The sullen cattle passed on.  The halt was only for a moment, when the boys resumed their positions on the point and front.  Allowing the cattle to move, assured a compact herd, as on every attempt to halt or turn it, the rear forged to the front and furnished new leaders, and in unity lay a hope of holding the drifting cattle.

The lay of the Beaver valley below headquarters was well known.  The banks of the creek shifted from a valley on one side, to low, perpendicular bluffs on the other.  It was in one of these meanderings of the stream that Joel saw a possible haven, the sheltering cut-bank that he hoped to reach, where refuge might be secured against the raging elements.  It lay several miles below the homestead, and if the drifting herd reached the bend before darkness, there was a fighting chance to halt the cattle in a protected nook.  The cove in mind was larger than the one in which the corral was built, and if a successful entrance could only be effected—­but that was the point.

“This storm is quartering across the valley,” said Joel, during a lull, “and if we make the entrance, we’ll have to turn the herd on a direct angle from the course of the wind.  If the storm veers to the north, it will sweep us out of the valley, with nothing to shelter the cattle this side of the Prairie Dog.  It’s make that entrance, or abandon the herd, and run the chance of overtaking it.”

“We’ll rush them,” said Dell.  “Remember how those men, the day we branded, rushed the cattle into the branding chute.”

“They could do things that we wouldn’t dare—­those were trail men.”

“The cattle are just as much afraid of a boy as of a man; they don’t know any difference.  You point them and I’ll rush them.  Remember that story Mr. Quince told about a Mexican boy throwing himself across a gateway, and letting a thousand range horses jump over him?  You could do that, too, if you had the nerve.  Watch me rush them.”

It seemed an age before the cut-bank was reached.  The meanderings of the creek were not even recognizable, and only an occasional willow could be identified, indicating the location of the present drift.  Occasionally the storm thickened or lulled, rendering it impossible to measure the passing time, and the dread of nightfall was intensified.  Under such stress, the human mind becomes intensely alert, and every word of warning, every line of advice, urged on the boys by their sponsors, came back in their hour of trial with an applied meaning.  This was no dress parade, with the bands playing and horses dancing to the champing of their own bits; no huzzas of admiring throngs greeted this silent, marching column; no love-lit eyes watched their hero or soft hand waved lace or cambric from the border of this parade ground.

A lone hackberry tree was fortunately remembered as growing near the entrance to the bend which formed the pocket.  When receiving the cattle from the trail, it was the landmark for dropping the cripples.  The tree grew near the right bank of the creek, the wagon trail passed under it, making it a favorite halting place when freighting in supplies.  Dell remembered its shade, and taking the lead, groped forward in search of the silent sentinel which stood guard at the gateway of the cove.  It was their one hope, and by zigzagging from the creek to any semblance of a road, the entrance to the nook might be identified.