The temperature rose many degrees in an hour and Ned knew that the snow would melt fast.

All danger of freezing was past, but he was as hungry as a bear and tired to death.
He unwrapped the blankets from his body, folded them again in a small package which he made fast to his saddle, and once more stroked the nose of his horse.
"Good Old Jack," he murmured--he had called him Old Jack after Andrew Jackson, then a mighty hero of the south and west, "you passed through the ordeal and never moved, like the silent gentleman that you are." Old Jack whinnied ever so softly, and rubbed his nose against the boy's coat sleeve.

Ned mounted him and rode out of the dip, pausing at the top of the swell for a long look in every direction.

The night was now peaceful and there was no noise, save for the warm wind that blew out of the south with a gentle sighing sound almost like the note of music.
Trickles of water from the snow, already melting, ran down the crests.
Lighter and lighter grew the sky.

The moon seemed to Ned to be poised directly overhead, and close by.