Dick raised up, his aching head swimming. Across the room, watched over by Toma, on a heap of balsam boughs, he saw a bearded man, haggard of face. It was Walter MacClaren.
“I guess I can stand on my pins now,” declared Dick. “But where did you all go right after I was knocked out?”
“The devils drove us right into the cave,” volunteered Malemute Slade. “It was a running fight till I climbed on a shelf of rock an’ dropped down on the beans of a couple of ’em. I cracked their pates, then we choked the other one till he told us where the lad’s uncle was. Me—I guess I’ve got about all I want of fightin’ for today.”
“I heard you shouting,” Sandy explained, “but you were in the wrong branch of the cavern. I had to go clear down to the fork before I found where you were. You had just about let go of the rock. I was scared to death when I had pulled you out. I struck a match—and say!—that hole didn’t seem to have any bottom.”
Dick shuddered, but smiled grimly. He had had a close shave—they had all had a close shave—but things had come out right in the end.
Malemute Slade had located the store of food kept by MacClaren’s guards, and they sat down and had a bite to eat. Then, they all gathered anxiously around Walter MacClaren. With eyes shining, Sandy stooped forward and patted his uncle’s hand.
“Everything is all right now,” the youth muttered happily. “I’m sure that Uncle Walt will get better.”
For several minutes they stood there in the half-light, looking down at the recumbent figure of the man, whose life they had saved barely in the nick of time. Except for their quiet breathing and the low trickle of water in an alcove close at hand, the deep hush remained unbroken. Then, unexpectedly, MacClaren stirred, muttering in his sleep. His eyes blinked open.
His gaze wavered from one to the other of the little company gathered around him, and slowly a smile played across his lips.
“Up in a few days,” he managed to articulate weakly. “Thanks—everyone of you! I’ll be feeling fine in the morning.”