He unhitched the team and drove it into shelter. Then, in spite of protests from the occupants of the house, he and Dannie started out to face the storm on foot; the one with the mail-bag flung over his shoulder, the other bearing no burden save the ever present, ever growing fear that he would reach Mooreville too late to fully accomplish his still resolute and unyielding purpose. Had it not been a self-imposed task, it would have been a cruel one for either man or boy.
Hour by hour the storm grew fiercer, the drifts deeper, the journey more desperate. Now and again the travellers dragged themselves along by the rails of the roadside fences, and many a time they searched in vain for well-known landmarks to guide them on their way. There was but one relieving feature in the situation,—it was not severely cold. Had it been, both man and boy would surely have perished.
When they reached Keene’s, the stage driver gave up the task.
“I won’t go no further,” he declared, “Uncle Sam or no Uncle Sam. Me an’ this mail-bag stays here till it’s fit for man an’ beast to be out. Come on into the house.”
Dannie followed him in.
“I’ll go in for a few minutes an’ get warm,” he said, “then I’ll push ahead. Oh! it’s no use,” as the driver began to protest, “I’ve got to get there, whether or no. It’s only four miles farther, an’ there are plenty of houses on the way.”
When old Ezra Keene heard that Dannie intended to continue the journey to Mooreville, he shook his head vigorously.
“Can’t be done,” he said. “Never see sech a storm sence I’ve been here, an’ that’s nigh on to forty year.”
Still Dannie insisted.
“I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’ve got to get there. If I don’t get there, something terrible may happen.”