Weston gazed at the latter thoughtfully.
"We could get up that way, and there'll be good moonlight to-night," he said.

"If that snow-ridge lies where I think it does, there's a ravine running down through the neck of the high spur; and once we strike the big dip it's a straight trail to the cache.

If we started now we ought to get there to-morrow." He broke off for a moment, and opened the almost-empty bag.
"In fact we have to." Grenfell made a sign of acquiescence, and by and by they rose and forced a passage through the timber into the ravine.

Then they went up and up, through the creek and beside it, crawling over fallen trees, and dragging themselves across slippery shelves of rock, until, though still very steep, the way grew a trifle easier.

It was Grenfell's last effort, and Weston had no courage left to cheer him on.