The crowd was beginning to quiet down. By the time they had covered two more miles the wind was blowing the snow in their faces with stinging force. John Hardy was having trouble to keep the horses in the road. They, too, recoiled from the snow drifting in their faces. He finally persuaded his companion to go back under the robes. Sherm volunteered to take her place.
“I don’t like the look of things,” said Hardy in 329a low tone as Sherm climbed up beside him. “Can you tell where we are?”
Sherm stared at the snow-covered waste ahead and tried to recognize some familiar land mark in the white gloom.
“Yes, I think so. That was Elm Creek you crossed some time back. We must be about half way from Elm to Big John.”
“How far now?”
“Three miles.”
“Can you see the time?”
“Nine-twenty.”
“The dickens, we ought to be there!”
“It oughtn’t to be long now. Let me take the reins–your hands must be cold.”