That good old corn that Dog-toe
has been eating all winter has put the iron into his blood, until he
just bows his neck and snorts defiance against this wind and snow."

"Now, don't be too sure," cautioned Joel. "You can't see one hundred
yards in this storm, and if you get bewildered, all country looks alike.
Trust your horse in any event, and if you strike above or below
headquarters, if you keep your head on your shoulders you ought to
recognize the creek. Give your horse free rein and he'll take you
straight to the stable door. Bring half a sack of corn, some bread and
meat, the tent-fly and blankets. Start an hour before daybreak, and
you'll find me in the lead of the herd."

The brothers parted for the night. So long as he could ride in their
lead, the necessity of holding the cattle was the lodestar that
sustained Joel Wells during those lonely hours. There was always the
hope that the storm would abate, when the tired cattle would gladly halt
and bed down, which promise lightened the passing time. The work was
easy to boy and horse; to retard the march of the leaders, that the rear
might easily follow, was the task of the night or until relieved.

On the other hand, Dell's self-reliance lacked caution. Secure in his
ability to ride a course, day or night, fair or foul weather, he had
barely reached the southern slope of the Beaver when darkness fell. The
horse was easily quartering the storm, but the pelting snow in the boy's
face led him to rein his mount from a true course, with the result that
several miles was ridden without reaching any recognizable landmark. A
ravine or dry wash was finally encountered, when Dell dismounted. As a
matter of precaution, he carried matches, and on striking one, confusion
assumed the reign over all caution and advice. He was lost, but
contentious to the last ditch. Several times he remounted and allowed
his horse free rein, but each time Dog-toe turned into the eye of the
storm, then the true course home, and was halted. Reason was abandoned
and disorder reigned. An hour was lost, when the confident boy mounted
his horse and took up his former course, almost crossing the line of
storm on a right angle. A thousand visible forms, creatures of the night
and storm, took shape in the bewildered mind of Dell Wells, and after
dismounting and mounting unknown times, he floundered across Beaver
Creek fully three miles below headquarters.

The hour was unknown. Still confused, Dell f