“Look here!” he cried, “never say pitch a thing up when there’s a bit of hope left. ‘To win or to die’ is my motto!”
“And mine,” cried Dallas, enthusiastically.
“And mine,” said Abel, in a soft, low, dreamy voice.
“Then look here,” said Tregelly; “we’ve got enough to give us all a small ration for seven days, so let’s load up one sledge and leave the others. Then we can take it in turns and push right on up into the mountains with nothing to hinder us. Snow don’t make a bad shelter when you’ve plenty of blankets, and there’s nothing to fear now. Old Redbeard never could have come up here; he must have gone off by one of the side gulches, and got round and back to where he can rob some one else.”
“Yes; we must have passed him days ago,” said Dallas.
“Very well, then, we can all sleep o’ nights without keeping watch.”
“And we can push on and on, just trying the rocks with the hammer here and there wherever we find a place clear of ice.”
“That’s the way, my son, and who knows but what we may shoot a bear or something else to keep us going for another week, eh?”
Abel nodded—he could not trust himself to speak; and then, with determination plainly marked in their haggard faces, they set to work in the shelter of the dwarfed pines around them, and packed one sledge with all they felt to be necessary to take on this forlorn hope expedition, and with it the last of their dwindling store of food.
“There,” cried Dallas, pointing up the narrow gully, as they finished their preparations, “how could we despair with such a sign as that before us?”