"Here!"
Wabi handed his rifle to Rod.
"I'm going up first," he announced. "If the coast is clear I'll whistle down."
For a few moments Mukoki and Rod could hear him as he crawled up the fissure. Then all was silent. A quarter of an hour passed, and a low whistle came to their ears. Another ten minutes and the three stood together at the top of the mountain, Rod and the wounded Mukoki breathing hard from their exertions.
For a time the three sat down in the snow and waited, watched, listened; and from Rod's heart there went up something that was almost a prayer, for it was snowing—snowing hard, and it seemed to him that the storm was something which God had specially directed should fall in their path that it might shield them and bring them safely home.
And when he rose to his feet Wabi was still silent, and the three gripped hands in mute thankfulness at their deliverance.
Still speechless, they turned instinctively for a moment back to the dark desolation beyond the chasm—the great, white wilderness in which they had passed so many adventurous yet happy weeks; and as they gazed into the chaos beyond the second mountain there came to them the lonely, wailing howl of a wolf.
"I wonder," said Wabi softly. "I wonder—if that—is Wolf?"
And then, Indian file, they trailed into the south.