ing, nevertheless he would have slid
on had it not been for the slight assistance he took from the rope.
He was on the verge of a bulge and could not see beneath him. Several
minutes passed, in which they took stock of the situation and made rapid
strides in learning the art of sticking to wet and slippery ice. The
little man was the first to speak.

"Gee!" he said; and, a minute later, "If you can dig in for a moment and
slack on the rope, I can turn over. Try it."

Smoke made the effort, then rested on the rope again. "I can do it," he
said. "Tell me when you're ready. And be quick."

"About three feet down is holding for my heels," Carson said. "It won't
take a moment. Are you ready?"

"Go on."

It was hard work to slide down a yard, turn over and sit up; but it was
even harder for Smoke to remain flattened and maintain a position that
from instant to instant made a greater call upon his muscles. As it was,
he could feel the almost perceptible beginning of the slip when the rope
tightened and he looked up into his companion's face. Smoke noted the
yellow pallor of sun-tan forsaken by the blood, and wondered what his
own complexion was like. But when he saw Carson, with shaking fingers,
fumble for his sheath-knife, he decided the end had come. The man was in
a funk and was going to cut the rope.

"Don't m-mind m-m-me," the little man chattered. "I ain't scared. It's
only my nerves, gosh-dang them. I'll b-b-be all right in a minute."

And Smoke watched him, doubled over, his shoulders between his knees,
shivering and awkward, holding a slight tension on the rope with one
hand while with the other he hacked and gouged holes for his heels in
the ice.

"Carson," he breathed up to him, "you're some bear, some bear."

The answering grin was ghastly and pathetic. "I never could stand
height," Carson confessed. "It always did get me. Do you mind if I stop
a minute and clear my head? Then I'll make those heel-holds deeper so I
can heave you up."

Smoke's heart warmed. "Look here, Carson. The thing for you to do is
to cut the rope. You can never get me up, and there's no use both of us
being lost. You can make it out with your knife."

"You shut up!" was the hurt retort. "Who's running this?"

And Smoke could not help but see that anger was a good restorative
for the other's nerves. As for himself, it was the more nerve-racking
strain, lying plastered against the ice with nothing to do but strive to
stick on.