The hunters stretched a piece of canvas over the wheels of the north side of the wagon, and wet and shivering, crawled under it to their blankets.

During the night the storm raged with unabated strength.
Dawn, forbidding and raw, lightened to the whistle of the sleety gusts.
Fire was out of the question.

Chary of weight, the hunters had carried no wood, and the buffalo chips they used for fuel were lumps of ice.
Grumbling, Adams and Rude ate a cold breakfast, while Jones, munching a biscuit, faced the biting blast from the crest of the ridge.

The middle of the plain below held a ragged, circular mass, as still as stone.

It was the buffalo herd, with every shaggy head to the storm.