Aching with the cold, aching more in their hearts, the men from
Borealis knew a hundred ways to fear the worst.
Then at last a shout, and a shot from a pistol, sped to the farthest
limits of the line of searching riders and prodded every drop of
sluggish blood within them to a swift activity.
The shout and signal had come from Webber, the blacksmith, riding a
big, bay mare. Instantly Field, Bone, and Lufkins galloped to where he
was swinging out of his saddle.
There in the snow, where at last he had floundered down after making an
effort truly heroic to return to Borealis, lay the gray old Jim, with
tiny Skeezucks strapped to his breast and hovered by his motionless
arms. In his hands the little mite of a pilgrim held his furry doll.
On the snow lay the luncheon Miss Doc had so lovingly prepared. And
Tintoretto, the pup, whom nature had made to be joyous and glad, was
prostrate at the miner's feet, with flakes of white all blown through
the hair of his coat. A narrow little track around the two he loved so
well was beaten in the snow, where time after time the worried little
animal had circled and circled about the silent forms, in some brave,
puppy-wise service of watching and guarding, faithfully maintained till
he could move no more.
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