They were lost in that valley of snow, cold, and blizzard.

“We’ll have to make a shelter the best we can,” he said, “and wait here, maybe half an hour, till the storm has quit.”

He kicked the snow from a cluster of sagebrush shrubs, and behind this flimsy barrier presently crouched, with the shivering pup, and with the silent little foundling in his arms.

What hours that merciless blizzard raged, no annals of Nevada tell.  What struggles the gray old miner made to find his way homeward before its wrath, what a fight it was he waged against the elements till night came on and the worst of the storm had ceased, could never be known in Borealis.

But early that night the teamster, Lufkins, was startled by the neighing of a horse, and when he came to the stable, there was the half-blinded animal on which old Jim and tiny Skeezucks had ridden away in the morning—­the empty saddle still upon his back.

CHAPTER XXI

A BED IN THE SNOW

The great stout ore-wagons stood in the snow that lay on the Borealis street, with never a horse or a mule to keep them company.  Not an animal fit to bear a man had been left in the camp.  But the twenty men who rode far off in the white desolation out beyond were losing hope as they searched and searched in the drifts and mounds that lay so deep upon the earth.

By feeble lantern glows at first, and later by the cold, gray light of dawn, they scanned the road and the country for miles and miles.  It was five o’clock, and six in the morning, and still the scattered company of men and horses pushed onward through the snow.

The quest became one of dread.  They almost feared to find the little group.  The wind had ceased to blow, but the air was cold.  Gray ribbons of cloud were stretched across the sky.  Desolation was everywhere—­in the heavens, on the plain, on the distant mountains.  All the world was snow, dotted only where the mounted men made insignificant spots against the waste of white.

Aching with the cold, aching more in their hearts, the men from Borealis knew a hundred ways to fear the worst.

Then at last a shout, and a shot from a pistol, sped to the farthest limits of the line of searching riders and prodded every drop of sluggish blood within them to a swift activity.

The shout and signal had come from Webber, the blacksmith, riding a big, bay mare.  Instantly Field, Bone, and Lufkins galloped to where he was swinging out of his saddle.

There in the snow, where at last he had floundered down after making an effort truly heroic to return to Borealis, lay the gray old Jim, with tiny Skeezucks strapped to his breast and hovered by his motionless arms.  In his hands the little mite of a pilgrim held his furry doll.  On the snow lay the luncheon Miss Doc had so lovingly prepared.  And Tintoretto, the pup, whom nature had made to be joyous and glad, was prostrate at the miner’s feet, with flakes of white all blown through the hair of his coat.  A narrow little track around the two he loved so well was beaten in the snow, where time after time the worried little animal had circled and circled about the silent forms, in some brave, puppy-wise service of watching and guarding, faithfully maintained till he could move no more.