Dard took a chance and touched his own forehead. “I have it here. I’ll deliver it when and if I reach the proper persons.”
The messenger kicked moodily at a lump of snow. “It’s a long trip—back into the hills. You have supplies?”
“Some. I’ll talk when we’re safe—when Dessie is safe—”
“I don’t know—a child—the going’s pretty tough.”
“You’ll find we can keep up,” Dard made a promise he had no surety of keeping. “But we had better start now— there’s just a chance that they may be after us.”
The man shrugged. “All right. Come ahead—the two of you.”
Dard handed the bag of supplies to the other and took Dessie’s hand. Without another word the man turned to retrace the way he had come and the other two followed, keeping as well as they could to the trail he had broken.
They traveled on all that night. Dard first led and then carried Dessie, until, after one halt, the guide waved him on and raised the little girl to his shoulder, leaving Dard to stumble along unburdened. They rested at intervals but never long enough to relax, and Dard despaired of being able to keep up the pace. This messenger was a tireless machine, striding as might a robot along some hidden trail of which he alone knew the landmarks.
At dawn they were close to the top of a rise. Dard pulled himself up the last of a steep slope, panting, to discover the other waiting for him. With a jerk of his thumb the man indicated the crest of the divide.
“Cave— camp—” he got out the two words stiffly and put Dessie down. “Can you make it by yourself?” he asked her.