“I don’t know a blessed thing more than the rest of you. But I have the feeling we must be near Charlie Wattles’ place–you know that old darkey. You see the wind was right in our faces most of the way, and it isn’t now. It’s coming obliquely–course the wind may have changed. Let’s try heading west a while–and see if we can find the road. Let me sit up there with you and Sherm; I might see something I’d recognize.”
332“Chicken Little, you’d freeze,” objected Sherm.
“Not any sooner than you will, Sherman Dart.”
“We can wrap her up in a blanket and she might help us–we have got to get out of this some way. It’s ten o’clock.”
They drove about slowly for half an hour, but they could find nothing that looked like a road. Some of the sleigh load were openly apprehensive and inclined to blame Hardy for their plight, but for the most part they were plucky and good-natured, trying to turn off their growing fear with jests.
Chicken Little glued her eyes to the dimness ahead.
Sherm suggested that they give the horses their head.
“They’ll try to go back to town if we do, and I don’t believe they could hold out–that off one is blowing pretty badly now. This snow is heavy as mud to pull through.” Hardy looked dubious.
“Turn due west, Mr. Hardy–we can’t be far from Big John.”
Hardy obeyed and they drove another half hour, seeing nothing save the fluttering snowflakes and the snowy wastes opening out a few feet ahead as they advanced.