“Don't be alarmed at Moya's face,” said the colonel stoutly. “Paul was all right at last accounts. We will have a merry Christmas yet.”
“This is not from Paul!” Mrs. Bogardus fixed her eyes upon a letter which she held at arm's length, feeling for her glasses. “It's not for me—'Miss Bogardus.'”
“Ah, well. I saw it was postmarked Lemhi—Fort Lemhi, you know. Sit down, madam. Suppose I give you Mr. Winslow's report first—Lieutenant Winslow. You heard of his going to Lemhi?”
“She doesn't know,” whispered Moya.
“True. Well, two weeks ago I gave Mr. Winslow a hunter's leave, as we call it in the army, to beat up the trail of those boys. I thought it was time we heard from them, but it wasn't worth while to raise a hue and cry. He started out with a few picked men from Lemhi, the Indian Reservation, you know. I couldn't have sent a better man; the thing hasn't got into the local papers even. My object, of course, has been to save unnecessary alarm. Mr. Winslow has just got back to Challis. He rounded up the Bowen youths and the cook and the helper, in bad shape, all of them, but able to tell a story. The details we shall get later, but I have Mr. Winslow's report to me. It is short and probably correct.”
“Was Paul not with them?” his mother questioned in a hard, dry voice. “Where is he then?”
“He is in camp, madam, in charge of the wounded.”
“Dear father! if you would speak plain!” Moya whispered nervously.
“Certainly. There is nothing whatever to hide. We know now that on their last day's hunt they met with an accident which resulted in a division of the party. A fall of snow had covered the ice on the trails, and the guide's horse fell and rolled on him—nature of his injuries not described. This happened a day's journey from their camp at Ten-Mile cabin, and the retreat with the wounded man was slow and of course difficult over such a trail. They put together a sort of horse-litter made of pine poles and carried him on that, slung between two mules tandem. A beastly business, winding and twisting over fallen timber, hugging the cañon wall, near a thousand feet down—'Impassable' the trail is marked, on the government military maps. This first day's march was so discouraging that at Ten Mile they called a council, and the packer spoke up like a man. He disposed of his own case in this way. If he were to live, they could send back help to fetch him out. If not, no help would be needed. The snows were upon them; there was danger in every hour's delay. It was insane to sacrifice four sound men for one, badly hurt, with not many hours perhaps to suffer.”
A murmur from the mother announced her appreciation of the packer's argument.