At last they came to a river which flowed across their path, and lay down beside it, feeling that the end was not far away. Except in the eddies and shallows, the ice had broken up, and the stream swirled by in raging flood, thick with heavy masses which it had brought down from its higher reaches. The ice crashed upon the gleaming spurs that here and there projected from the half-thawed fringe, and smashed with a harsh crackling among the boulders, and there was no doubt as to what would befall the stoutest swimmer who might attempt the passage. So far as Wyllard afterwards remembered, none of them said anything when they lay down among the wet stones, but with the first of the daylight they started up stream. The river was not a large one, and it seemed just possible that they might find a means of crossing higher up, though they afterwards admitted that this was a great deal more than they expected.
The ground rose sharply, and the stream flowed out of a deep ravine which they followed. The rocks were of volcanic origin, and some of them had crumbled into heaps of ragged débris. The slope of the ravine became a talus along which it was almost impossible to scramble, and they were forced back upon the boulders and the half-thawed ice in the slacker pools.
They made progress, notwithstanding all the obstacles in their way, and when evening drew near found a little clearer space between rock and river. The Indian had wrenched his knee, and when they stopped to make camp among the rocks it was some little time before he overtook them. He said that he had found the tracks of some animal which he believed had gone up the ravine. What the beast was he did not know, but he was sure that it was, at least, large enough to eat, and that appeared to be of the most importance then. He would not, however, take the rifle. Nothing could compel him to drag himself another rod that night, he said, and the others, who had noticed how he limped, accepted his decision. With an expressionless face he sat down among the stones, and Charly decided that it was Wyllard’s part to pick the trail.
“You could beat me every time at trailing or shooting when we went ashore on the American side, and I’m not sorry to let it go at that now,” he said.
Wyllard smiled grimly. “And I’ve carried this rifle a week on top of my other load. You can’t shoot when you’re dead played out.”
They called in the Indian and gave the rifle to him. He gravely pointed to Wyllard.
Charly grinned for the first time in several days.
“Well,” he remarked, “in this case I guess I’ve no objections to let it be as he suggests.”
Wyllard resignedly took up the rifle and strode wearily out of camp. There was, he knew, scarcely an hour’s daylight left, and already the dimness seemed a little more marked down in the hollow. He, however, found the place where the Indian had seen the animal’s track, and as there was a wall of rock on one side, up which he believed the beast could not scramble, he pushed on up stream beside the ice. There was nothing to guide him, but he was a little surprised to feel that his perceptions, which had been dull and dazed for the last few days, were growing clearer. He noticed the different sounds the river made, and picked out the sharp crackle of ice among the stones, though he had hitherto been conscious only of a hoarse, pulsating roar. The rocks also took distinctive shapes instead of looming in blurred masses before his heavy eyes, and he found himself gazing with strained attention into each strip of deeper shadow. Still, though he walked cautiously, there was no sign of any life in the ravine. He was horribly weary, and now and then he set his lips as he stumbled noisily among the stones, but he pushed on beside the water while the deep hollow grew dimmer and more shadowy.