Seabury nodded, still unable to trust himself to speak. But Hedges' coolness soothed his jangled nerves, and presently a thought struck him.
“That cabin back there!” he exclaimed. “If we could only manage to get that far—”
He paused and the other nodded. “Good idea,” he agreed promptly. “I'm afraid I can't walk it, but I might be able to crawl.”
“Oh, I didn't mean that. If we only had some way of fastening my skees together, you could lie down on them and I could pull you.”
A gleam of admiration came into the older chap's dark eyes. “You've got your nerve with you, old man,” he said. “Do you know how much I weigh?”
“That doesn't matter,” protested Seabury. “It's all down hill; it wouldn't be so hard. Besides, we can't stay here or—or we'll freeze.”
“Now you've said something,” agreed Hedges.
And it was true. Already Seabury's teeth were chattering, and even the warmer blooded Hedges could feel the cold penetrating his thick sweater. He tried to think of some other way out of their predicament, but finally agreed to try the plan. His heavy, high shoes were laced with rawhide thongs, which sufficed roughly to bind the two skees together. There was no possibility, however, of pulling them. The only way they could manage was for Hedges to seat himself on the improvised toboggan while Seabury trudged behind and pushed.
It was a toilsome and painful method of progress for them both and often jolted Hedges' ankle, which was already badly swollen, bringing on a constant succession of sharp, keen stabs. Seabury, wading knee-deep in the snow, was soon breathless, and by the time they reached the cabin, he felt utterly done up.
“Couldn't have kept that up much longer,” grunted Hedges, when they were inside the shelter with the door closed against the storm.