CHAPTER XXXV—THE DEATH OF “THE WOLF.”
Old Joe looked about him with despair in his eyes. When the sled had gone over the edge of the cliff, the ropes that bound the load to it and the harness of the dogs had gone with it. There was not so much as a foot of rope left by which they might devise a means of reaching Jack.
Tom groaned.
“What are we to do?” he demanded.
“We moost keep on and get help from La Roche. Eet ees not far now, mon garçon.”
“But by the time we get back, Jack may be—may be——”
Tom could not complete the sentence.
For lack of something to say, old Joe gazed about him. Suddenly he gave a cry of delight. On a ledge not far above the trail there were growing a thick clump of cedar trees.
“Bien! I get rope queeck! Watch, mon garçon!” he cried.
“But how in the world!” began Tom.