better be huntin' fodder and cover instead of road agents. 'Skuse me,
gentlemen, but I'm responsible for the hosses, and this ain't no time
for circus-ridin'. We're a matter o' six miles from the station in a bee
line."
"Back to the trail, then," said Clinch, wheeling his horse towards the
road they had just quitted.
"'Skuse me, Kernel," said the ostler, laying his hand on Clinch's rein,
"but that way only brings us back the road we kem--the stage road--three
miles further from home. That three miles is on the divide, and by the
time we get there it will be snowed up worse nor this. The shortest cut
is along the Ridge. If we hump ourselves we ken cross the divide afore
the road is blocked. And that, 'skuse me, gentlemen, is MY road."
There was no time for discussion. The road was already palpably
thickening under their feet. Hale's arm was stiffened to his side by
a wet, clinging snow-wreath. The figures of the others were almost
obliterated and shapeless. It was not snowing--it was snowballing! The
huge flakes, shaken like enormous feathers out of a vast blue-black
cloud, commingled and fell in sprays and patches. All idea of their
former pursuit was forgotten; the blind rage and enthusiasm that had
possessed them was gone. They dashed after their new leader with only an
instinct for shelter and succor.
They had not ridden long when fortunately, as it seemed to Hale, the
character of the storm changed. The snow no longer fell in such large
flakes, nor as heavily. A bitter wind succeeded; the soft snow began
to stiffen and crackle under the horses' hoofs; they were no longer
weighted and encumbered by the drifts upon their bodies; the smaller
flakes now rustled and rasped against them like sand, or bounded from
them like hail. They seemed to be moving more easily and rapidly, their
spirits were rising with the stimulus of cold and motion, when suddenly
their leader halted.
"It's no use, boys. It can't be done! This is no blizzard, but a regular
two days' snifter! It's no longer meltin', but packin' and driftin'
|