Then, straining the last atom of his vitality, he plunged ahead. The early darkness of the North country settled about the staggering man. His progress was painfully slow and, without sense of direction, he wallowed forward, stumbling, falling, struggling to his feet only to fall again a few rods farther on. The weight of the boy seemed to crush him into the snow, and each time it became harder and harder to regain his feet against the merciless rush of the blizzard. He lost all hope of making camp. He did not know whether it was near or far, he only knew that he was upon the river, and that he must push on and on. He realized dully that he might easily have passed the rollways hours ago. He even considered doubling back; but what was the use? If he passed them once, he would pass them again. Every drop of his fighting blood was up. He would push on to the end. He would die, of course; but he wouldn't die _yet_! And when he did die, he would _fall_ to die--he would never _lie down_ to die! It was not far off, he knew--that fall, when he would never get up. He wondered who would find them; Blood River Jack, probably. As he leaned into the whirling, cutting wind, he thought of Jeanne and of his promise to Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. His fists clenched, and a few more rods were gained. He thought of Ethel, and of what Charlie had told him in the cave: "_She needs us; we're all she's got--you and me._" Again the fists in the heavy mittens clenched, and more rods were covered. It was growing black; the white smother of snow ceased to dance before his eyes. His advance now was hesitating, dogged; each step became a measure of time. He reeled suddenly against an unyielding object. A tree, he thought, and grasped it for support as he struggled to get his bearings. He was off the river; yet, when had he ascended the bank? The tree felt smooth to the touch, and he moved his mittens up and down the trunk. Suddenly he realized that it was no tree, but a skinned pole. His numbed brain groped dully as his hands traveled up and down its smooth length. At the height of his waist he encountered a rope, and at the feel of the heavy line the blood surged to his head, clearing his brain. "The _water-hole_!" he cried thickly. "They've roped off the water-hole!" Frantically he pulled himself along, hand over hand. The rope seemed endless, stretching from stake to stake. He was ascending the bank now at the foot of the rollways--and, at the top was the camp! He exerted his strength to the uttermost ounce, heaving and lifting with the huge muscles of his legs, and pulling with his arms until it seemed they must be torn from his shoulders, inching himself along, gasping, sweating, straining. The incline grew steeper, his frozen mittens slipped, the guide-rope tore from his grasp, and he pitched heavily backward into the soft smother.