"But, ye don't know how daype ut is—an' th' rope moight bre'k!"
"What difference does that make?" cried the boy. "If the rope won't reach—we'll make it reach! We'll splice on the harness, and the blankets, and the tarps, and the robes, and whatever else we can lay our hands on—and if it don't reach then, we'll kill the dogs! I'll get my pardner out of there if I have to kill every dog in the outfit and use their hides. And if the rope breaks—I'll be where Waseche is, anyway!"
"Without waiting for a reply, Connie slipped softly over the edge."
Without waiting for a reply, the boy seated himself in the snow and slipped softly over the edge. Slowly he descended into the riot of whirling snow, while above him, O'Brien, with heels braced against the runners of the heavy sled, carefully paid out the line. Down, down, he went, scraping and bumping against the wall. It seemed to the impatient boy as though each moment he must reach the end of his rope—surely, he had descended eighty feet! But on he went, down, down, down—and then, when the suspense was becoming almost unbearable, his feet touched bottom, and he stood upright upon the snow. And, above, O'Brien felt the line go slack, and heaved a great sigh of relief as he glanced at the scant six feet of rope that remained.
Jagged rock-slivers protruded from the snow, here and there, at the base of the cliff, and Connie shuddered as he gazed about him. Suddenly he cried out, and plunged to the end of his line, for there, close beside a huge block of stone, he made out a dark blur on the white surface of the snow—it was the back of a fur parka!
The next instant, the boy was kneeling beside the inert form of Waseche Bill. Frantically he pulled and hauled at the man until at length he succeeded in turning him upon his back, and then it was he noticed the leg doubled curiously beneath him. Very gently Connie laid hold of the foot and drew it into position beside the other, and as the leg straightened out he could feel the grating rasp of bone on bone—the leg was broken!
His first thought was to arouse the unconscious man, but instead he began swiftly to remove the rope from about his own body and fasten it firmly under Waseche's armpits.
"If I wake him up now, it will hurt like thunder when O'Brien hauls him up," he muttered, as he gave the three quick jerks to the line that had been the agreed signal to "haul away." The next moment the rope went taut, and slowly, very slowly, the inanimate form lifted and swung clear of the snow.
O'Brien was a big man—and a strong one. But for the next few minutes he had his work cut out.