Tediously they struggled to the top of the
ridge, and as Jan stopped to look through the gray day about him,
Dixon sank down into the snow. When the other turned toward him he
grinned up feebly into his face.
"Bushed," he gasped. "Don't believe I can make it through this snow,
Thoreau."
There was no fear in his eyes; there was even a cheerful ring in his
voice.
A sudden glow leaped into Jan's face.
"I know this ridge," he exclaimed. "It runs within a mile of Lac Bain.
You'd better leave your rifle behind."
Dixon made an effort to rise and Jan helped him. They went on slowly,
resting every few hundred yards, and each time that he rose from these
periods of rest, Dixon's face was twisted with pain.
"It's the flour and water anchored amidships," he smiled grimly.
"Cramps--Ugh!"
"We'll make it by supper-time," assured Jan cheerfully.
Dixon leaned heavily on his arm.
"I wish you'd go on alone," he urged. "You could send help--"
"I promised Melisse that I would bring you back if I found you,"
replied Jan, his face turned away. "If the storm broke again, you
would be lost."
"Tell me--tell me--" he heard Dixon pant eagerly, "did she send you to
hunt for me, Thoreau?"
Something in the Englishman's voice drew his eyes to him.
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