In a silence unbroken save by the clashing of horns, the bleating and bawling of the cattle, the ceaseless creaking of the wagons, and the low voices of the men, the cavalcade moved eastward.
The wind that swept over the plains was chill.

It carried a tang that penetrated; that caused the men, especially in the early morning, to turn up the collars of their woolen shirts as they rode; a chill that brought a profane protest from the tawny-haired giant who had disclosed to Lawler the whereabouts of Joe Hamlin that night in the Circle L bunkhouse.
The first camp had been made on the Wolf--at a shallow about five miles north of the Two Bar, Hamlin's ranch.

And with the clear, sparkling, icy water of the river on his face, and glistening beads of it on his colorless eyelashes, the giant had growled to several of his brother cowboys, who were likewise performing their ablutions at the river: "This damn wind is worse'n a Kansas regular.

You lean ag'in' it an' it freezes you; you turn your back to it an' you've got to go to clawin' icicles out of your back.

Why in hell can't they have a wind that's got some sense to it ?" "It ain't c-cold, Shorty," jibed a slender puncher with a saturnine eye and a large, mobile mouth.
"Kells," grinned the giant; "your voice is froze, right now!" And yet the men enjoyed the cold air.