“Toma,” he inquired presently, “do you believe Sandy will feel better after a while? Will he be able to get up and walk again?”
“Him walk no more tonight,” stated Toma with conviction.
“In that case, there’s only one thing to do. I’ll camp here with Sandy while you go on to your friend’s house for help. Do you think you can make it, Toma?”
“You start ’em fire here,” instructed the Indian. “Me make it all right. Get back two, three hours, mebbe, with dog team and take poor Sandy to warm bed. Please no worry if I be little late.”
“No,” answered Dick, gulping down a hard substance in his throat. “Good-bye and good luck to you, Toma. I’ll be here when you return.”
Not a suspicious moisture, but real tears were standing in Dick’s eyes a few minutes later as he and the young half-breed separated over the recumbent body of Sandy. A single, warm hand-clasp, then Toma was away, his footfalls sounding faintly through the dark.
CHAPTER XIII
DICK SEES A GHOST
Several hours had passed since Toma’s departure, and the fire Dick had kindled had burned down to a mass of glowing, red embers. The still falling snow hissed and sputtered over the coals. Off in the distance a few wolves howled. Sandy lay stretched out at Dick’s feet and the owner of the feet himself drowsed and nodded in a futile effort to keep awake.
He recovered consciousness a few moments later, however, when a half-burned stick, lying on the outer edge of the fire, crackled forth suddenly like a cap in a toy pistol. In an instant he was wide-eyed and alert, his eyes straining towards the outer rim of darkness. He could see nothing.
“Dreaming again,” he grumbled to himself, looking down at Sandy, and wondering how much time had elapsed since the young Indian guide had set out on his perilous journey through the storm. Then his thoughts turned to the happenings of the day.