had been instantaneous.  He stared down at the white face, already powdered with snow; then glared about into the murky distances, revolver ready for action, every nerve throbbing.  God!  If he ever met the murderer!  Then swift reaction came, and he buried his eyes on the neck of the nearest horse, and his body shook with half-suppressed sobs.  The whole horror of it gripped him in that instant, broke his iron will, and left him weak as a child.

But the mood did not last.  Little by little he gained control, stood up again in the snow, and began to think.  He was a man, and must do a man’s work.  With an oath he forced himself to act; reloaded his revolver, thrust it back into the holster at his hip, and, with one parting glance at poor Sam, ploughed across through the drifts to Carroll.  He realized now his duty, the thing he must strive to accomplish.  Wade and Wasson were gone; no human effort could aid them, but Carroll lived, and might be saved.  And it was for him alone now to serve Molly.  The sudden comprehension of all this stung like the lash of a whip, transformed him again into a fighter, a soldier of the sort who refuses to acknowledge defeat.  His eyes darkened, his lips pressed together in a straight line.

Carroll lay helpless, inert, his head hanging down against the neck of his horse.  The Sergeant jerked him erect, roughly beating him into consciousness; nor did he desist until the fellow’s eyes opened in a dull stare.

“I ’ll pound the life out of you unless you brace up, George,” he muttered.  “That ’s right—­get mad if you want to.  It will do you good.  Wait until I get that quirt; that will set your blood moving.  No!  Wake up!  Die, nothing!  See here, man, there ’s the river just ahead.”

He picked up his glove, undid the reins from Wasson’s stiffened fingers, and urged the horses forward.  Carroll lurched drunkenly in the saddle, yet retained sufficient life to cling to the pommel, and thus the outfit plunged blindly forward into the storm, leaving the dead men where they lay.  There was nothing else to do; Hamlin’s heart choked him as he ploughed his way past, but he had no strength to lift those heavy bodies.  Every ounce of power must be conserved for the preservation of life.  Little as he could see through the snow blasts there was but one means of passage, that along the narrow rift between the ridges.  The snow lay deep here, but they floundered ahead, barely able to surmount the drifts, until suddenly they emerged upon an open space, sheltered somewhat by the low hills and swept clean by the wind.  Directly beneath, down a wide cleft in the bank, dimly visible, appeared the welcome waters of the Cimarron.  The stream was but partly frozen over, the dark current flowing in odd contrast between the banks of ice and snow.