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and eased the facing wall out enough to allow his animals to enter. Out of the direct wind, it felt a lot warmer. He used a lucifer to light a torch, and took note of signs of recent occupancy.
    Dry wood had been stacked by a stone stove, which showed a residue of burned-out coals. The cobwebs had been cleared above a double bunk on one wall, and over the single one opposite. He led his animals farther back, where he found evidence of more ancient residents. Petroglyphs carved and painted into the walls of the cave spoke of visits by early man, hunt stories, and some sort of ritual. They made the hairs rise at the nape of Preacher’s neck.
    After he had secured Cougar and the packhorse, unsaddled them and rubbed them down, he returned to the cabin portion. He quickly kindled a fire, retrieved his cooking gear from one of the parfleches on the pack frame and set to boiling coffee, made from snow scooped up outside. Real warmth flooded the secure little shelter.
    When the first cup of strong, black brew had become a thing of the past, Preacher shredded thin strips from a dry-cured venison ham into a skillet and brought out a scrupulously clean bandana, into which he had tied half a dozen biscuits. He chose two and set them to warm on the rock beside the gridiron over the stove. A little grease from a crock, some dried hominy from a bag he soaked in a small clutch oven, and Preacher considered himself to be in hog heaven.
    He poured another cup of coffee and settled back to enjoy it. Exhausted from his fight to resist the cold and battle the storm, Preacher’s head began to droop. His chin all but touched his chest when he jerked upright suddenly. What was that he had heard?
    He thought chirping birds had disturbed his sleep. Yet, the storm still raged outside, and night was fast coming on. Birds did not twitter in such conditions. There. He heard it again. Preacher came to his boots and edged closer to the front of the cabin.
    A more careful listen and the chirpings resolved into human voices. Small human voices. Little kidlet voices. Preacher reached up to wipe the astonishment off his face. What in Billy-be-damned would brat-kids be doing wandering around in such a blizzard?
    * * *
    Taking a covered, kerosene lantern from his pack rig, Preacher lighted it and bundled up before stepping out into the storm. He found it greatly reduced, the wind down and the snow light streaks in the twilight gloom. The voices came from below him. He could make out the words now.
    â€œHelp! Someone help us!”
    â€œWe’re gonna freeze out here, I just know it.”
    â€œOh, please, help. Hello! Someone, anyone, help us!”
    Preacher investigated the ledge and found it still passable. He raised his lantern on high and called to the youngsters below. “Hello. Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”
    â€œOh, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you,” a squeaky voice babbled.
    Within five minutes, Preacher had descended and located the children. They shivered and shook, and hugged him, fighting back tears. They stiffened, though, when Preacher asked their identity.
    â€œI-I’m Terrance,” the slightly built boy replied in a gulp.
    â€œI’m Victoria.”
    Preacher forced a scolding frown. “What are a couple of babies like you doing out here in this storm?”
    Terrance shoved out a thin lip in a pink pout. “I’m not a baby. I’m twelve.”
    â€œWell, loo-di-doo. What about you, girlie?”
    â€œI’m ten. Terrance is my brother. We’re cold, mister.”
    â€œYou can call me Preacher. C’mon, I’ve a warm place up yonder, and some victuals if you’re hungry.”
    Terrance’s eyes widened, and he put a hand to his stomach. “Are we? We’re starved.”
    Preacher led them back, moving as swiftly as he could in the drifted snow. He had taken note, in the lantern light, of their pale skin and blue-tinged lips. Both children