Four years passed, and Old Man McDougall, as he was now known, never hunted sheep again. The winter was turning to spring, and a heavy winter it had been. Snow was piled high. Once again Scotty slowly recognized the sound, the Chinook wind, just a whisper at first. And then a roar. But the roar got louder, a train, a snowslide plowed into his cabin. The wind, blowing the door open, snatched the cloth from the horns just as the avalanche barreled into the cabin, destroying it in an instant.
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