Moving farther along the log, Carroll dropped to the ground, which was less encumbered there, and spent the next quarter of an hour hewing a passage to his comrade. Then as he stood beside him, hot and panting, Vane looked up.
"It's my lower leg; the left," he explained. "Bone's broken; I felt it snap."
Carroll turned from him for a moment in consternation. Looking out between the branches, he could see the lonely hills tower, pitilessly white, against the blue of the frosty sky, and the rigid firs running back as far as his vision reached upon their lower slopes. There was no touch of life in all the picture; everything was silent and absolutely motionless, and its desolation came near to appalling him. When he looked around again, Vane smiled wryly.
"If this had happened farther north, it would have been the end of me," he said. "As it is, it's awkward."
The word struck Carroll as singularly inexpressive, but he made an effort to gather his courage when his companion broke off with a groan of pain.
"It's lucky we helped that doctor when he set Pete's leg at Bryant's mill," he declared cheerily. "Can you wait a few minutes?"
Vane's face was beaded with damp now, but he tried to smile.
"It strikes me," he answered, "I'll have to wait a mighty long time."
Carroll turned and left him. He was afraid to stand still and think, and action was a relief. It was some time before he returned with several strips of fabric cut from the tent curtain, and the neatest splints he could extemporize from slabs of stripped-off bark; and the next half-hour was a trying one to both of them. Sometimes Vane assisted him with suggestions—once he reviled his clumsiness—and sometimes he lay silent with his face awry and his lips tight silent; but at length it was done and Carroll stood up, breathing hard.
"I'll fasten you on to a couple of skids and pull you out. Then I'll make camp here."