like bird-shot from a shot-gun. It began to swirl, and pelted him in the face, the eyes, the ears. He pulled the limp brim of his hat farther down and crouched lower in his saddle. The wind howled over the prairies, and the legs of the overalls Bacon-Rind had scorned flapped and wrapped tightly about his thin-clad limbs. It blew Molly's long mane into his face. The gallant mare galloped on, her hoofs still ringing on the well-beaten trail.
McNeal's hands grew stiffs so he laid the reins on Molly's neck and tucked them under his arms. His teeth chattered. He might as well have ridden naked, so little protection did his clothing afford against the piercing wind. He got off to walk and warm himself, but Molly could not understand when he was not on her back that she was still to follow the trail. He could not find it save by fumbling with his hands, so he climbed back into the saddle and urged her on.
"What a night, McNeal, what a night," he muttered between his chattering teeth. The storm increased and raged with fury known only on the Western plains, where it has full sweep. McNeal could not see his hand before his face from the snow and the wind that made him gasp for breath. The very marrow in his bones seemed frozen. He was cold, so cold. He wondered vaguely how his heart could beat when his blood seemed turned to ice. The cold was more than pain, it was torture. At intervals it wrung a groan from him, but his thoughts were of her.
"She needs me. The train! I must get there. Four-thirty—four-thirty. She had the blues. She didn't mean it. She wouldn't do it. My wife, my sweetheart! She needs me! Oh Molly, Molly, keep the trail! God! what a night to be on the plains!"
Over and over he thought in these same disjointed sentences. Though he realized his danger, he felt no fear save the fear of missing the train. The obstacles in the way were nothing. He saw only his goal. His hands, his card, his cheeks, his legs in their blue cotton overalls, were numb.
"I wonder if I'm freezin'," he thought. He gave a start as he recollected that he had not heard Molly's hoof-beats in the trail for some time. The snow muffled her steps. He stopped, and with difficulty climbed out of the saddle to feel for the trail. His hands were so numb he could feel nothing. He swung them about his shoulders, then he slipped them under his saddle-blanket next Molly's warm back. Gradually he became able to bend his fingers, and when he pressed his thumb-nail into the other fingers he could feel it, so he stooped again and fumbled in the snow. A groan of agony burst from him when he felt a bunch of dried grass.
"Husky! Molly! We're lost!" His voice was carried away by
