  Several hours had passed since Toma’s departure, and the fire Dick had kindled had burned down to a mass of glowing, red embers. The still falling snow hissed and sputtered over the coals. Off in the distance a few wolves howled. Sandy lay stretched out at Dick’s feet and the owner of the feet himself drowsed and nodded in a futile effort to keep awake. He recovered consciousness a few moments later, however, when a half-burned stick, lying on the outer edge of the fire, crackled forth suddenly like a cap in a toy pistol. In an instant he was wide-eyed and alert, his eyes straining towards the outer rim of darkness. He could see nothing. “Dreaming again,” he grumbled to himself, looking down at Sandy, and wondering how much time had elapsed since the young Indian guide had set out on his perilous journey through the storm. Then his thoughts turned to the happenings of the day. One thing that bothered Dick, and which he had not yet explained entirely to his own satisfaction, was Sandy’s strange behavior a few hours previous. The young Scotchman’s violent and unwarranted attack upon Toma was not in the least like the usual happy-go-lucky conduct that Dick had ascribed to his friend. Of course, he had heard many times before, of similar cases where men, driven to the limit of physical exertion, had acted queerly. It was a sort of temporary mental breakdown preceding physical collapse. What Sandy needed was a good sleep, followed by a day or two of complete rest. He’d probably feel better in the morning. For the next few minutes Dick busied himself in gathering more wood for the fire. His first duty was to keep himself and Sandy warm, as warm as possible in their hastily improvised camp there in the inadequate shelter of the river bottom. “Toma will be back in an hour or two,” he thought to himself, “and then everything will be all right.” He looked down at Sandy, whom he had bundled up in their two blankets and hoped devoutly that nothing had happened which might delay the young Indian’s safe return. Although not in the least doubting the guide’s prowess, Dick had learned to his sorrow that Govereau’s opposition was not the only factor to be considered in the successful carrying out of their plans. “There is always this blamed wilderness to contend with,” ruminated Dick. “Treacherous rivers, forest fires, wild beasts, the danger of freezing to death in the extreme cold or getting lost in a blizzard. Sometimes I think——” Exactly what Dick thought will probably never be recorded. He woke suddenly from his preoccupation, a look of fear in his eyes, every nerve tingling as if tiny electric wires ran close to the surface of his skin. A slight sound somewhere out there in the enveloping darkness had caught his attention. In addition, there had quickly come over him a vague feeling that he and Sandy were not alone, that an actual presence, either an animal of some sort or a human being, had intruded within the circle of their campfire and was ready to pounce down upon them. For a brief second Dick could scarcely suppress the cry of terror that had sprung to his lips. He wanted to turn his head to look at the thing he knew to be immediately behind him, but, for some unknown reason, his body seemed incapable of action. Instead he sat there, weak and trembling, the blood pounding in his throat with a force almost suffocating. With a truly mighty effort he contrived finally to twist and squirm around so that his gaze could discern the thing that menaced him, and in that instant he caught wildly at the trunk of the up-rooted tree upon which he sat, so frozen with horror, that the person who stood immediately opposite—probably no more than ten or twelve feet away—might easily have advanced and overpowered him without encountering even the slightest resistance. In all his life, Dick had never seen so strange an apparition. His first sickening impression was that he was confronted not by a man at all but by a real ghost, fashioned out of a substance as hard and unyielding as a block of ice. In the glare of the campfire, the person’s body gave forth a peculiar gleam or sparkle that so amazed and confounded Dick that he found himself putting up his hands to his eyes in an effort to shut out the unusual sight. “Toma, he tell me come,” issued a friendly voice from the ghost-like figure, standing there in front of him. “You no ’fraid me.” Dick came to with a start. “No,” he mumbled weakly. “Toma one mile down river,” continued the voice. “Him stuck in ice with huskies. Mebbe no get sled out.” “What’s that!” demanded Dick. “I don’t think I understand you.” “Ice thin where river runs quick. Toma, me, drive on river too close to rapids. Hurry up get back here for sick fella. We go fast. Toma, me, sit in sled. All at once ice break. Toma, huskies, me, sled—everybody fall in river.” Dick sat and stared incredulously at the speaker. He understood now. This was Raoul Testawich, Toma’s friend, who, in his broken English, was trying to describe what had taken place that night farther up the river. Dick shivered at the thought of that unexpected, icy-cold plunge when the sled with its two occupants had broken through into the river. No wonder that young Testawich looked like a ghost, his clothing a glistening ice and snow-covered mantle of white. “Is Toma safe?” he questioned eagerly. “Yes,” nodded the half-breed, “Toma all right, but sled gone. Cut harness away from sled to save huskies. Toma stay back there now and watch dogs. What you think; you, me take sick fella along that far?” “We can try,” answered Dick in an awed voice. “How far did you say it was?” “About one mile,” said Raoul. “We can do it!” Dick stated with conviction. “I know we can—even if we are compelled to drag and carry him all the way.” There was admiration and wonder in Dick’s eyes now as he looked at the ice-clad form of the half-breed. What tremendous endurance Toma and this man must have. It seemed almost incredible. He rose quickly, fired with new determination, walked over to the spot where Sandy lay and, as gently as possible, attempted to arouse him. “Wake up! Wake up, Sandy!” he called. Several minutes elapsed before Dick succeeded in dragging his friend to an upright position. Sandy swayed on his feet, mumbling incoherently, glaring about him with blood-shot, unseeing eyes. Supported by a friendly arm on either side, he moved forward, almost a dead weight between them. “We get there sooner you think,” encouraged Raoul. “Bye an’ bye we turn bend in river an’ then you see Toma’s campfire. Little fella pretty sick.” They mushed on in silence. Step by step, slowly, at what seemed to Dick a snail’s pace, they plodded through the darkness towards the place where the courageous young half-breed guide awaited them. The snow had ceased to fall. The roar of the storm above their heads had died down to a faint murmuring. Presently Raoul spoke: “I see light now. Pretty soon we get to campfire. Then dogs pull sick fella rest of way to my home.” “But we haven’t any sled,” interposed Dick. “Toma tie poles together for sled by time we get there. Make ’em pole sled for sick fella.” Again they went on in silence. The light of Toma’s campfire gradually grew brighter as they advanced. Presently Dick discerned the lonely figure of the Indian guide and after a time, five blotches in the snow, five furry forms that snarled and howled as they waited impatiently for the return of their master. “We’ve made it!” howled Dick, unable to suppress his exultation. “We’ve made it, Toma, old boy. Yip! Yip!” Toma’s answering shout was drowned out by a deafening chorus from the huskies. |
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