Raven was in great spirits, singing,
shouting, and occasionally sending Nighthawk open-mouthed in a fierce
charge upon the laggards hustling the long straggling line onwards
through the whirling drifts without pause or falter. Occasionally he
dropped back beside Cameron, who brought up the rear, bringing a word of
encouragement or approval.
"How do they ever keep the trail?" asked Cameron on one of these
occasions.
"Little Thunder does the trick. He is the greatest tracker in this
country, unless it is his cayuse, which has a nose like a bloodhound and
will keep the trail through three feet of snow. The rest of the bunch
follow. They are afraid to do anything else in a blizzard like this."
So hour after hour, upward along mountainsides, for by this time they
were far into the Rockies, and down again through thick standing forests
in the valleys, across ravines and roaring torrents which the warm
weather of the previous days had released from the glaciers, and over
benches of open country, where the grass lay buried deep beneath
the snow, they pounded along. The clouds of snow ever whirling about
Cameron's head and in front of his eyes hid the distant landscape and
engulfed the head of the cavalcade before him. Without initiative and
without volition, but in a dreamy haze, he sat his pony to which he
entrusted his life and fortune and waited for the will of his mysterious
companion to develope.
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