Wiry and seasoned as he was, he was nearly exhausted by the extra steps he had taken and the effort he had put forth to coax and bully, somehow to drag Sprudell along. The situation was desperate. The bitter cold grew worse as night came on. He knew that they had worked their way down toward the river, but how far down? Was the deep cañon he had tried to follow the right one? Somewhere he had lost the “squaw ax,” and dry wood was inaccessible under snow. If it were not for Sprudell, he knew that he could still plod on.
His deep breath of exhaustion was a groan as he floundered back and shook the inert figure with all his might.
“Git up!” he shouted. “You must keep movin’! Do you want to lay right down and die?”
“Lemme be!” The words came thickly, and Sprudell did not lift his eyes.
“He’s goin’ to freeze on me sure!” Uncle Bill tried to lift him, to carry him, to drag him somehow—a dead weight—farther down the cañon.
It was hopeless. He let him fall and yelled. Again and again he yelled into the empty world about him. Not so much that he expected an answer as to give vent to his despair. There was not a chance in a million that the miner in the cabin would hear him, even if he were there. But he kept on yelling, whooping, yodling with all his might.
His heart leaped, and he stopped in the midst of a breath. He listened, with his mouth wide open. Surely he heard an answering cry! Faint it was—far off—as though it came through thicknesses of blankets—but it was a cry! A human voice!
“Hello! Hello!”
He was not mistaken. From somewhere in the white world of desolation, the answer came again:
“Hello! Hello!”