“We can do it!” Dick stated with conviction. “I know we can—even if we are compelled to drag and carry him all the way.”
There was admiration and wonder in Dick’s eyes now as he looked at the ice-clad form of the half-breed. What tremendous endurance Toma and this man must have. It seemed almost incredible.
He rose quickly, fired with new determination, walked over to the spot where Sandy lay and, as gently as possible, attempted to arouse him.
“Wake up! Wake up, Sandy!” he called.
Several minutes elapsed before Dick succeeded in dragging his friend to an upright position. Sandy swayed on his feet, mumbling incoherently, glaring about him with blood-shot, unseeing eyes. Supported by a friendly arm on either side, he moved forward, almost a dead weight between them.
“We get there sooner you think,” encouraged Raoul. “Bye an’ bye we turn bend in river an’ then you see Toma’s campfire. Little fella pretty sick.”
They mushed on in silence. Step by step, slowly, at what seemed to Dick a snail’s pace, they plodded through the darkness towards the place where the courageous young half-breed guide awaited them. The snow had ceased to fall. The roar of the storm above their heads had died down to a faint murmuring. Presently Raoul spoke:
“I see light now. Pretty soon we get to campfire. Then dogs pull sick fella rest of way to my home.”
“But we haven’t any sled,” interposed Dick.
“Toma tie poles together for sled by time we get there. Make ’em pole sled for sick fella.”