wouldn't die _yet_! And when he did
die, he would _fall_ to die--he would never _lie down_ to die!

It was not far off, he knew--that fall, when he would never get up. He
wondered who would find them; Blood River Jack, probably. As he leaned
into the whirling, cutting wind, he thought of Jeanne and of his
promise to Wa-ha-ta-na-ta.

His fists clenched, and a few more rods were gained. He thought of
Ethel, and of what Charlie had told him in the cave:

"_She needs us; we're all she's got--you and me._"

Again the fists in the heavy mittens clenched, and more rods were
covered. It was growing black; the white smother of snow ceased to
dance before his eyes. His advance now was hesitating, dogged; each
step became a measure of time.

He reeled suddenly against an unyielding object. A tree, he thought,
and grasped it for support as he struggled to get his bearings. He was
off the river; yet, when had he ascended the bank?

The tree felt smooth to the touch, and he moved his mittens up and down
the trunk. Suddenly he realized that it was no tree, but a skinned
pole. His numbed brain groped dully as his hands traveled up and down
its smooth length.

At the height of his waist he encountered a rope, and at the feel of
the heavy line the blood surged to his head, clearing his brain.

"The _water-hole_!" he cried thickly. "They've roped off the
water-hole!" Frantically he pulled himself along, hand over hand. The
rope seemed endless, stretching from stake to stake.

He was ascending the bank now at the foot of the rollways--and, at the
top was the camp!

He exerted his strength to the uttermost ounce, heaving and lifting
with the huge muscles of his legs, and pulling with his arms until it
seemed they must be torn from his shoulders, inching himself along,
gasping, sweating, straining.

The incline grew steeper, his frozen mittens slipped, the guide-rope
tore from his grasp, and he pitched heavily backward into the soft
smother.

He struggled helplessly. Something seemed pressing him down, down--at
last he was _home_. He had won out against the terrible odds, and the
boy was safe.

He had brought him back to her, and now he must sleep. How warm and
comfortable it was in the bunk. He did not know a man could be so
sleepy.

What was it the girl was singing as he passed her window only a few
nights ago--when he paused in the darkness of the clearing to listen?

Dreamily the words floated through his brain: