"Not on foot?"
"No. With Holt's dog team. He is back there. His leg is broken. A snow-slide crushed him this morning where we camped."
"Bring him to the cabin. I will tell the others you are coming."
"Have you had any food?" he asked.
A tired smile lit up the shadows of weariness under her soft, dark eyes. "Boiled oats, plum pudding, and chocolates," she told him.
"We have plenty of food on the sled. I'll bring it at once."
She nodded, and turned to go to the cabin. He watched for a moment the lilt in her walk. An expression from his reading jumped to his mind. Melodious feet! Some poet had said that, hadn't he? Surely it must have been Sheba of whom he was thinking, this girl so virginal of body and of mind, free and light-footed as a caribou on the hills.
Gordon returned to the sled and drove the team up the draw to the cabin. The three who had been marooned came to meet their rescuer.
"You must 'a' come right through the storm lickitty split," Swiftwater said.
"You're right we did. This side pardner of mine was hell-bent on wrestling with a blizzard," Holt answered dryly.