We can make that, but there's
only about a yard to spare. Take short steps--one step each time I tell
you. Now--left--left--left--left--"
Like a soldier on drill, O'Grady kept time with his scorched feet until
Jan turned him again to face the storm of fire, while one of his own
broken legs dangled over the abyss into which Jackpine and the
Chippewayan had plunged to their death. Behind them, almost where they
had fought, there crashed down a third avalanche from the edge of the
mountain. Not a shiver ran through O'Grady's great body. Steadily and
unflinchingly--step--step--step--he went ahead, while the last threads of
his moccasins smoked and burned. Jan could no longer see half a dozen
yards in advance. A wall of black smoke rose in their faces, and he
pulled O'Grady's ear:
"We've got just one chance, Clarry. I can't see any more. Keep straight
ahead--and run for it, and may the good God help us now!"
And Clarry O'Grady, drawing one great breath that was half fire into his
lungs, ran straight into the face of what looked like death to Jan
Larose. In that one moment Jan closed his eyes and waited for the plunge
over the cliff. But in place of death a sweep of air that seemed almost
cold struck his face, and he opened his eyes to find the clear and
uncharred slope leading before them down to the edge of the lake. He
shouted the news into O'Grady's ear, and then there arose from O'Grady's
chest a great sobbing cry, partly of joy, partly of pain, and more than
all else of that terrible grief which came of the knowledge that back in
the pit of death from which he had escaped he had left forever the vision
of life itself.
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