They were no longer man and woman, but only beings of flesh and blood, clinging desperately to the life that was in them, for the first rush of the Western snowstorm has more than a physical effect, and man exposed to its fury loses all but his animal instincts in the primitive struggle with the elements.
Then, while the snow folded them closely in its white embrace during a lull, the girl recovered herself, and her strained voice was faintly audible.
"This is my fault.

Why don't you tell me so ?" she said.
A hoarse laugh seemed to issue from the whitened object beside her, and she was drawn closer to it again.

"We needn't go into that just now.
You have one thing to do, and that is to keep warm." One of the horses stumbled, the grasp that was around her became relaxed and she heard the swish of the whip followed by hoarse expletives, and did not resent it.

The man, it seemed, was fighting for her life as well as his own, and even brutal virility was necessary.

After that, there was a space of oblivion while the storm raged about them, until, when the wind fell a trifle, it became evident that the horses had left the trail.
"You are off the track, and will never make the Grange unless you find it," she said.
Winston seemed to nod.