The cold was bitter and the wind cut to the bone.

They were saved from freezing to death only by digging a rude shelter through the snow into the side of a hill, and there they crouched for two days with so little food left in their knapsacks, that without game, they would perish, in a week, of hunger, if the cold did not get the first chance.

The most experienced hunters went forth, but returned with nothing, thankful for so little a mercy as the ability to get back to their half-shelter.
Henry at last took his rifle and ventured out alone--the others were too listless to stop him--and before the noon hour he found a buffalo bull, some outcast from the herd which had gone southward, struggling in the snow.

The bull was old and lean, and it took two bullets to bring him down, but his death meant their life and Henry hurried to the camp with the joyful news.

It was clearly recognized that he had saved them, but no one said anything and Henry was glad of their silence.
When the storm ceased they renewed their journey toward the south with a plentiful supply of food and not long afterwards the snow began to melt.
Under the influence of a warm wind out of the southwest it disappeared with marvelous quickness; one day the earth was all white, and the next it was all brown.