f cloud banked above the peaks and in the saddle between, there
was real anxiety in his red, apoplectic face.

"Gittin' her back up for a blizzard, looks like. Doggone it, if that
wouldn't jest be my luck," he murmured fretfully.

Sheba hoped there would be one, not, of course, a really, truly blizzard
such as Macdonald had told her about, but the tail of a make-believe
one, enough to send her glowing with exhilaration into the roadhouse
with the happy sense of an adventure achieved. The girl had got out to
relieve the horses, and as her young, lissom body took the hill
scattering flakes of snow were already flying.

To-day she was buoyed up by a sense of freedom. For a time, at least,
she was escaping Macdonald's driving energy, the appeal of Gordon
Elliot's warm friendliness, and the unvoiced urging of Diane. Good old
Peter and the kiddies were the only ones that let her alone.

She looked back at the horses laboring up the hill. Swiftwater had got
down and was urging them forward, his long whip crackling about the ears
of the leaders. He waddled as he walked. His fat legs were too short for
the round barrel body. A big roll of fat bulged out over the collar of
his shirt. Whenever he was excited--and he always was on the least
excuse--he puffed and snorted and grew alarmingly purple.

"Fat chance," he exploded as soon as he got within hearing. "Snow in
those clouds--tons of it. H'm! And wind. Wow! We're in for an
honest-to-God blizzard, sure as you're a foot high."

Swiftwater was worried. He would have liked to turn and run for it. But
the last roadhouse was twenty-seven miles back. If the blizzard came
howling down the slope they would have a sweet time of it reaching
safety. Smith's Crossing was on the other side of the divide, only nine
miles away. They would have to worry through somehow. Probably those
angry clouds were half a bluff.

The temperature was dropping rapidly. Already snow fell fast in big
thick flakes. To make it worse, the wind was beginning to rise. It came
in shrill gusts momentarily increasing in force.

The stage-driver knew the signs of old and cursed the luck that had led
him to bring the stage. It was to have been the last trip with horses
until spring. His dogs were waiting for him at Katma for the return
journey. He did not blame himself, for there was no reason to expect
such a storm so early in the season. None the less, it was too bad that
his lead dog had been ailing when he le