzard. The wind swept out of the north with a howl; the clouds huddled earthward, as if to escape its fury, and the snowflakes grew smaller. No longer did they flutter down like butterflies, but, close-packed and driven by a sixty-mile gale, they flew horizontally.

Uncle Bob, in his cabin, kept himself warm--externally with a light- wood blaze, internally with moonshine. But his blood-shot eyes and unsteady hand told of sleepless nights. When darkness crowded the single window, he sat very close to the fire, his loaded rifle within reach and his door barred, for he was sec