At last the Kid laid the pitiable thing that was once a man in
the snow. But worse than his comrade's pain was the dumb anguish
in the woman's face, the blended look of hopeful, hopeless query.
Little was said; those of the Northland are early taught the
futility of words and the inestimable value of deeds. With the
temperature at sixty-five below zero, a man cannot lie many
minutes in the snow and live. So the sled lashings were cut, and
the sufferer, rolled in furs, laid on a couch of boughs. Before
him roared a fire, built of the very wood which wrought the
mishap. Behind and partially over him was stretched the primitive
fly--a piece of canvas, which caught the radiating heat and threw
it back and down upon him--a trick which men may know who study
physics at the fount.
And men who have shared their bed with death know when the call
is sounded. Mason was terribly crushed. The most cursory
examination revealed it.
His right arm, leg, and back were broken; his limbs were
paralyzed from the hips; and the likelihood of internal injuries
was large. An occasional moan was his only sign of life.
No hope; nothing to be done. The pitiless night crept slowly
by--Ruth's portion, the despairing stoicism of her race, and
Malemute Kid adding new lines to his face of bronze.
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