Jacob responded with a mighty plunge and struggled free, making it possible for Kalman to extricate himself.  He was relieved to discover that he could stand on his feet and could walk, but only with extreme pain.  Upon examination he could find no sign of broken bones.  He took a large handkerchief from his neck, bound it tightly about his foot and ankle.

“I say, Jacob, we’re well out of that,” he said, looking up at the great cave that had been excavated by the landslip.  “Quite a hole, eh?  A great place to sleep in.  Lots of spruce about, too.  We’ll just camp here for the night.  I guess I’ll have to let those coyotes go this trip.  This beastly foot of mine won’t let me dig much.  Hello!” he continued, “that’s a mighty queer rock.  I’ll just take a look at that hole.”

He struggled up over the debris and entered the cave.  Through the earth there showed a glistening seam slanting across one side and ending in a broken ledge.

“By Jove!” he cried, copying Jack French in his habit of speech as in other habits, “that looks like the coal we used to find along the Winnipeg tracks.”

He broke off a piece of the black seam.  It crumbled in his hands.

“I guess not,” he said; “but we’ll get the shovel at it.”

Forgetting for the time the pain of his foot, he scrambled down over the soft earth, got his shovel, and was soon hard at work excavating the seam.  Soon he had a very considerable pile lying at the front of the cave.

“Now we’ll soon see,” he cried.

He hurriedly gathered some dry wood, heaped the black stuff upon it, lighted it, and sat down to wait the issue.  Wild hopes were throbbing at his heart.  He knew enough of the value of coal to realize the importance of the discovery.  If it should prove to be coal, what a splendid thing it would be for Jack and for him!  How much they would be able to do for Mrs. French and for his sister Irma!  Amid his dreams a new face mingled, a face with saucy brown eyes, but on that face he refused to allow himself the rapture of looking.  He dared not, at least not yet.  Keenly he watched the fire.  Was it taking hold of the black lumps?  The flames were dying down.  The wood had nearly burned itself out.  The black lumps were charred and dead, and with their dying died his hopes.

He glanced out upon the ravine.  Large soft flakes of snow were falling lazily through the trees.

“I’ll get my blankets and grub under cover, and get some more wood for the night.  It’s going to be cold.”

He heaped the remains of the wood he had gathered upon the fire, and with great difficulty, for his foot was growing more and more painful with every move, he set about gathering wood, of which there was abundance near at hand, and making himself snug for the night.  He brought up a pail of water from the Creek, and tethered his broncho where there was a bunch of grass at the bottom of the ravine.  Before he had finished these operations the ground was white with snow, and the wind was beginning to sigh ominously through the trees.