The boy gnawed it feebly, and the food revived him somewhat, so that for a few rods he staggered on, but the line again tightened, and this time the man knew that it was useless to attempt to arouse his little companion.
Hurriedly removing his mackinaw, he wrapped it around the body of the boy and, by means of a "squaw hitch" sling, swung him to his back. The boy's dangling rackets hindered his movement, and he slashed the thongs and left them in the snow.
Then, straining the last atom of his vitality, he plunged ahead.
The early darkness of the North country settled about the staggering man. His progress was painfully slow and, without sense of direction, he wallowed forward, stumbling, falling, struggling to his feet only to fall again a few rods farther on.
The weight of the boy seemed to crush him into the snow, and each time it became harder and harder to regain his feet against the merciless rush of the blizzard.
He lost all hope of making camp. He did not know whether it was near or far, he only knew that he was upon the river, and that he must push on and on.
He realized dully that he might easily have passed the rollways hours ago. He even considered doubling back; but what was the use? If he passed them once, he would pass them again.
Every drop of his fighting blood was up. He would push on to the end. He would die, of course; but he wouldn't die yet! And when he did die, he would fall to die—he would never lie down to die!
It was not far off, he knew—that fall, when he would never get up. He wondered who would find them; Blood River Jack, probably. As he leaned into the whirling, cutting wind, he thought of Jeanne and of his promise to Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.
His fists clenched, and a few more rods were gained. He thought of Ethel, and of what Charlie had told him in the cave: