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 their movements became automatic, instinctive, the result of iron discipline.  They realized the only hope—­attainment of the Cimarron bluffs.  There was no shelter there in the open, to either man or horse; the sole choice left was to struggle on, or lie down and die.  The last was likely to be the end of it, but while a drop of blood ran red and warm in their veins they would keep their feet and fight.

Carroll’s horse stumbled and rolled, catching the numbed trooper under his weight.  The jerk on the lariat flung Wade out of the saddle, dangling head downward.  With stiffened fingers, scarcely comprehending what they were about, the Sergeant and Wasson came to the rescue, helped the frightened horse struggle to its feet, and, totally blinded by the fury of the storm which now beat fairly in their eyes, grasped the dangling body, swaying back and forth as the startled animal plunged in terror.  It was a corpse they gripped, already stiff with cold, the eyes wide-open and staring.  Carroll, bruised and limping, came to their help, groaning with pain, and the three men together managed to lift the dead weight to the horse’s back, and to bind it safely with the turn of a rope.  Then, breathless from exhaustion, crouching behind the animals, bunched helplessly together, the howl of the wind like the scream of lost souls, the three men looked into each other’s faces.

“I reckon Jim died without ever knowin’ it,” said the scout, breaking again the film of ice over his eyes, and thrashing his arms.  “I allers heard tell it was an easy way o’ goin’.  Looks to me he was better off than we are just now.  Hurt much, Carroll?”

“Crunched my leg mighty bad; can’t bear no weight on it.  ’T was darn near froze stiff before; thet ‘s why I could n’t get out o’ the way quick.”

“Sure; well, ye ’ll have ter ride, then.  We ’ll take the blanket off Jim; he won’t need it no more.  ‘Brick’ an’ I kin hoof it yet awhile—­hey, ’Brick’?”

Hamlin lifted his head from the shelter of his horse’s mane.

“I reckon I can make my feet move,” he asserted doubtfully, “but they don’t feel as though there was any life left in them.”  He stamped on the snow.  “How long do these blizzards generally last, Sam?”

“Blow themselves out in about three days.”

“Three days?  God!  We can never live it out here.”