The roar of the gale up the rugged defile was perfectly terrific,
and the snow caught up from the overhanging ledges was often driven into
their faces with blinding force. They could do little better than give the
horses their heads, and the poor brutes floundered slowly through the
drifts. The snow had deepened incredibly fast, and the fierce wind piled it
up so fantastically in every sheltered place that they were often in danger
of upsetting, and more than once had to spring out with their shovels. At
last, after an hour of toil, they reached the first summit, but no tidings
could be obtained of Burt from the people residing in the vicinity. They
therefore pushed on toward the gloomy wastes beyond, and before long left
behind them the last dwelling and the last chance that he had found shelter
before night set in. Two stalwart men had joined them in the search,
however, and formed a welcome re-inforcement. With terrible forebodings
they pressed forward, Webb firing his breech-loader rapidly, and the rest
making what noise they could, but the gale swept away these feeble sounds,
and merged them almost instantly in the roar of the tempest. It was their
natural belief that in attempting to reach home Burt would first try to
gain the West Point road that crossed the mountains, for here would be a
pathway that the snow could not obliterate, and also his best chance of
meeting a rescuing party. It was therefore their purpose to push on until
the southern slope of Cro' Nest was reached, but they became so chilled and
despondent over their seemingly impossible task that they stopped on an
eminence near a rank of wood.
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