. . . The two still bodies on bearskins in the hut, and a hundred
superstitious Indians flying from the face of death. . . . The two alone
in the light of the flickering fire; the many gone to feast on fish, the
price of lives.
But the price was not yet paid, for the man waked from
insensibility--waked to see himself with the body of the boy beside him
in the red light of the fires.
For a moment his heart stopped beating, he turned sick and faint.
Deserted by those for whom he risked his life! . . . How long had he lain
there? What time was it? When was it that he had fought his way to the
nets and back again-hours maybe? And the dead boy there, Wingo, who had
risked his life, also dead--how long? His heart leaped--ah! not hours,
only minutes maybe. It was sundown as unconsciousness came on
him--Indians would not stay with the dead after sundown. Maybe it was
only ten minutes-five minutes--one minute ago since they left him! . . .
His watch! Shaking fingers drew it out, wild eyes scanned it. It was not
stopped. Then it could have only been minutes ago. Trembling to his feet,
he staggered over to Wingo, he felt the body, he held a mirror to the
lips. Yes, surely there was light moisture on the glass.
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