FRANCIS DIDN’T KNOW for sure how long they slept in their horseflesh shelter. Perhaps ten hours. Then they lay awake for a time, not talking, just listening to the wind whistling, and fell asleep again. The second time he awakened, Francis could hear nothing but his own breathing and the gentle sighing of the horses. There was no wind, no lashing snow. He stretched as much as the cramped space would allow, and felt Mr. Grimes move near him.

“Well, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said, “should we see what it’s like outside?”

Outside it was so white, so bright and dazzling that Francis had to close his eyes for a minute to keep from getting a headache. They had a bit of trouble getting out of their home—the snow had drifted nearly four feet deep over them—but once out, Francis was amazed to feel the warmth of the sun.

Mr. Grimes didn’t allow him much time to marvel at things, or even over the fact that they were still alive.

“Come on, Mr. Tucket, we’ve got to put these horses back on their feet and get to Spot Johnnie’s. We’re not in clover yet …”

Getting the horses up turned out to be quite a job. They were stiff—Mr. Grimes said the only reason they hadn’t frozen to death was that the snow had made a sort of blanket around them—and before they could stand, the circulation had to be rubbed back into their legs.

Once up, the mounts had to be walked back and forth through the snow to loosen them up some more. It was nearly an hour before Francis and Mr. Grimes loaded the beaver pelts and started off.

They had ridden hard—even in the storm—and Francis was surprised to find that they were much farther along than he had thought—well out of the main river valley they had tried to follow out of the canyon country and back up on the plains. It was a good thing, too. The deep snow in the bottom of the valley made it almost impossible to ride, and the horses floundered again and again.

Once they had fought their way to the top of the bluff wall—where the wind had swept the snow along—the going was much easier. There were drifts now and then, but they rode around the really big pileups.

It was cold—almost zero—but without the wind, and with the sun on his back, Francis felt fine. His mare was in good shape again, and the world was a bright new land—crisp, clean, alive. Steam boiled out of the ponies’ nostrils.

They rode slowly most of the morning, letting the horses stop to graze now and then, and early in the afternoon, Mr. Grimes called a halt near a stand of brush.

“Why are we stopping so soon?” Francis asked. “We could make another ten miles before dark.”