He resumed his ride parallel with the river, but soon stopped a second
time, and held up an open hand, like one who tests the wind. The air was
growing perceptibly colder. The strong gusts were now fusing into a
steady wind. The day, which had not been bright at any time, was turning
darker. The sun was gone and in the far north banks of mists and vapor
were gathering. A dreary moaning came over the plain.

Ned Fulton, tried and brave though he was, beheld the omens with alarm.
He knew what they portended, and in all that vast wilderness he was
alone. Not a human being to share the danger with him! Not a hand to
help!

He looked for chaparral, something that might serve as a sort of
shelter, but he had left the last clump of it behind, and now he turned
and rode directly north, hoping that he might find some deep depression
between the swells where he and his horse, in a fashion, could hide.

Meanwhile the Norther came down with astonishing speed. The temperature
fell like a plummet. The moan of the wind rose to a shriek, and cold
clouds of dust were swept against Ned and his horse. Then snow mingled
with the dust and both beat upon them. Ned felt his horse shivering
under him, and he shivered, too, despite his will. It had turned so dark
that he could no longer tell where he was going, and he used the wide
brim of his hat to protect himself from the sand.

Soon it was black as night, and the snow was driving in a hurricane. The
wind, unchecked by forest or hill, screamed with a sound almost human.
Ned dismounted and walked in the lee of his horse. The animal turned his
head and nuzzled his master, as if he could give him warmth.