“Jack!” shrieked Tom, as he saw.
“Sacre nom!” roared old Joe. “See!”
As the boulder flashed downward, rumbling into the crevasse at the side of the trail, the sled followed it!
In a small avalanche of snow and loosened shale Tom beheld his brother being swept over the brink to what appeared certain annihilation.
Tom reeled back against the inner wall of the trail. He felt sick and dizzy. For some moments he knew nothing. The world swam in a dizzy merry-go-round before his eyes.
Then he was conscious of somebody plucking at his sleeve. It was old Joe.
“Courage, mon enfant!” the old man was saying. “Eet may not be zee end. Wait here. Do not move. I weell go see. Whatever eet ees, I weell tell you zee truth.”
Tom could say nothing in reply. All he could see or think of was that terrible picture. The downward rush of the loosened boulder, the sight of the obliterated mamelukes and then the last glimpse of the sled as, with Jack clinging helplessly to it, it had plunged over the brink in a swirl of loosened snow! The injured boy had not even had time to cry out or to utter a word. He had been carried to his doom in absolute silence. In fact, the whole thing had happened so quickly that only the horror of the sight had etched its every detail indelibly upon Tom’s mind.
Old Joe cautiously approached the edge of the crevasse. He did not know but that there might be a treacherous “lip” of snow overhanging the brink. In that case, if he went incautiously he might share Jack’s fate. For, although he had tried to instill courage into Tom, the old trapper hardly entertained a doubt but that Jack’s dead body lay at the foot of the precipice.
As he made sure of his ground and then thrust his head over the edge, he received a joyful shock. Below him, in a deep snow, lay Jack and what was left of the sled.