Last night I saw
you fill your match bottle and put it in your coat pocket. Why, man, WE
AIN'T EVEN GOT A MATCH!"
In his voice there was a thrill of triumph. Brokaw's hands were clenched,
as if some one had threatened to strike him.
"You mean--" he gasped.
"Just this," interrupted Billy, and his voice was harder than Brokaw's
now. "The God you used to pray to when you was a kid has given me a
choice, Brokaw, an' I'm going to take it. If we stay by this fire, an'
keep it up, we won't die of cold, but of starvation. We'll be dead before
we get half way to Thoreau's. There's an Indian shack that we could make,
but you'll never find it--not unless you unlock these irons and give me
that revolver at your belt. Then I'll take you over there as my prisoner.
That'll give me another chance for South America--an' the kid an' home."
Brokaw was buttoning the thick collar of his shirt close up about his
neck. On his face, too, there came for a moment a grim and determined
smile.
"Come on," he said, "we'll make Thoreau's or die."
"Sure," said Billy, stepping quickly to his side. "I suppose I might lie
down in the snow, an' refuse to budge. I'd win my game then, wouldn't I?
But we'll play it--on the square. It's Thoreau's, or die. And it's up to
you to find Thoreau's."
He looked back over his shoulder at the burning cabin as they entered the
edge of the forest, and in the gray darkness that was preceding dawn he
smiled to himself.
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