Stunned by his fall, Simon lay still on the path. Little by little he came to himself, opened his eyes and realized what had happened. That dark object down below must be the minivan! Not a sound greeted his ears. Where then were his comrades? With aching limbs he got up, and shakily, blinded by the dancing snowflakes, he climbed down the bank, though sinking deep in snow at every step. His head ached badly; he shivered, and yet the sweat dropped from his brow.
“You’re not going to faint, like a girl!” he said to himself; “come, pull yourself together!”
As he neared the wrecked van, Simon’s heart beat more wildly. What was he about to find? His friends dead - or terribly injured? Collecting all his forces the boy dragged himself to the spot. A feeble moan gave him courage. “Anyway, there’s one survivor,” he thought. Searching his pockets, he found his flashlight and shone it in the direction of the sounds which grew louder.
“Cyril, Patrick, where are you? I’m coming to help you.”
“Here,” cried Cyril’s voice. “I can’t free myself. Come quick, I’m stifling!” Simon turned his light on the car, which was upside down and saw an arm waving from a window. With all his strength he pulled at the jammed door, which gave way suddenly. He saw his leader fixed tight between the steering wheel and the seat like a mouse in a trap. Below, in the debris of glass and iron, Bob and Andrew lay thrown together, unconscious. Patrick and Charlie had disappeared.
Simon’s first concern was to help Cyril struggle out of his dangerous position. Pulling at the seat which pressed on the wheel, he succeeded at last in loosening his friend, who, as his breath got shorter, was choking and groaning by turns. Once in the fresh air the boy revived, but a sharp pain in his ribs seized him as soon as he tried to move. With a cry he fell back in the snow.
“Don’t move, Cyril!” cried Simon; “I’m going to try and rescue Bob and Andy.”
The freezing night air and the snow combined to revive the stalwart Bob who had only slight cuts and bruises on his head, and was soon able to help Simon carry their unconscious comrade and put him down by Cyril.
“Look after these two, Bob,” commanded Simon; “I’m going to find the others.” Wading through snow knee-deep, Simon cast his eyes around the ravine, while calling their names as loudly as he could. A feeble cry answered him, and he distinguished two forms lying a little higher up near a tall fir.
“Is that you, Patrick? Are you hurt?”
“My leg is broken. I can’t move; I feel awful.”
“But if I help you” - and Simon tried to raise him. A cry of pain stopped him. “Don’t touch me, please!” cried the boy. “Leave me here; I’d rather die.”
“Don’t think I’m going to let you die here! I’ll attend to Charlie, and after that we’ll see.” Charlie had no visible injury, but he was so white and cold that Simon feared he was dead. Half carrying, half dragging, he got him down to the little group leaning against the car. Bob had arranged a rough shelter with the help of skis and an old piece of canvas found in the trunk.
“Bob!” cried Simon; “search the bags and try to find something to drink. Should we try to revive Charlie by rubbing him with snow? Feel his heart. I can’t seem to hear it beat.”
“Yes, it beats, but very feebly.”
“I must go and get help, Cyril.”
“To get help is to get ourselves arrested.”
“I have less fear of the police than of dying of cold,” said Bob; “we can’t spend the night here.”
“We must try first to get Patrick to shelter. Come on, Bob, and help me carry him, even if he screams. He’ll soon be buried in the snow.”
As gently as possible the two boys raised their friend, fainting with pain, and carried him to the little group of refugees.
“If only I felt fit,” murmured Cyril gloomily, “I could make an igloo.”
“Useless! We must get out of here as soon as possible,” declared Bob. “What do you say, Cyril? You’re our chief and must decide.”
“Phone to someone to come and collect us; but to whom?”
“I have a friend,” said Patrick, rousing himself. “I’m certain he would come and help. It’s Philip Berger, the farmer’s son who lives at the first farm as you go up to Fairfield.”
“Good idea!” exclaimed Simon, rubbing his cold hands together; “but where can we phone from? We’re too far from the pass to go back there, and we’d be half frozen before Pat’s friend could get here.”
“Oh, well! Stop a car and persuade the driver to take you to the next village, and phone from there to Patrick’s friend.”
“Cyril, can you walk? Lean on my arm. Bob, you take care of the others. Wait; take my overcoat to cover Charlie and Andrew.”
Simon helping Cyril, the two started to climb slowly up the bank. But Cyril kept stopping, and could not stifle his groans.
“Wait here,” said Simon; “I’ll go up alone, and be as quick as I possibly can.”
The lads watched Simon plunge into the gloom and followed with their eyes the little flashlight piercing the darkness. When it disappeared, their solitude seemed more terrifying, the night more threatening, and the cold more piercing. Patrick’s pain increased with the discomfort of his position.
“What a horrible end to this lovely day!” muttered Bob.
“We sure deserved it,” thought Patrick. “Say, Cyril, do you believe we’ll go to prison?”
“Me, perhaps; I am the most responsible.”
“It serves us right,” said Patrick; “we shouldn’t have stolen a car, above all the florist’s; such a good man.”
“If only Charlie and Andy recover!” said Bob, as he groped in the dark to find and rub the stiffening limbs of the two boys. By mistake he knocked against Patrick’s foot, causing him to utter a shout of agony.
“If Simon doesn’t come back soon, I shall go,” Bob declared, jumping to his feet. “I shall go mad waiting in this cold, doing nothing. I’ll try calling.”
“Simon! Simon!” he shouted desperately, his voice echoing mournfully in the silence of the hills; “shall I go and get help, Cyril?”
“No, Bob, stay with us. You know Simon, he’s not a fool. He’ll do his utmost to get help. Pull the canvas a little to the side, the wind has shifted. If we get close together, we won’t be quite so cold.”
However, Patrick’s suffering became intolerable. Bob tried to raise his head with the aid of a knapsack.
“Courage, Patrick! Now’s the time to show the mettle of the jolly outlaws! This adventure is hardly jolly, but we’ll come out of it somehow!”
“Cyril, have you ever prayed in your life?” Patrick forced himself to ask.
“I never pray,” said Cyril shortly. “God wouldn’t listen to me.”
“God wouldn’t answer the prayers of rascals like us, I am sure.”
“To pray is cowardly, it’s like admitting defeat,” said Cyril. “It’s like imploring pity from an enemy. We never concern ourselves about God, so how can we expect Him to help us? We have no right to expect help; we must look after ourselves.”
“One thing is certain,” said Patrick. “If no one comes to help us within an hour or two, we can hope for nothing but to die of cold.”
“You had better go, Bob!” cried Cyril at his wit’s end. “After all, what good is it doing to stay with us? Perhaps you’ll have better luck than Simon in finding someone.”
“I’ll climb up to the road, at least,” said Bob. “That struggle will warm me up, at any rate, and I’ll stop any driver that comes along.”