The eyes of Ruth McCoy asked a question she dared not put into words. “No, ma’am. None of the rest of our boys mixed up in it a-tall,” he told her quickly. The young woman drew a deep breath of relief. The hope was always with her of a day near at hand when the Bald Knob raiders would be paroled, but she knew if they joined such an undertaking as this it would be fatal to their chances. “Do you think Mr. Falkner will get away?” Ruth asked. “I reckon not, ma’am. You see, he’s got the telephone against him. Whenever he shows up at a ranch the news will go out that he was there. But he got holt of a gun from a farmer. It’s a cinch they won’t take him without a fight.” Snow was already falling when the cow-puncher took his departure. He cast a weather eye toward the hills. “Heap much snow in them clouds. If I was you, Mrs. McCoy, I’d start my gasoline bronc on the home trail so’s not to run any chances of getting stalled.” Ruth thought this good advice. It took a few minutes to wrap Rowan for the journey and to say good-bye. By the time she was on the way the air was full of large flakes. The storm increased steadily as she drove toward home. There was a rising wind that brought the sleet about her in sharp gusts. So fierce became the swirl that when she turned into the high-line drive she was surrounded by a white, stinging wall that narrowed the scope of her vision to a few feet. The temperature was falling rapidly, and the wind swept the hilltops with a roar. The soft flakes had turned to powdered ice. It beat upon Ruth with a deadly chill that searched to the bones. The young mother became alarmed. The boy was well wrapped up, but no clothing was sufficient protection against a blizzard. Moreover, there were dangerous places to pass, cuts where the path ran along the sloping edge of the mountain with a sheer fall of a hundred feet below. It would never do to try to take these with snow heavy on the ledge and the way blurred so that she could not see clearly. Ruth stopped and tried to adjust the curtains. But her fingers were like ice, and the knobs so sleet-incrusted that she could not fasten the buttons. It was her intention to drive back to the Yerby ranch, and she backed the car into a drift while trying to turn. The snow was so slippery that the wheel failed to get a grip. She tried again and again without success, and at last killed the engine. Her attempts to crank it were complete failures. It was a moment for swift decision. Ruth made hers instantly. She took the baby from the front seat, wrapped him close to her in all the blankets she had, and started forward toward a deserted miner’s cabin built in a draw close to the trail.