With the first dusk of this night there came sudden lulls in which the blizzard seemed to have exhausted itself.

Jolly Roger read the signs.

By tomorrow there would be no storm and Breault the Ferret would be on the trail again, along with Porter and Tavish.
It was his old craft, his old cunning, that urged him to go on.
Strangely, he prayed for the blizzard not to give up the ghost.
Something must be accomplished before its fury was spent; and he was glad when after each lull he heard again the moaning and screeching of it over the open spaces, and the slashing together of spruce tops where there was cover.

In a chaos of gloom they came to the low ridge which reached across an open sweep of tundra to the finger of shelter where the cabin was built.

An hour later they were at its door.