“It's six miles to the nearest camp,” said Connick, when the crew was again assembled at Number 7, “an' in order to dodge us he prob'ly kept out of the tote-road. I should say that the chances of Gid Ward's ever get-tin' out o' the woods alive in this storm wa'n't worth that!” He snapped his fingers.
“It is not right for us to come back here an' leave him out there!” cried the brother.
“He took his chances,” the foreman replied, “when he went through that window. There's a good many reasons why I'd like to see him back here, Mr. Ward, but I'm sorry to have to tell ye, ye bein' a brother of his, that love ain't one o' them.”
“I shall go alone, then,” said the old man, firmly.
“Brotherly love is worth respect, Mr. Ward,” Connick declared, “but I ain't the kind of man that stands idle an' sees suicide committed. Ye've done your full duty by your brother. Now I'm goin' to do my duty by you. You don't go through that door till this storm is over!”
The next day the wind raged on and the snow piled its drifts. Joshua Ward sat silent by the fire, his head in his hands, or stood in the “dingle,” gazing mournfully out into the smother of snowflakes. It would be a mad undertaking to venture abroad. He realized it and needed no further restraint.
But the dawn of the third day was crisp and bright. Soon after sunrise a panting woodsman, traveling at his top speed on snow-shoes, halted for a hasty bite at Number 7. He was a messenger from the camp above.
“Colonel Gid Ward was picked up yesterday froze pretty nigh solid!” he gulped out, between his mouthfuls. “I'm goin' down for a doctor,” and then he went striding away, even as Joshua Ward took the up-trail.
Parker spent all that day in sober thought, and then, forming his resolution, took passage on the first tote-team that went floundering through toward Sunkhaze. His departure was neither hindered nor encouraged.