He lay there, conscious, but with scarcely energy enough of mind or body to register impressions. A fire roared up the chimney. He knew that. Some one rose with an exclamation of amazement at his intrusion. There was a hiatus of time. His companion of the adventure, still tied to him, lay on the floor. A man was stooping over Cig, busy with the removal of his ice-coated garments.
The man cut the rope. Hollister crawled closer to the fire. He unfastened the slicker and flung it aside. If he had not lost his knife, he would have cut the thongs of the skis. Instead, he thrust his feet close to the red glow to thaw out the ice-knots that had gathered.
He was exhausted from the fight through the deep drifts, but he was not physically in a bad way. A few hours’ sleep would be all he needed to set him right.
“Take a nip of this,” a squeaky voice advised.
Hollister turned his head quickly. He looked into the leathery face and skim-milk eyes of Jake Prowers. It would be hard to say which of them was the more startled.
“By jiminy by jinks, if it ain’t the smart-aleck hobo engineer,” the cattleman announced to himself.
“Is he alive?” asked Tug, nodding toward the man on the floor.
“Be all right in a li’l’ while. His eyes flickered when I gave him a drink. How’d you come here, anyhow?”
“Got lost in the storm. He played out. Had to drag him.” Tug rubbed his hands together to restore circulation.
“Mean you got lost an’ just happened in here?”