The wagons were outspanned side by side with a space between them, and into this space the mob of thirty-six oxen was driven and there secured by reims tied crosswise from the front and hind wheels of the wagons.

Then the White Man crept back to his bed, and the shivering natives, fortified with gin, or squareface, as it is called locally, took refuge on the second wagon, drawing a tent-sail over them.
For awhile there was silence, save for the moaning of the huddled and restless cattle.
"If the snow goes on I shall lose my oxen," he said to himself; "they can never bear this cold." Hardly had the words passed his lips when the wagon shook; there was a sound of breaking reims and trampling hoofs.

Once more he looked out.
The oxen had "skrecked" in a mob.

There they were, running away into the night and the snow, seeking to find shelter from the cold.

In a minute they had vanished utterly.