CHAPTER XXI
THE NORTHER
The wind increased in fury. Fortunately it was at their back. Wilfred pressed forward on foot, leading Lahoma's horse; and, partly on account of their unequal position, partly because of awkward reserve, no more was said for a long time. She bent forward to shelter her face from the stinging blast while he trod firmly and methodically on and on, braced slightly backward against the wind, which was like a hand pushing him forward.
The voice of the wind filled the night. It whistled and shrieked in minor keys, dying away at brief intervals to come again with a rush and roar. It penetrated him to the bone, for he had compelled her to wrap herself in his overcoat, and when the first stinging grains of fiercely driven sleet pelted his cheek, he smothered a cry of dismay over her exposed situation.
It could not be far past midnight. The prospect of a snow-storm in the bleak lands of the Kiowa appalled him, but even while facing that possibility his mind was busy with Lahoma's attitude toward himself. Evidently it had never occurred to her that Annabel had vanished from his fancy years ago; now that she knew, she was displeased—most unreasonably so, he thought. Lahoma did not approve of Annabel—why should she want him to remain passively under her yoke? Unconsciously his form stiffened in protest as he trudged forward. The wind, so far from showing signs of abatement, slightly increased, no longer with intervals of pause. The sleet changed rapidly first to snow, then to rain—then hail, snow and rain alternated, or descended simultaneously, always driven with cruel force by the relentless wind.
At last Lahoma shouted, "It's a regular norther! How're you getting along, Wilfred?"
Despite their discomfort, his heart leaped at this unexpected note of comradeship. Had she already forgiven him for not loving Annabel? "Oh, Lahoma!" he cried with sudden tenderness, "what will become of you?"
She returned gravely, "What will become of Brick? Northers are bad, but not so bad as some men—Red Kimball, for instance." A terrific blast shook the half-frozen overcoat about her shoulders as if to snatch it away. "Don't you wish the Indians built their villages closer to the trail? Ugh! Hadn't we better burrow a storm-cellar in the sand? I feel awfully high up in the air."
"Poor Lahoma!"