A few moments later Elliot heard a cry.
He stepped out of the tent and ran to the spot where Holt was lying
under a mass of ice and snow. The young man threw aside the broken
blocks that had plunged down from a ledge above.
"Badly hurt, Gid?" he asked.
"I done bust my laig, son," the old man answered with a twisted grin.
"You mean that it is broken?"
"Tell you that in a minute."
He felt his leg carefully and with Elliot's help tried to get up.
Groaning, he slid back to the snow.
"Yep. She's busted," he announced.
Gordon carried him to the tent and laid him down carefully. The old
miner swore softly.
"Ain't this a hell of a note, boy? You'll have to get me to Smith's
Crossing and leave me there."
It was the only thing to be done. Elliot broke camp and packed the sled.
Upon the load he put his companion, well wrapped up in furs. He
harnessed the dogs and drove back to the road.
Two miles farther up the road Gordon stopped his team sharply. He had
turned a bend in the trail and had come upon an empty stage buried in
the snow.
The fear that had been uppermost in Elliot's mind for twenty-four hours
clutched at his throat. Was it tragedy upon which he had come after his
long journey?
Holt guessed the truth.
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