The wind howled fiercer than any wolf, snow drifting through the cold blows, biting at the flesh. It was nearly night, the sun, most of which was already hidden behind the blizzard, falling below the horizon to rest. Silence hung between the carriages as the horses drug through the thick powder, their heavy breaths all too apparent even in the gusts. It had been a while since anything had been said between the riders, most of them huddling up, reserving their energy for any attempt to stay warm and ignore the pains of hunger that rumbled in their stomachs.
Reverend Orville Swanson hopped off his post at the back of this carriage and carried himself through the snow to the front.
"Abigail says he's dyin', Dutch. We'll have to stop some place," he managed to say, though the weariness was apparent in his voice.
"Okay," Dutch agreed without resistance. "Arthur's out looking. I sent him up ahead."
Swanson nodded quickly, turning to get back onto the carriage.
Hosea Matthews, who rested in a heap of his coat next to Dutch, spoke.
"If we don't stop soon, we'll all be dyin'. This weather...it's May." He paused. "I'm just hoping the law got as lost as we did."
"There," Dutch interrupted, pointing a cold, shaky gloved finger out into the blinding whiteness. "Arthur! Any luck?"
Through the fog appeared Arthur Morgan on horseback. He managed to carry himself well, even in the blistering gusts of wind.
"I found a place where we can get some shelter," Arthur yelled, carrying his voice over the snow. "Let Davey rest while he...you know," he trailed, taking the reigns of the horse and turning it to lead the disheveled group. "An old mining town, abandoned. It ain't far. C'mon."
"Come on!" Dutch asserted, whipping the reins of the two horses that led his carriage. They pushed hard, huffing, thick legs struggling to carry on, but so they did.