The herd had been adrift several hours, and as sustenance for man and horse was important, Dell was impatient to reach the Beaver before nightfall.

“If the storm has held true since it struck,” said he, “I’ll cut it quartering from here to headquarters.  That good old corn that Dog-toe has been eating all winter has put the iron into his blood, until he just bows his neck and snorts defiance against this wind and snow.”

“Now, don’t be too sure,” cautioned Joel.  “You can’t see one hundred yards in this storm, and if you get bewildered, all country looks alike.  Trust your horse in any event, and if you strike above or below headquarters, if you keep your head on your shoulders you ought to recognize the creek.  Give your horse free rein and he’ll take you straight to the stable door.  Bring half a sack of corn, some bread and meat, the tent-fly and blankets.  Start an hour before daybreak, and you’ll find me in the lead of the herd.”

The brothers parted for the night.  So long as he could ride in their lead, the necessity of holding the cattle was the lodestar that sustained Joel Wells during those lonely hours.  There was always the hope that the storm would abate, when the tired cattle would gladly halt and bed down, which promise lightened the passing time.  The work was easy to boy and horse; to retard the march of the leaders, that the rear might easily follow, was the task of the night or until relieved.

On the other hand, Dell’s self-reliance lacked caution.  Secure in his ability to ride a course, day or night, fair or foul weather, he had barely reached the southern slope of the Beaver when darkness fell.  The horse was easily quartering the storm, but the pelting snow in the boy’s face led him to rein his mount from a true course, with the result that several miles was ridden without reaching any recognizable landmark.  A ravine or dry wash was finally encountered, when Dell dismounted.  As a matter of precaution, he carried matches, and on striking one, confusion assumed the reign over all caution and advice.  He was lost, but contentious to the last ditch.  Several times he remounted and allowed his horse free rein, but each time Dog-toe turned into the eye of the storm, then the true course home, and was halted.  Reason was abandoned and disorder reigned.  An hour was lost, when the confident boy mounted his horse and took up his former course, almost crossing the line of storm on a right angle.  A thousand visible forms, creatures of the night and storm, took shape in the bewildered mind of Dell Wells, and after dismounting and mounting unknown times, he floundered across Beaver Creek fully three miles below headquarters.

The hour was unknown.  Still confused, Dell finally appealed to his horse, and within a few minutes Dog-toe was in a road and champing the bits against restraint.  The boy dismounted, and a burning match revealed the outlines of a road under the soft snow.  The horse was given rein again and took the road like a hound, finally sweeping under a tree, when another halt was made.  It was the hackberry at the mouth of the cove, its broken twigs bespoke a fire which Dell had built, and yet the mute witness tree and impatient horse were doubted.  And not until Dog-toe halted at the stable door was the boy convinced of his error.