There could be no doubt of this, as the shelter of the sand ridge had preserved a plain trail, although a few yards beyond, the sweeping wind had already almost obliterated every sign of passage.  The four men ate heartily of their cold provender, discussing the situation in a few brief sentences.  Wasson argued that Dupont was heading for some Indian winter encampment, thinking to shift responsibility for the crime upon the savages, thus permitting him to return once more to civilization, but Hamlin clung to his original theory of a hide-out upon Dupont’s old cattle-range, and that a purpose other than the mere robbery of McDonald was in view.  All alike, however, were convinced that the fugitives were seeking the wild bluffs of the Canadian River for concealment.

It was not yet dark when they again picked up the trail, rode around the dead body of Connors, and pushed forward into the maze of sand.  For an hour the advance was without incident, the scout in the lead not even dismounting, his keen eyes picking up the faint “sign” unerringly.  Then darkness shut down, the lowering bank of clouds completely blotting the stars, although the white glisten of the sand under foot yielded a slight guidance.  Up to this time there had been no deviation in direction, and now when the trail could be no longer distinguished, the little party decided on riding straight southward until they struck the Cimarron.  An hour or two later the moon arose, hardly visible and yet brightening the cloud canopy, so that the riders could see each other and proceed more rapidly.  Suddenly Wasson lifted his hand, and turned his face up to the sky.

“Snow,” he announced soberly.  “Thought I felt it afore, and the wind ’s changed.”

Hamlin turned in the saddle, feeling already the sharp sting of snow pellets on his face.  Before he could even answer the air was full of whiteness, a fierce gust of wind hurling the flying particles against them.  In another instant they were in the very heart of the storm, almost hurled forward by the force of the wind, and blinded by the icy deluge.  The pelting of the hail startled the horses, and in spite of every effort of the riders, they drifted to the right, tails to the storm.  The swift change was magical.  The sharp particles of icy snow seemed to swirl upon them from every direction, sucking their very breath, bewildering them, robbing them of all sense of direction.  Within two minutes the men found it impossible to penetrate the wintry shroud except for a few feet ahead of them.

The Sergeant knew what it meant, for he had had experience of these plains storms before.

“Halt!” he cried, his voice barely audible in the blast.  “Close up, men; come here to me—­lively now?  That you, Wade?  Wasson; oh, all right, Sam.  Here, pass that lariat back; now get a grip on it, every one of you, and hold to it for your lives.  Let me take the lead, Sam; we ’ll have to run by compass.  Now then, are you ready?”