The horse shied violently out of the road.  The girth of the saddle was loosened.  With a superhuman effort old Jim remained in his seat, but he knew he must tighten the cinch.  Dismounting, he permitted the horse to face away from the gale.  The pup came gladly to the shelter of the miner’s boots and clambered stiffly up on his leg, for a word of companionship and comfort.

“All right,” said Jim, giving him a pat on the head when the saddle was once more secure in its place; “but I reckon we’ll turn back homeward, and I’ll walk myself, for a spell, to warm me up.  It may let up, and if it does we can head for Fremont again without much loss of time.”

With the bridle-rein over his shoulder, he led the horse back the way they had come, his own head low on his breast, to avoid the particles of snow that searched him out persistently.

They had not plodded homeward far when the miner presently discovered they were floundering about in snow-covered brush.  He quickly lifted his head to look about.  He could see for a distance of less than twenty feet in any direction.  Mountains, plain—­the world of white—­had disappeared in the blinding onrush of snow and wind.  A chaos of driving particles comprised the universe.  And by the token of the brush underfoot they had wandered from the road.  There had been no attempt on the miner’s part to follow any tracks they had left on their westward course, for the gale and drift had obliterated every sign, almost as soon as the horse’s hoofs had ploughed them in the snow.

Believing that the narrow road across the desolation of the valley lay to the right, he forged ahead in that direction.  Soon they came upon smoother walking, which he thought was an indication that the road they sought was underfoot.  It was not.  He plodded onward for fifteen minutes, however, before he knew he had made a mistake.

The storm was, if possible, more furious.  The snow flew thicker; it stung more sharply, and seemed to come from every direction.

“We’ll stand right here behind the horse till it quits,” he said.  “It can’t keep up a lick like this.”

But turning about, in an effort to face the animal away from the worst of the blizzard, he kicked a clump of sage brush arched fairly over by its burden of snow.  Instantly a startled rabbit leaped from beneath the shrub and bounded against the horse’s legs, and then away in the storm.  In affright the horse jerked madly backward.  The bridle was broken.  It held for a second, then tore away from the animal’s head and fell in a heap in the snow.

“Whoa, boy!—­whoa!” said the miner, in a quiet way, but the horse, in his terror, snorted at the brush and galloped away, to be lost from sight on the instant.

For a moment the miner, with his bundled little burden in his arms, started in pursuit of the bronco.  But even the animal’s tracks in the snow were being already effaced by the sweep of the powdery gale.  The utter futility of searching for anything was harshly thrust upon the miner’s senses.