“Della’s gone, Singleton!” he gasped.  “She went to town.  For God’s sake, get those saddles on again!  We’ve got to go back!”

“Warden, it can’t be done,” said Singleton in a low voice; “you’d freeze to death before you went a mile.  There ain’t any man can face that storm an’ live.  Man,” he added when Warden made a violent gesture of impatience; “use your reason.  We’ve just come five miles, with the wind at our backs—­an’ we’re half froze.  Lefty just told me that Miss Della left about three hours ago.  If that’s the case she’s likely in town, snug an’ warm, somewheres.  We’d ought to have nosed around a little before we left, but we didn’t, an’ mebbe she rode right by your place, thinkin’ to stop in on the way back.  You left early, you know.  Anyway, Warden, if she’s in town she’ll stay there till the storm is over—­snug an’ warm.  And if she didn’t go to town there wouldn’t be no use lookin’ for her.  Why, man, look out there! you can’t see your hand before you!”

Warden raged insanely, stalking back and forth through the stable; and finally to the ranchhouse again, where he bitterly arraigned Aunt Hannah.  But in the end he stayed in the ranchhouse, close beside a window, out of which he watched until the night came to shut off his view of the great, white world.

Over at the Circle L ranchhouse were other anxious watchers—­men whose steady eyes held a haunting gleam of worry, and whose rugged faces grew grim and long as the days passed and the storm did not abate.  From their bunkhouse they watched, day and night, for the end; their horses ready, heavy clothing at hand for a plunge into the white waste that stretched on all sides of them.  Had they known which way Lawler had gone when he left the Circle L they would have searched for him despite the frigid danger that gripped the world.  But Lawler had gone, leaving no word; and there was nothing the men could do.

Through a window in the Circle L ranchhouse anxious eyes peered also—­those of a gray-haired woman with a kindly, gentle face into which, as the long days passed, came lines that had not been there before.  And yet in the watching eyes was a gleam of hope—­of calm confidence in the big son who was somewhere in the white waste—­a conviction that he was safe, that he would survive and return to her.

CHAPTER XXIII

A WOMAN’S WILES

From the ceiling of the cabin Lawler had suspended a spare blanket.  It hung between the two tiers of bunks, thus providing a certain privacy for both Miss Wharton and Lawler.

Lawler had been scrupulously considerate, and with a delicacy that must have earned her applause—­had she been serious-minded—­he had sought to seem unaware or indifferent to the many inevitable intimacies forced upon them by the nature of their association.

He knew, however, that the girl was secretly laughing at him.  Certain signs were convincing.  On the first night of their enforced joint occupancy of the cabin, she had silently watched him tack the blanket to the ceiling; and though she had said nothing, he had noted a gleam in her eyes which had made him wonder if he should not have waited until she suggested it.