Then the Cimarron was near! Even as the conviction took shape, the ghostly outline of a small elevation loomed through the murk.

He stared at it scarce believing, imagining a delusion, and then sent his cracked voice back in a shout on the wind.
"We 're thar, 'Brick'! My God, lad, here 's the Cimarron!" He wheeled about, shading his mouth, so as to make the words carry through the storm.
"Do you hear?
We're within a half mile o' the river.

Stir Carroll up! Beat the life inter him! There 's shelter and fire comin'!" As though startled by some electric shock, Hamlin sprang forward, his limbs strengthening in response to fresh hope, ploughed through the snow to Carroll's side, and shook and slapped the fellow into semi-consciousness.
"We 're at the river, George!" he cried, jerking up the dangling head.
"Wake up, man! Wake up! Do you hear?
We 'll have a fire in ten minutes!" The man made a desperate effort, bracing his hands on the horse's neck and staring at his tormentor with dull, unseeing eyes.
"Oh, go to hell!" he muttered, and went down again.
Hamlin struck him twice, his chilled hand tingling to the blow, but the inert figure never moved.
"No use, Sam.

We 've got to get on, and thaw him out.

Get up there, you pony!" The ghostly shape of the hill was to their right, and they circled its base almost waist-deep in drift.