"Take the next turn to the right," called Rutledge to Dick and Paul, as they wheeled their horses and started for the rear.
They heard faintly through the noise of the storm, and answered back. They succeeded for a time in keeping the end riders up toward the front, urging their somewhat jaded horses to a trot. Then, all at once, they found themselves out of sight of the tails of the end animals.
"Hit is up a little," suggested Dick to Paul. "They're leaving us."
They spurred their horses ahead, but they never noticed as they bent their heads to avoid the blast that they kept straight on, instead of taking the turn to the right, where the road divided. So fast was the snow falling, drifting as it did so, that the tracks of the horses just ahead of them were almost blotted out.
"They must be galloping," said Dick. "Come on, Paul."
They urged their wearied horses to a gallop, expecting soon to come within sight of the rear of the squad. But, as they went on and on, the road became more impassable. The snow was at least two feet deep now, and more was falling every minute.
"I can't see anything of them," said Paul, peering ahead into the white mist.
"Me either. Let's give a yell."
They called, but the echo was their only reply.
"Can you see any tracks?" asked Dick, leaning over in the saddle, and scanning the ground.