They resumed the climb and managed to reach the crest of the mountain just as the sun disappeared behind a higher range in the west.
The tail of the wrecked plane had been the lone sentinel which had guided them in their long climb. It had been impaled by a tooth-like rock that held it firmly. In the pines on the other slope they could see the wreckage of the plane and the marks in the snow plainly showed the course of the stricken ship.
The rescue party hurried down the steep slope. Tim, in the lead, was the first to reach the wreckage.
“Tiny! Tiny!” he called.
There was no answer.
“Tiny! Tiny!” he shouted and the mountains mocked him with their echoes.
Tim plunged into the wreckage, working toward the place where he had seen the arm and face of the pilot when he had discovered the wreck.
With Cummins at his side, he fairly tore the wreckage apart until they came to the pilot’s cockpit. An arm through a piece of canvas was the first indication that Lewis was still in the plane.
Then they found him! He was wedged into the cockpit. His eyes were closed and he was breathing slowly. His face was white in the gathering dusk.
The cowboys, with their hand axes, hacked a path out of the wreckage and they lifted Lewis from his trap and carried him out into the open where they spread blankets and laid him down.