as Chub brushed past him.

"None of your damn' business," snapped Rowdy, and drove the spurs into
Dixie's ribs. But Chub was a handicap at any time; now, when he was tired,
there was no getting anything like speed out of him; he clung to his
shuffling trot, which was really no better than a walk. After five minutes
spent alternately in spurring Dixie and yanking at Chub's lead-rope, Rowdy
grew frightened and took to shouting. While they were in the lane Miss
Conroy must perforce ride straight ahead, but the lane would not last
always. As though with malicious intent, the snow swooped down again and the
world became an unreal, nightmare world, wherein was nothing save
shifting, blinding snowfloury and wind and bitter, numbing cold.

Rowdy stood in his stirrups, cupped his chilled fingers around his numbed
lips, and sent a longdrawn "Who-ee!" shrilling weirdly into the night.

It seemed to him, after long listening, that from the right came faint
reply, and he turned and rode recklessly, swearing at Chub for his slowness.
He called again, and the answer, though faint, was unmistakable. He settled
heavily into the saddle--too weak, from sheer relief, to call again. He had
not known till then just how frightened he had been, and he was somewhat
disconcerted at the discovery. In a minute the reaction passed and he
shouted a loud hello.

"Hello?" came the voice of Miss Conroy, tantalizingly calm, and as superior
as the greeting of Central. "Were you looking for me, Mr. Vaughan?"

She was close to him--so close that she had not needed to raise her voice
perceptibly. Rowdy rode up alongside, remembering uncomfortably his
prolonged shouting.