shot up, almost due west, heralding the quarter of the coming storm.  The herd sensed the danger and responded to the efforts of the horsemen; but before a mile had been covered, it was enveloped in swirling snow and veering its march with the course of the storm.  The eddying snow blinded the boys as to their direction; they supposed they were pointing the cattle into the valley, unaware that the herd had changed its course on the onslaught of the elements.  Confidence gave way to uncertainty, and when sufficient time had elapsed to more than have reached the corral, conjecture as to their location became rife.  From the moment the storm struck, both boys had bent every energy to point the herd into the valley, but when neither slope nor creek was encountered, the fact asserted itself that they were adrift and at the mercy of the elements.

“We’ve missed the corral,” shouted Dell.  “We’re lost!”

“Not yet,” answered Joel, amid the din of the howling storm.  “The creek’s to our right.  Loosen your rope and we’ll beat these leaders into the valley.”

The plying of ropes, the shouting of boys, and the pressure of horses merely turned the foremost cattle, when a new contingent forged to the front, impelled onward by the fury of the storm.  Again and again the boys plied the fear of ropes and the force of horses, but each effort was futile, as new leaders stepped into the track of the displaced ones, and the course of the herd was sullenly maintained.

The battle was on, and there were no reserves within call.  In a crisis like the present, moments drag like hours, and the firing line needed heartening.  A knowledge of the country was of no avail, a rod or two was the limit of vision, and the brothers dared not trust each other out of sight.  Time moved forward unmeasured, yet amid all Joel Wells remained in possession of a stanch heart and an unbewildered mind.  “The creek’s to our right,” was his battle cry.  “Come on; let’s turn these lead cattle once more.”

Whether it was the forty-ninth or hundredth effort is not on record, but at some point in the good fight, the boys became aware that the cattle were descending a slope—­the welcome, southern slope of the Beaver valley!  Overhead the storm howled mercilessly, but the shelter of the hillside admitted of veering the herd on its course, until the valley was reached.  No knowledge of their location was possible, and all the brothers could do was to cross to the opposite point, and direct the herd against the leeward bank of the creek.  Every landmark was lost, with the herd drifting at will.

The first recognition was due to animal instinct.  Joel’s horse neighed, was answered by Dell’s, and with slack rein, the two turned a few rods aside and halted at their stable door.  Even then the boys could scarcely identify their home quarters, so enveloped was the dug-out in swirling snow.

“Get some matches,” said Joel, refusing to dismount.  “There’s no halting these cattle short of the second cut-bank, below on the left.  Come on; we must try and hold the herd.”