An immense black cloud enveloped Buckskin.
Satan had carried me no farther than the next ridge, when the forest frowned dark as twilight, and on the wind whirled flakes of snow.

Over the next hollow, a white pall roared through the trees toward me.
Hardly had I time to get the direction of the trail, and its relation to the trees nearby, when the storm enfolded me.

Of his own accord Satan stopped in the lee of a bushy spruce.

The roar in the pines equaled that of the cave under Niagara, and the bewildering, whirling mass of snow was as difficult to see through as the tumbling, seething waterfall.
I was confronted by the possibility of passing the night there, and calming my fears as best I could, hastily felt for my matches and knife.

The prospect of being lost the next day in a white forest was also appalling, but I soon reassured myself that the storm was only a snow squall, and would not last long.