The hands of the mantel clock stood at 4 a.m. Outside, in the frozen Iowa dark, a bitter wind whistled through the naked black branches of the elms. Thirty-nine-year-old Iowa Farmer John Van Devender tumbled out of bed, dressed himself, pulled on his five-buckle rubber overshoes, buttoned up his blue denim jacket, put on his corduroy cap and yellow cloth gloves, flicked the switch that turned on the light strung on a pole half way between the house and the barn, stepped out into the cold.
The thermometer outside the back door read 2° above....
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