Blizzard Camp

On the third day of being bottled up in the old line-riders' hut, Tom Darrah looked at the sky and decided reluctantly to chance a run for Arrowhead. The driving easter had stopped sometime during the night and the ensuing calm was profound and brittle-not the calm following a blown-out blizzard, but rather that sort of a sullen recess auguring worse to come. So he saddled, tied his tarp roll to t...