midnight
Old game trails are as good as turnpikes in the eyes of the plainsman . It was when the ravine began to split into branches that the problem might have puzzled them , had not the white fleece lain two inches deep on the level when `` Lo '' made his dash to escape . Now the rough edges of the original impression were merely rounded over by the new fallen snow . The hollows and ruts and depressions led on from one deep cleft into another , and by midnight Blake felt sure the quarry could be but a few miles ahead and Bear Cliff barely five hours ' march away . So , noiselessly , the signal `` Halt ! '' went rearward down the long , dark , sinuous column of twos , and every man slipped out of saddle -- some of them stamping , so numb were their feet . With every mile the air had grown keener and colder .