f command down the
struggling line:

"Dismount; wind the rope around your pommels. Sam. How far is it to
the Cimarron?"

"More 'n twenty miles."

"All right! We 've got to make it, boys," forcing a note of
cheerfulness into his voice. "Hang on to the bit even if you drop. I
may drift to the west, but that won't lose us much. Come on, now."

"Hamlin, let me break trail."

"We 'll take it turn about, Sam. It 'll be worse in an hour than it is
now. All ready, boys."

Blinded by the sleet, staggering to the fierce pummelling of the wind,
yet clinging desperately to his horse's bit, the Sergeant struggled
forward in the swirl of the storm.

CHAPTER XXV

IN THE BLIZZARD

There was no cessation, no abatement. Across a thousand miles of plain
the ice-laden wind swept down upon them with the relentless fury of a
hurricane, driving the snow crystals into their faces, buffeting them
mercilessly, numbing their bodies, and blinding their eyes. In that
awful grip they looked upon Death, but struggled on, as real men must
until they fall. Breathing was agony; every step became a torture;
fingers grasping the horses' bits grew stiff and deadened by frost;
they reeled like drunken men, sightless in the mad swirl, deafened by
the pounding of the blast against their ears. All consciousness left
them; only dumb instinct kept them battling for life, staggering
forward, foot by foot, odd phantasies of imagination beginning to
beckon. In their weakness, delirium gripped their half-mad brains,
yielding new strength to fight the snow fiend. Aching in every joint,
trembling from fatigue, they dare not rest an instant. The wind,
veering more to the east, lashed their faces like a whip. They
crouched behind the horses to keep out of the sting of it, crunching
the snow, now in deep drifts, under their half-frozen feet.

Wade, a young fellow not overly strong, fell twice. They placed him in
the centre, with Carroll bringing up the rear. Again he went down,
face buried in the snow, crying like a babe. Desperately the others
lashed him into his saddle, binding a blanket about him, and went
grimly staggering on, his limp figure rocking above them. Hour
succeeded hour in ceaseless struggle; no one knew where they were, only
the leader staggered on, his eyes upon the compass. Wasson and Hamlin
took their turns tramping a trail, the snow often to their knees. They
had stopped speaking, stopped thinking even. All