Rowdy of the "Cross L"
Conroy must perforce ride straight ahead, but the lane would not last always. As though with malicious intent, the snow swooped down again and the world became an unreal, nightmare world, wherein was nothing save shifting, blinding snow-flour and wind and bitter, numbing cold.
Rowdy stood in his stirrups, cupped his chilled fingers around his numbed lips, and sent a long-drawn "Who-ee!" shrilling weirdly into the night.
It seemed to him, after long listening, that from the right came faint reply, and he turned and rode recklessly, swearing at Chub for his slowness. He called again, and the answer, though faint, was unmistakable. He settled heavily into the saddle—too weak, from sheer relief, to call again. He had not known till then just how frightened he had been, and he was somewhat disconcerted at the discovery. In a minute the reaction passed and he shouted a loud hello.
"Hello?" came the voice of Miss Conroy, tantalizingly calm, and as superior as the greeting of Central. "Were you looking for me, Mr. Vaughan?"
She was close to him—so close that she had not needed to raise her voice perceptibly. Rowdy rode
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