Roldan pillowed his head on his arm and for once followed lead. He awoke
suddenly, his face wet and stinging. White stars were whirling, the
ground was white, the forest was half obliterated.

He shook Adan and dragged him to his feet.

"We must get into the redwoods at once," he said. "We shall be buried
here."

Adan gasped but cinched his saddle; the boys sprang upon the now
tractable mustangs and plunged into the forest below. The brush was
thin, and they pushed their way downward as rapidly as the steep descent
would permit. Sometimes the forest protected them from the storm, at
others the trees grew wide apart and the riders were exposed to its
pitiless rush. In these open spaces they could see nothing, could only
push blindly on, brushing the stinging particles from their faces, their
hands and feet almost numb. The snow in the open was already as high as
the horses' knees. There was no wind, only that silent sweeping of the
heavens. In the depths the high branches of the redwoods groaned
ominously under the stiffening weight, like giants in pain.

The forest thinned. The snow had its will of the earth. There was no
refuge under the larger trees that still stood, like outposts, here and
there; the branches were too high above. Once Adan suggested through his
stiff lips and unruly teeth that they turn back and take refuge in some
dense grove above; but Roldan shook his head peremptorily. He had heard
of the fearful storms of the Sierras; they lasted for days, and the snow
stood its ground for weeks. Their only hope was the valley.

But they descended only to rise again: in the white darkness of the