Again he went down, face buried in the snow, crying like a babe.

Desperately the others lashed him into his saddle, binding a blanket about him, and went grimly staggering on, his limp figure rocking above them.

Hour succeeded hour in ceaseless struggle; no one knew where they were, only the leader staggered on, his eyes upon the compass.

Wasson and Hamlin took their turns tramping a trail, the snow often to their knees.

They had stopped speaking, stopped thinking even.