He seized a tin pan and dove out of the open doorway, returning instantly, the pan heaped high with snow.

The other man, following the first quickly, dove through the snow drifts to the dugout where he fumbled in the slicker on Lawler's saddle until he found a flask.
By the time the little man returned the woman was in one of the lower bunks.

A pair of bare feet, small and shapely, were sticking out over the edge of the bunk, and the tall fence cutter was vigorously rubbing snow upon them.

A pair of small, high-top riding boots of soft, pliable leather, was lying beside the bunk near some pitiably thin stockings.
At the other end of the bunk Lawler was bathing, with ineffable tenderness and care, a face that had been swathed in the scarf he had previously removed.

The long, glistening, black hair had been brushed back from its owner's forehead by Lawler; and a corner of a blanket had been modestly folded over a patch of white breast, exposed when Lawler had ruthlessly torn away the flimsy, fluffy waist.
"It was the scarf that saved her face," said Lawler, after he had worked over the unconscious form for a quarter of an hour.