He, with his heavy boots, might manage it. Therefore there was hope for
him; but for her to try it would be madness.

Had he been a sturdy mountaineer, she wofully reflected--having found a
detail of lowland inferiority which, she was quite certain, would not be
dispelled as had some others--he might, in such a desperate case, have
summoned strength to "tote" her through, although she scarcely thought
Joe Lorey, the best man whom she knew, could really do it; still there
would have been the possibility. But no weak-muscled "foreigner,"
pap-nurtured in the lowlands, could, she knew, of course, accomplish
such a feat. It was fine to know things, as he did, but _muscle_ was
what counted now! In queer, impersonal reflection, born, doubtless, of a
dumb hysteria, she reflected bitterly upon the healthy weight of her own
mountain-nourished person.

"If I was only like them triflin' bluegrass gals Joe tells about," she
thought, "made up of nothin' or a little less, it wouldn't be no trick
to tote me outen this; but dellaw! I'm just as much as that there ox of
mine feels right to carry when I got a couple bags o' grist on, back an'
front."

She looked around the ring of fire, dull-eyed, disheartened. "Ain't no
use," said she, aloud.

He seemed to almost lose his temper. "Use?" said he, "of course there's
use! You tell me where the best chance is and we'll fight out, all
right."

She did not even answer; the situation seemed to her so wholly
hopeless.