"It's a death trip. I knew it was a death trip," Lounsbury moaned. "And what's the use of going farther. They haven't a chance on earth." They did, however, push on a short distance down the river. Lounsbury was of the opinion it was very far indeed. In reality it was not two hundred yards in all. And they halted once more to stare with frightened eyes at the stream. "It ain't the first this river's taken," Vosper told him. "And they never even found their bodies." "And we won't find these, now," Lounsbury replied. They waited a little while in silence, trying to pierce the shadows. "What do you suppose we'd better do?" he questioned. "I don't know. What can we do?" "There's no chance of saving them. They're gone already. No swimmer could live in that stream. Why did we ever come--it was a wild-goose chase at best. If they did get out they'd be lost--and couldn't find their way. It seems to me the wisest thing for us to do is to go back--and build a big fire--so they can find their way in if they did get out." It was a worthy suggestion! The voice of cowardice that had been speaking in Lounsbury's craven soul had found expression in words at last. He was frightened by the storm and the darkness, and he was cold and tired, and a beacon light for the two wanderers in the storm was only a subterfuge whereby he might justify their return to camp. The understrapper understood, but he didn't disagree. They were two of a kind. It was not that they did not know their rightful course. Both were fully aware that such a fire as they could build could only gleam a few yards through the heavy spruce thicket. They knew that braver men would keep watch over that dreadful river for half the night at least, calling and searching, ready to give aid in the feeble hope that the two exhausted swimmers might come ashore. "Sure thing," Vosper agreed. "It'll be hard to make a good fire in the snow, and we can't build one at all if them pack horses has got away by now." "You mean--we'd die?" Lounsbury's eyes protruded. "The ax is in the pack. We wouldn't have a chance." Lounsbury turned abruptly, scarcely able to refrain from running. The pack horses, however, hadn't left their tracks. And now the brave Mulvaney had gained the shore and was standing motionless, gazing out over the troubled waters. No man might guess the substance of his thoughts. He scarcely glanced at the two men. They unpacked the animals, and by scraping off the snow and by the aid of the keen ax and a candle-stub soon lighted a fire. To satisfy the feeble voice of his conscience Lounsbury himself cut wood to make it blaze high. They made their coffee and cooked an abundant meal.