Marjorie!" He had her in his arms, kissing her face madly, while sobbing, panting, laughing, she sank upon his breast.
"Oh, Kalman! Kalman!" she gasped. "You must stop! You must stop!
Oh! I am so glad! You must stop!"
"God in Heaven!" shouted the man, boy no longer. "Who can stop me?
How can I stop? You might have died here in the snow!"
At a little distance the other figure was hanging to a tree, evidently near to exhaustion.
"Oh, Kalman, we were fair done when the dogs came, and then I wouldn't stop, for I knew you were near. But my! my! you were so long!"
The boy still held her in his arms.
"I say, young man, what the deuce are we going to do? I'm played out. I cawn't move a blawsted foot."
The voice recalled Kalman from heaven to earth. He turned to the speaker and made out Mr. Edgar Penny.
"Do!" cried Kalman. "Why, make for my camp. Come along. It's up stream a little distance, and we can feel our way. Climb up, Marjorie."
"Can I?"
"Yes, at once," said Kalman, taking full command of her. "Now, hold on tight, and we'll soon be at camp."
With the gale in their backs, they set off up stream, the men holding by the stirrups. For some minutes they battled on through the blizzard. Well for them that they had the brawling Creek to guide them that night, for through this swaying, choking curtain of snow it was impossible to see more than a horse length.
In a few minutes Mr. Penny called out, "I say, I cawn't go a step further. Let's rest a bit." He sat down in the snow. Every moment the wind was blowing colder.
"Come on!" shouted Kalman through the storm. "We must keep going or we'll freeze."
But there was no answer.
"Mr. Penny! Mr. Penny!" cried Marjorie, "get up! We must go on!"
Still there was no answer. Kalman made his way round to the man's side. He was fast asleep.
"Get up! Get up, you fool, or you will be smothered!" said Kalman, roughly shaking him. "Get up, I say!"
He pulled the man to his feet and they started on once more, Mr. Penny stumbling along like a drunken man.
"Let me walk, Kalman," entreated Marjorie. "I feel fresh and strong. He can't go on, and he will only keep us back."
"You walk!" cried Kalman. "Never! If he can't keep up let him stay and die."
"No, Kalman, I am quite strong."
She slipped off the horse, Kalman growling his wrath and disgust, and together they assisted Mr. Penny to mount. By this time they had reached the thickest part of the woods. The trees broke to some extent the force of the wind, but the cold was growing more intense.
"Single file here!" shouted Kalman to Marjorie. "You follow me."
Slowly, painfully, through the darkness and drifted snow, with teeth clenched to keep back the groans which the pain of his foot was forcing from him, Kalman stumbled along. At length a misstep turned his foot. He sank with a groan into the snow. With a cry Marjorie was beside him.
"Oh, Kalman, you have hurt yourself!"
"It is this cursed foot of mine," he groaned. "I twisted it and something's broken, I am afraid, and it IS rather sore."
"Hello there! what's up?" cried Mr. Penny from his saddle. "I'm getting beastly cold up here."
Marjorie turned wrathfully upon him.
"Here, you great lazy thing, come down!" she cried. "Kalman, you must ride."
But Kalman was up and once more leading the way.
"We're almost there," he cried. "Come along; he couldn't find the path."
"It's just a great shame!" cried Marjorie, half sobbing, keeping by his side. "Can't I help you? Let me try."
Her arm around him put new life into him.
"By Jove! I see a fire," shouted Mr. Penny.
"That's camp," said Kalman, pausing for breath while Marjorie held him up. "We're just there."
And so, staggering and stumbling, they reached the foot of the landslip. Here Kalman took the saddle off Jacob, turned him loose, and clambered up to the cave, followed by the others. Mr. Penny sank to the ground and lay upon the cave floor like one dead.
"Well, here we are at last," said Kalman, "thank God!"
"Yes, thank God!" said Marjorie softly, "and--you, Kalman."
She sank to her knees on the ground, and putting her face in her hands, burst into tears.
"What is it, Marjorie?" said Kalman, taking her hands down from her face. "Are you hurt? What is it? I can't bear to see you cry like that." But he didn't kiss her. The conventionalities were seizing upon him again. His old shyness was stealing over his spirit. "Tell me what to do," he said.
"Do!" cried Marjorie through her sobs. "What more can you do? Oh, Kalman, you have saved me from an awful death!"
"Don't speak of it," said the boy with a shudder. "Don't I know it? I can't bear to think of it. But are you all right?"
"Right?" said Marjorie briskly, wiping away her tears. "Of course I'm all right, an' sair hungry, tae."
"Why, of course. What a fool I am!" said Kalman. "I'll make you tea in a minute."
"No, let me," cried Marjorie. "Your poor foot must be awful.
Where's your teapot? I'm a gran' tea maker, ye ken." She was in one of her daft moods, as Aunt Janet would say.
Never was such tea as that which they had from the tin tea pail and from the one tin cup. What though the blizzard howled its loudest in front of their cave? What though the swirling snow threatened now and then to douse their fire? What though the tea boiled over and the pork burned to a crisp? What though a single bannock stood alone between them and starvation? What cared they? Heaven was about them, and its music was ringing in their hearts.
Refreshed by their tea, they sat before the blazing fire, all three, drying their soaked garments, while Mr. Penny and Marjorie recounted their experiences. They had intended to make Wakota, but missed the trail. The day was fine, however, and that gave them no concern till the storm came up, when suddenly they had lost all sense of direction and allowed their ponies to take them where they would. With the instinct bred on the plains, the ponies had made for the shelter of the Night Hawk ravine. Up the ravine they had struggled till the darkness and the thick woods had forced them to abandon the ponies.
"I wonder what the poor things will do?" interjected Marjorie.
