Into the snow Cig dropped helplessly. The hinges of his knees wouldn’t hold him any longer. His expression reminded Hollister of the frightened face of a child.
“I’m goin’ west,” he said.
“Not this trip,” the engineer told him. “Buck up and we’ll make it fine. Don’t know this country, do you? We’re at the mouth of a gulch.”
Cig looked around. In front of him was a twisted pine that looked like an umbrella blown inside out. He recognized it.
“This gulch leads into another. There’s a cabin in it,” he said. “A heluva long ways from here.”
“Then we’d better get started,” Tug suggested. “The cabin won’t come to us.”
He gave the Bowery tough a hand to help him to his feet. Cig pulled himself up.
“Never get there in the world,” he complained. “Tell you I’m done.”
He staggered into the drifts after his leader. The bitter wind and cold searched through their clothing to freeze the life out of them. At the end of a long slow two hundred yards, the weaker man quit.
Hollister came back to him. He lay huddled on the newly broken trail.