Snow was packed in the wrinkles of the boys' clothing.

Snow was packed in the manes and tails of the horses that moved with their heads drooping in utter dejection.

"Boys all in," said the script laconically.
Luck, staring at the little thread of escaping steam from the radiator valve, saw Andy and the Native Son drooping in the saddles, swaying stiffly with the movements of their mounts.

He saw them to the last little detail,--to the drift of snow on their hatbrims and the tiny icicles clinging to the high collars of their sourdough coats, where their breath had frozen.
If he could get a company to let him put that on, he would not care, he told himself, if he never made another picture in his life.

If he could get a company to send him and the boys where that stuff could be found-- Well, it was only eight o'clock in the morning, a rainy morning at that, when all good movie people would lie late in bed for the pure luxury of taking their ease.