The Last of the Plainsmen 



shaggy head to the storm. So they would stand, 

 never budging from their tracks, till the blizzard 

 of sleet was over. 



Jones, though eager and impatient, restrained him 

 self, for it was unwise to begin operations in the 

 storm. There was nothing to do but wait. Ill fared 

 the hunters that day. Food had to be eaten uncooked. 

 The long hours dragged by with the little group 

 huddled under icy blankets. When darkness fell, 

 the sleet changed to drizzling rain. This blew over 

 at midnight, and a colder wind, penetrating to the 

 very marrow of the sleepless men, made their condi 

 tion worse. In the after part of the night, the wolves 

 howled mournfully. 



With a gray, misty light appearing in the east, 

 Jones threw off his stiff, ice-incased blanket, and 

 crawled out. A gaunt gray wolf, the color of the 

 day and the sand and the lake, sneaked away, looking 

 back. While moving and threshing about to warm 

 his frozen blood, Jones munched another biscuit. 

 His men crawled from under the wagon, and made 

 an unfruitful search for the whisky. Fearing it, 

 Jones had thrown the bottle away. The men cursed. 

 The patient horses drooped sadly, and shivered in the 

 lee of the improvised tent. Jones kicked the inch- 

 thick casing of ice from his saddle. Kentuck, his 

 racer, had been spared on the whole trip for this 



62 



