John loosened the cinch, and with considerable difficulty pulled the saddle from under and hung it to a nearby poplar; the bridle was treated likewise; then he stood up and looked around him, wondering what he should do next.
It was no time for sentiment, so he gave his whole thought to the best way of reaching the shack. He was already tired and hungry; the wind was blowing the still falling snow so that it was blinding, and there were seven miles of rough country to cover before shelter could be reached. John set his teeth, and, after giving a final glance at his faithful horse, he set out. This time, fortunately, he had but himself to think of and look out for, and if he could cover the distance before freezing all would be well. He struck off to the right, and, after floundering through drifts, sliding down steep places, and fighting the biting blast in the open, he came to the creek that ran past the shack: he had but to follow it. Hour after hour he toiled along, his body bathed with sweat, his hands, feet, and face icy cold. The snow blown in his eyes blinded him, hidden obstructions tripped him, and hunger took away his strength. Late that night he stumbled through the door of the shack into the warmth and light.
Barney was wide awake and watching.
"By God! I'm glad you're in," he said, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him forward; then, as the lamp-light shone on him clearly, he turned him round and pushed him out again.
"Your face is white: it's frozen. Get snow on it, quick."
John thought he had had enough snow on him that day—face and all—to last him the rest of his life, but he submitted to the rough rubbing that Barney gave him without a word, and soon the chalky look gave way to the glow of red blood circulating freely.
He was thoroughly exhausted, but the food and fire prepared by his partner revived him somewhat, and he turned into his rough, hard bunk and slept like a hibernating bear.
When the sun came out bright and warm and the snow began to melt, the havoc wrought by the storm became manifest. Only the strongest cattle remained alive, and of these most were males. The survivors were weak and their bones almost punctured their worn-looking skins. In the more sheltered spots lay many once sturdy cows and heifers that later became a heap of whitened bones. Though the thaw revealed all these horrors, it also uncovered the herbage, and little by little the remaining animals began to gain strength and weight.
Now the range-riders were kept busy pulling the foolish ones out of big holes. Each day the various bunches of cattle were visited, and with discouraging frequency some of them would be found mired helplessly, weakened by their long fast and rendered crazy by fright; their struggles to get out of the sticky mud only sunk them more deeply. It now became the cowboy's duty to throw his rope over the mired beast's horns, make the other end fast to the saddle horn, then to urge the sturdy little cow-pony forward with whip and spur. The pony tugs, the cow struggles, and soon she is standing on terra firma, exhausted, indeed, but safe. This is hard work for the pony and its rider, to say nothing of the cause of all the trouble—which is looked upon merely as so much beef to be saved.
With steady spring weather came the opportunity to visit the home ranch, and John was glad enough to take advantage of it. It was a long time since he had seen Frank, and, of course, there was much to talk of. It was Sunday, in the forenoon, and work, for the time being, was slack. Eight or ten cow-punchers were at the ranch and were amusing themselves with a little buckskin-colored horse. His viciousness had earned him the title of "Outlaw"—that is, he was considered unbreakable.