“Where can we turn them?” timidly inquired Dell.

“Unless the range of sand dunes catch us,” replied Joel, “nothing short of the brakes of the Prairie Dog will check the cattle.  We’re out until this storm spends its force.”

“Let’s beat for the sand hills, then.  They lay to our right, and the wolves are gone.”

“The storm is from the northwest.  If it holds from that quarter, we’ll miss the sand dunes by several miles.  Then it becomes a question of horseflesh.”

“If we miss the sand hills, I’ll go back and get a pack horse and overtake you to-morrow.  It isn’t cold, and Dog-toe can face the storm.”

“That’s our one hope,” admitted Joel.  “We’ve brought these cattle through a hard winter and now we mustn’t lose them in a spring squall.”

The wind blew a gale.  Ten minutes after the storm struck and the cattle turned to drift with it, all knowledge of the quarter of the compass was lost.  It was a reasonable allowance that the storm would hold a true course until its wrath was spent, and relying on that slender thread, the boys attempted to veer the herd for the sand hills.  By nature cattle are none too gregarious, as only under fear will they flock compactly, and the danger of splitting the herd into wandering contingents must be avoided.  On the march which lay before it, its compactness must be maintained, and to turn half the herd into the sand dunes and let the remainder wander adrift was out of the question.

“We’ll have to try out the temper of the herd,” said Joel.  “The cattle are thin, have lost their tallow, and this wind seems to be cutting them to the quick.  There’s no use in turning the lead unless the swing cattle will follow.  It’s better to drift until the storm breaks than to split the herd into little bunches.”

“Let’s try for the sand hills, anyhow,” urged Dell.  “Turn the leaders ever so slightly, and I’ll try and keep the swing cattle in line.”

An effort to reach the shelter of the sand dunes was repeatedly made.  But on each attempt the wind, at freezing temperature, cut the cattle to the bone, and as drifting was so much more merciful, the brothers chose to abandon the idea of reaching a haven in the sand hills.

“The cattle are too weak,” admitted Joel, after repeated efforts.  “Turn the leaders and they hump their backs and halt.  An hour of this wind would drop them in their tracks.  It’s drift or die.”

“I’ll drop back and see how the drag cattle are coming on,” suggested Dell, “and if they’re in line I might as well start after a pack horse.  We’re only wearing out our horses in trying to turn this herd.”

The efforts to veer the herd had enabled the drag end to easily keep in a compact line, and on Dell’s return to the lead, he reported the drifting column less than a quarter mile in length.

“The spirit of the herd is killed,” said he; “the cattle can barely hold their heads off the ground.  Why, during that Christmas drift, they fought and gored each other at every chance, but to-day they act like lost sheep.  They are half dead on their feet.”