cloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness and
even recklessness which few accredited to him.

For some time the two remained silent. The minutes sped rapidly and half
an hour passed. All about was pitch black now. The wind was tearing and
shrieking from every direction at once. The sleigh seemed to be the
center of its attack. The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up from
the ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierce
resistance to the racing horses. Another few minutes and the two people
on the front seat knew that progress would be impossible. As it was,
"Lord" Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see. The
trail was obscured, as were all landmarks. He could no longer see the
horses' heads.

"We've passed the school-house," said Jacky, at last.

"Yes, I know."

A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman.
Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it. And yet
they knew they had passed it.

"Half a mile to Trout Creek. Two miles to Norton's. Can you do it,
Bill?"

Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in the
question. To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to lose
oneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa. Death was in that biting
wind and in the blinding snow. Once lost, and, in two or three hours,
all would be over.