In spite of the falling of the storm, Franklin and his companion pushed on, trusting to the instinct of the plains horses, which should lead them over a trail that they had travelled so often before.  Soon the robes and coats were driven full of snow; the horses were anxious, restless, and excited.  But always the runners creaked on, and always the two felt sure they were nearing the place they sought.  Exposed so long in this bitter air, they were cut through with the chill, in spite of all the clothing they could wear, for the norther of the plains has quality of its own to make its victims helpless.  The presence of the storm was awful, colossal, terrifying.  Sometimes they were confused, seeing dark, looming bulks in the vague air, though a moment later they noted it to be but the packing of the drift in the atmosphere.  Sometimes they were gloomy, not hoping for escape, though still the horses went gallantly on, driven for the most part down a wind which they never would have faced.

“The wind’s just on my right cheek,” said Sam, putting up a mitten.  “But where’s it gone?”

“You’re frozen, man!” cried Franklin.  “Pull up, and let me rub your face.”

“No, no, we can’t stop,” said Sam, catching up some snow and rubbing his white cheek as he drove.

“Keep the wind on your right cheek—­we’re over the Sand Run now, I think, and on the long ridge, back of the White Woman.  It can’t be over two mile more.—­Git along, boys.  Whoa!  What’s the matter there?”

The horses had stopped, plunging at something which they could not pass.  “Good God!” cried Franklin, “whose fence is that?  Are we at Buford’s?”

“No,” said Sam, “this must be at old man Hancock’s.  He fenced across the old road, and we had to make a jog around his d——­d broom-corn field.  It’s only a couple o’ miles now to Buford’s.”

“Shall I tear down the fence?” asked Franklin.

“No, it’s no use; it’d only let us in his field, an’ maybe we couldn’t hit the trail on the fur side.  We got to follow the fence a way.  May God everlastingly damn any man that’ll fence up the free range!—­Whoa, Jack!  Whoa, Bill!  Git out o’ here!  Git up!”

They tried to parallel the fence, but the horses edged away from the wind continually, so that it was difficult to keep eye upon the infrequent posts of the meagre, straggling fence that this man had put upon the “public lands.”

“Hold on, Sam!” cried Franklin.  “Let me out.”

“That’s right, Cap,” said Sam.  “Git out an’ go on ahead a way, then holler to me, so’st I kin come up to you.  When we git around the corner we’ll be all right.”