“Now then, a little run here, the going is good,” cried Paul, picking up his lead line. But the woman’s voice stayed him.
“Wait, Paul,” she said, raising herself on her elbow. She pushed the hood back from her face and gazed about her at sky and woods. “No, Paul, we shall make camp,” she said. “A storm is coming.” She pointed to the angry sun and the four brilliant sun-dogs surrounding it. “We must make camp, Paul, and quick. Look! There is good wood.” She pointed to a thick clump of pines and underbrush at the edge of the lake. The young man growled impatiently.
“We can make it,” he said in a voice of sullen desperation. “How far is the Post yet?” She held up her two hands twice. “Twenty miles yet!” he exclaimed in dismay. “We could make it before morning,” he added stubbornly.
“Yes, if the storm kept off and if I could walk,” said the woman, a bitter weariness in her voice.
Quickly Paul surrendered. “We will camp,” he said, swinging off toward the bushy pine bluff. “Come on, Lynx, you!” With a glad whimper the dogs strained on their traces and set off on a limping gallop. They knew as well as any that the welcome camp ground lay before them.
In among the thick undergrowth of scrub pine they dragged the toboggan where they found shelter from the cutting wind.
“Lie where you are, Mammy,” said Paul. “We will have a fire in a minute or two.” The woman turned over with a groan.
“Is it very bad, Mammy?” said the little girl, kneeling down beside the toboggan.
“The pain? That matters not,” said the woman bitterly. “It is hard to drag you all back, perhaps to——” she paused abruptly.
“Everybody at work!” shouted Paul, seizing the axe and slashing down with swift, sure blows the young spruce and balsams, and flinging them in a heap near the toboggan. Swiftly the little girl fell upon them with a long hunting knife, slicing off the boughs for the bed.