Ten minutes of heart-breaking battle with the elements, and they had won. Or had they? True, her father lay upon the snow beside the exhausted youth who had risked his life to save him; but he neither moved nor spoke. Was he dead? She could not be sure.
Time restored strength to the plucky Clyde Hawke. Then together they carried Newton Mills to a sheltered crevice among the rocks. After gathering dry twigs and branches, they built a roaring fire.
“It’s the only thing that will save him,” Clyde explained. “Home is too far away.”
Joyce removed her warm fur parka. Then she walked a short distance up the hill. When she returned Clyde had stripped off her father’s clothing and, after chafing his limbs, had dressed him in her parka. As she came up her father’s eyes opened and he murmured hoarsely: “That was close, awful close!” Then his eyelids fell.
With the hatchet from his belt Clyde cut off spruce branches and built them a shelter. Sheltered by the three walls of boughs and warmed by the fire, they soon were as comfortable as they might have been in the cabin.
When her splendid mind had regained its full powers, Joyce sprang up and cried:
“The dog team!”
She had left the dogs, she hardly knew where. And the toboggan sled was lined with caribou-skin robes.
“I will go for them.” She stood up. “As soon as you are dry enough to be safe, we can take him home in the sled.”
“When you’re back I’ll be O.K.,” Clyde said simply.