And so, alone in a white cruelty of solitary land, bounded only by the gray cruelty of the sky, with a 55 dimming trail before her under a deeper snowfall, and with long miles behind her, she struggled on.
She tried to think of everything cheerful and good. She tried to find comfort in the help she would take to Jim. Truly, she was not nearly so cold now and she was very weary and a wee bit sleepy. A tendency to droop in the saddle was overcoming her. She roused herself quickly, and with a jerk at the reins plunged forward at a gallop.
“It will take the stupor out of me,” she cried.
Then the reins drooped and the fight with the numbing cold began again.
“I wonder how far along I am. I must be nearly there. I remember we lost sight of Carey’s Crossing soon after we left last September. Some swell of ground cut us off quickly—and I’ve never seen a human being since then, except Asher and Jim Shirley and Pilot,” she added.
“The snow is so much heavier right here. It varies so. I’ve passed half a dozen changes, but this is the deepest yet. I’m sure I can see the town beyond this slope ahead. Why! where’s the trail, anyhow?”
It was nearing mid-afternoon. Neither horse nor rider had had food nor water, save once when Juno drank at a crossing. Virginia sat still, conscious suddenly that she has missed the trail somewhere.
“It isn’t far, I know. Could I have left it when I took that gallop?” she asked herself.
She was wide awake now, for the reality of the situation was upon her, and she searched madly for some sign of the trail. In that level prairie sea there was no sign to show where the trail might lie. The gray sky was pitiless still, and with no guiding ray of sunshine the points of the 56 compass failed, and the brave woman lost all sense of direction.
“I won’t give up,” she said at last, despairingly, “but we may as well rest a little before we try again.”