That the fury of the blizzard had not abated, was easily apparent. He could still hear the wind howling above their heads, and feel the snow as it sifted quietly down. At every step his feet sunk into the soft, yielding surface, and his heart pounded like a trip-hammer from the continuous, never-ending exertion.
“How much farther?” Sandy demanded, a note of despair in his voice. “How much farther, Toma?”
Sandy mumbled and complained to himself. He came stumbling and panting behind Dick, keeping up an incessant babbling or muttering that filled his friend with alarm.
A snort of fury seized upon Sandy. With a strangled, despairing cry, he sprang forward past Dick and seized Toma by the shoulder.
“Listen to me you, you—Indian. I’ve got a right to know how far we’ve gone. Come on, now—out with it!”
Toma turned as if to brush off the detaining hand, when Sandy struck out with all the force of his right arm. It was an unexpected blow which sent the young Indian guide staggering to his knees. Aghast, scarcely believing his senses, Dick stood in bewilderment for a moment unable to move. With incredible speed, his companion had sprung forward again, his fumbling, eager hands encircling Toma’s throat.
A shrill, unearthly shout, terrible in that utter desolation, seemed to freeze Dick’s blood. Toma and Sandy were at grips, struggling, rolling—a dark, almost indistinguishable ball against the gray background of billowing drifts.
“Stop it!” roared Dick again, and, jumping in, endeavored to separate them. He was still somewhat dazed over the sudden, unexpected turn events had taken. What had happened to Sandy? What was the meaning of that unwarranted attack upon the kindly young Indian guide? Had the hardship and severe nervous strain of the past few days, proved too much for his friend? Desperately he tugged and pulled at the two combatants, finally breathing a sigh of thankfulness as Toma rolled on top, successfully pinning the arms of his assailant.
“Fight all gone,” declared the victor between gasps of exhaustion, raising one hand to wipe away the blood trickling from a cut over his left eye. “Hm, poor fellow go sleep bye an bye. Trail too much. Worry too much. All make him mad like grizzly caught in trap, an’ fight like grizzly till strength all gone.”