A low groan reached them. They listened. It came again, from under the bed of the wagon apparently.
“He’s alive,” Clint called to Betty.
The drooping little figure crouched in the snow straightened as though an electric current had been shot through it. The girl waded toward them, eager, animate with vigor, pulsing with hope.
“Oh, Dad. Let’s hurry. Let’s get him out.”
Reed rapped the wagon bed with his knuckles. “How about it, Hollister? Hurt much?”
“Knocked out,” a weak voice answered. “Guess I’m all right now. Arm scraped a bit.”
The handle of a shovel stuck out of the snow like a post. Lon worked it loose, tore the lower part free, and brought it to the bed. He began to dig. Reed joined him, using his leather gauntlets as spades. It took nearly half an hour to get Hollister out. He came up smiling.
“Cold berth down there,” he said by way of comment.
“You’re not really hurt, are you?” Betty said.
“Nothing to speak of. The edge of the sled scraped the skin from my arm. Feels a bit fiery. How about the horses?”