that the tracks of the horses just ahead of them were almost blotted out.
"They must be galloping," said Dick. "Come on, Paul."
They urged their wearied horses to a gallop, expecting soon to come within sight of the rear of the squad. But, as they went on and on, the road became more impassable. The snow was at least two feet deep now, and more was falling every minute.
"I can't see anything of them," said Paul, peering ahead into the white mist.
"Me either. Let's give a yell."
They called, but the echo was their only reply.
"Can you see any tracks?" asked Dick, leaning over in the saddle, and scanning the ground.
"No. Can you?"
"Not a one."
The lads straightened up, and looked at each other. Their steeds whinnied helplessly, complaining thus of the cold.
"Dick," said Paul, "I believe we've taken the wrong turn."
"I didn't see any turn to take. We've come a straight road."
"I don't believe so. Rutledge said something about turning to the right."
"I know he did, but I didn't see any turn."
"Neither did I, but we're certainly on the wrong road now. This hasn't been traveled this winter."
