Puffing, as though the exertion had been his own, the trapper turned and stared down at his companion.
"Eet is no use," came finally.

"The horse, he can not pull.

We must make the trip on the snowshoe." They turned back for the bunk house, to emerge a few moments later,--bent, padded forms, fighting clumsily against the sweep of the storm.

Ghosts they became almost immediately, snow-covered things that hardly could be discerned a few feet away, one hand of each holding tight to the stout cord which led from waist-belt to waist-belt, their only insurance against being parted from each other in the blinding swirl of winter.
Hours, stopping at short intervals to seek for some landmark--for the road long ago had become obliterated--at last to see faintly before them the little box-car station house, and to hurry toward it in a fear that neither of them dared to express to the other.

Snow in the mountains is not a gentle thing, nor one that comes by fits and gusts.
The blizzard does not sweep away its vengeful enthusiasm in a day or a night.