The last time, it was the sound of Thorpe's deep breathing.

McCready hurried back to the fire and turned his face straight up to the sky.

The snow was falling so thickly that when he lowered his face he blinked and wiped his eyes.
Then he went out into the gloom and bent low over the trail they had made a few hours before.

It was almost obliterated by the falling snow.
Another hour and there would be no trail--nothing the next day to tell whoever might pass that they had come this way.

By morning it would cover everything, even the fire, if he allowed it to die down.