The lariat rope, tied to Hamlin’s pommel, straightened out and was grasped desperately by the gloved hands of the men behind.  The Sergeant, shading his eyes, half smothered in the blast, could see merely ill-defined shadows.

“All caught?”

The answers were inaudible.

“For the Lord’s sake, speak up; answer now—­Wasson.”

“Here.”

“Wade.”

“Here.”

“Carroll.”

“Here.”

“Good; now come on after me.”

He drove his horse forward, head bent low over the compass, one arm flung up across his mouth to prevent inhaling the icy air.  He felt the tug of the line; heard the labored breathing of the next horse behind, but saw nothing except that wall of swirling snow pellets hurled against him by a pitiless wind, fairly lacerating the flesh.  It was freezing cold; already he felt numb, exhausted, heavy-eyed.  The air seemed to penetrate his clothing, and prick the skin as with a thousand needles.  The thought came that if he remained in the saddle he would freeze stiff.  Again he turned, and sent the voice of command down the struggling line: 

“Dismount; wind the rope around your pommels.  Sam.  How far is it to the Cimarron?”

“More ’n twenty miles.”

“All right!  We ’ve got to make it, boys,” forcing a note of cheerfulness into his voice.  “Hang on to the bit even if you drop.  I may drift to the west, but that won’t lose us much.  Come on, now.”

“Hamlin, let me break trail.”

“We ’ll take it turn about, Sam.  It ’ll be worse in an hour than it is now.  All ready, boys.”

Blinded by the sleet, staggering to the fierce pummelling of the wind, yet clinging desperately to his horse’s bit, the Sergeant struggled forward in the swirl of the storm.

CHAPTER XXV

IN THE BLIZZARD

There was no cessation, no abatement.  Across a thousand miles of plain the ice-laden wind swept down upon them with the relentless fury of a hurricane, driving the snow crystals into their faces, buffeting them mercilessly, numbing their bodies, and blinding their eyes.  In that awful grip they looked upon Death, but struggled on, as real men must until they fall.  Breathing was agony; every step became a torture; fingers grasping the horses’ bits grew stiff and deadened by frost; they reeled like drunken men, sightless in the mad swirl, deafened by the pounding of the blast against their ears.  All consciousness left them; only dumb instinct kept them battling for life, staggering forward, foot by foot, odd phantasies of imagination beginning to beckon.  In their weakness, delirium gripped their half-mad brains, yielding new strength to fight the snow fiend.  Aching in every joint, trembling from fatigue, they dare not rest an instant.  The wind, veering more to the east, lashed their faces like a whip.  They crouched behind the horses to keep out of the sting of it, crunching the snow, now in deep drifts, under their half-frozen feet.