His old canvas coat, his most treasured article of apparel, he took down from the hook where it accumulated dust from month to month.

His ancient, secondhand cartridge belt with the antiquated revolver he removed from another hook--he had never been given enough ammunition to become a shot of any quality--and he pushed quickly into the night.
The moment he was through the door, the storm caught him in the face a stinging blow, and the rush of snow chilled his skin.

That stinging blow steadied to a blast.

It was a tremendous, heavy fall.

The wind had scoured the drifts from the clearing and was already banking them around the little house.