Presently they burst out upon the frozen floor of a narrow canyon-like passage that was apparently the bottom of the fissure. Far above the sky showed like a tiny, pale ribbon. They could hear the sound of the running outlaws’ boots on the hard surface of the bottom of the fissure and followed them to the right. The passage was crooked and they could see nothing ahead of them further than ten yards, but at length they came upon the scene of Mistak’s contemplated perfidy.
Two half-breeds were at work over a hole some ten feet in diameter. With their spears they were straining frantically to pry loose a huge lump of ice and send it hurtling into the hole.
“They are going to crush the Corporal with that cake of ice!” cried Dick. “We’ve reached the pit!”
The rifles of the policemen came swiftly to their shoulders, and the great fissure reverberated with two shots. One of the half-breeds staggered and sank upon his side, lying still. The other grasped his shoulder with one hand, as if he had been wounded, turned and ran around a bend in the walls of the fissure.
“Don’t follow them!” was Corporal McCarthy’s command. “Let ’em go this time. We must get Thalman out.”
Soon they were crowded about the dark round opening of the prison pit, and were shouting down into the darkness. In the silence that followed their shouts down into the hole, they could hear their own hearts beating. Was Corporal Thalman alive?
At last, as from another world, there was wafted up out of the dark hole, a faint voice:
“Here—I—am—friends. Pretty—weak—but—still—kicking.”
“It’s Thalman!” whispered Constable Sloan hoarsely. “I can hardly believe it.”
“We’ve got to get a rope!” Corporal McCarthy bellowed down to the prisoner. “Hold on, and we’ll soon get you out.”