Sam Poston came into the office where Franklin sat on Christmas eve, listening to the clinking rattle of the hard snow on the pane.  Sam was white from head to foot.  His face was anxious, his habitual uncertainty and diffidence were gone.

“Cap,” said he, with no prelude, “the whole country below’ll be froze out.  This blizzard’s awful.”

“I know it,” said Franklin.  “We must get out with help soon as we can.  How far down do you think the danger line begins?”

“Well, up to three or four miles out it’s thicker settled, an’ most o’ the folks could git into town.  As fur out as thirty mile to the south, they might git a little timber yet, over on the Smoky.  The worst strip is fifteen to twenty-five mile below.  Folks in there is sort o’ betwixt an’ between, an’ if they’re short o’ fuel to-day they’ll have to burn anything they can, that’s all, fer a feller wouldn’t last out in this storm very long if he got lost.  It’s the worst I ever see in the West.”

Franklin felt a tightening at his heart.  “About fifteen to twenty-five miles?” he said.  Sam nodded.  Both were silent.

“Look here, Cap,” said the driver presently, “you’ve allus told me not to say nothin’ ‘bout the folks down to the Halfway House, an’ I hain’t said a thing.  I ’low you got jarred down there some.  I know how that is.  All the same, I reckon maybe you sorter have a leanin’ that way still.  You may be worried some—­”

“I am!” cried Franklin.  “Tell me, how were they prepared—­would they have enough to last them through?”

“None too much,” said Sam.  “The old man was tellin’ me not long back that he’d have to come in ’fore long to lay him in his coal for the winter.  O’ course, they had the corrals, an’ some boards, an’ stuff like that layin’ ‘round.  They had the steps to the dugout, an’ some little wood about the win’mill, though they couldn’t hardly git at the tank—­”

Franklin groaned as he listened to this calm inventory of resources in a case so desperate.  He sank into a chair, his face between his hands.  Then he sprang up.  “We must go!” he cried.

“I know it,” said Sam simply.

“Get ready,” exclaimed Franklin, reaching for his coat.

“What do you mean, Cap—­now?”

“Yes, to-night—­at once.”

“You d——­d fool!” said Sam.

“You coward!” cried Franklin.  “What!  Are you afraid to go out when people are freezing—­when—­”

Sam rose to his feet, his slow features working.  “That ain’t right, Cap,” said he.  “I know I’m scared to do some things, but I—­I don’t believe I’m no coward.  I ain’t afraid to go down there, but I won’t go to-night, ner let you go, fer it’s the same as death to start now.  We couldn’t maybe make it in the daytime, but I’m willin’ to try it then.  Don’t you call no coward to me.  It ain’t right.”

Franklin again cast himself into his chair, his hand and arm smiting on the table.  “I beg your pardon, Sam,” said he presently.  “I know you’re not a coward.  We’ll start together in the morning.  But it’s killing me to wait.  Good God! they may be freezing now, while we’re here, warm and safe!”