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repeated over and over in a sort of chant. For all its size, the mountain loomed a dark gray, rather than the usual green-shrouded black. In fits and starts it disappeared entirely in the whirl of dancing snow. Preacher rode on, the comforting tug of the lead rope of his packhorse against his left thigh. In that blind world, all sense of time abandoned him.
    Whenever he opened his heavy coat to check his timepiece, the resultant small movement of his hands jolted him. The numbness began again in his feet. Frostbite! The terribly real possibility of it ate at his vitals. His ears alternately burned and tingled with awful cold. They would be affected first. Preacher ground his teeth and urged Cougar onward. At last his fat old Hambleton registered the passage of an hour. His goal had to be near. Each breath of man and beast brought forth clouds of white. The wind increased steadily.
    Preacher found himself leaning into it and realized with a start that he must have somehow circled, for the wind had been at his back from the beginning of the storm. How long had he ridden away from the safety of the cave? Accustomed, over long years in the High Lonesome, to suppressing desperation, he fought back the welling of panic from deep in his gut. Turn around, find Mount Elbert, and carry on.
    It sounded so easy. Something a man could do in a fraction of a minute. But not in this raging blizzard. Preacher reversed himself easily enough. Then, try as he might, he could not find the nearby peak. Lowering clouds scudded through the snow now and blanked out everything. All he could think of was to keep going.
    Another half hour crawled by, and Preacher began to note a lessening in the density of the snowfall. To his right the dark gray mass of Elbert swam out of the maelstrom. Reoriented once more, Preacher struck off a couple of points to the west of due south. At least by his reckoning, that’s what he did. Within a hundred heartbeats, a darker, regular shape showed itself intermittently through the gyrating clots of flakes. Preacher’s eyes stung and burned, and he blinked away more snow that assailed his face. Was that it?
    Had he made it to his objective? A dark smear resolved into a straight, black line. A few labored paces farther, another smooth slash joined the other at a steep angle. A roofline, by God! Reserves of strength sent a warm flush through the cold body of Preacher. He could not contain the anxiety of his tormented flesh. He leaned forward in the saddle and peered intently.
    Yes! There she stood, the tiny cabin perched on a shelf above the floor of the gorge. He had found his refuge. Straining his eyes, Preacher picked out the start of the ledge that led to the eroded cutback and the so welcome sight of the tiny cabin. He kneed Cougar toward it, hardly feeling the touch of his legs against the ribs of the horse. They made five small paces forward; then Cougar floundered in a snowbank.
    With a frightened whinny, the animal sank to its neck in a hidden wash that paralleled the hillside. Preacher nearly pitched out of the saddle. He held on though and bent forward to scoop away enough of the powder to free Cougar’s shoulders. Next he worked a space that would allow him to apply a touch of spur. Cougar responded with a burst of nervous energy that sent a plume of snow above his rider’s head. The roan’s rear haunches bunched, and he plowed forward in a succession of sheets of white.
    Gradually Cougar gained a purchase and surged onto the narrow ledge. Squealing in confused fright, the packhorse followed. In what seemed no time at all to Preacher, he reined up in front of the low, crudely made hut. Painfully, he dismounted. First, he eased an icy .44 Colt Walker from the holster and tried the small people’s door. He found it unlatched and it opened easily.
    The whole front of the cabin swung outward, Preacher recalled, to give access to horses. He pulled the wooden pegs that held the structure together