“What is it?” asked Jacky, ever on the alert with the instinct of the prairie.

“Some one just ahead of us.  The track is badly broken in places.  Sit tight, I’m going to touch ’em up.”

He flicked the whip over the horses’ backs, and, a moment later, the sleigh was flying along at a dangerous pace.  The horses had broken into a gallop.

“Lord” Bill seemed to liven up under the influence of speed.  The wind was howling now, and conversation was impossible, except in short, jerky sentences.  They were on the high level of the prairie and were getting the full benefit of the open sweep of country.

“Cold?” Bill almost shouted.

“No,” came the quiet response.

“Straight, down-hill trail.  I’m going to let ’em have their heads.”

Both of these people knew every inch of the road they were travelling.  There was no fear in their hearts.

“Put ’em along, then.”

The horses raced along.  The deadly gray wind had obscured all light.  The lights of the sleigh alone showed the tracks.  It was a wild night and every moment it seemed to become worse.  Suddenly the man spoke again.

“I wish we hadn’t got the others with us, Jacky.”

“Why?”

“Because I could put ’em along faster, as it is—­” His sentence remained unfinished, the sleigh bumped and lifted on to one runner.  It was within an ace of overturning.  There was no need to finish his sentence.

“Yes, I understand, Bill.  Don’t take too many chances.  Ease ’em up—­some.  They’re not as young as we are—­not the horses.  The others.”

“Lord” Bill laughed.  Jacky was so cool.  The word fear was not in her vocabulary.  This sort of a journey was nothing new to her.  She had experienced it all before.  Possibly, however, her total lack of fear was due to her knowledge of the man who, to use her own way of expressing things, “was at the business end of the lines.”  “Lord” Bill was at once the finest and the most fearless teamster for miles around.  Under the cloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness and even recklessness which few accredited to him.

For some time the two remained silent.  The minutes sped rapidly and half an hour passed.  All about was pitch black now.  The wind was tearing and shrieking from every direction at once.  The sleigh seemed to be the center of its attack.  The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up from the ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierce resistance to the racing horses.  Another few minutes and the two people on the front seat knew that progress would be impossible.  As it was, “Lord” Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see.  The trail was obscured, as were all landmarks.  He could no longer see the horses’ heads.

“We’ve passed the school-house,” said Jacky, at last.

“Yes, I know.”

A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman.  Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it.  And yet they knew they had passed it.