Two miles to the south, in a thick swamp, was Indian
Joe's cabin. They could have made it easily. On their way to Thoreau's
they would pass within a mile of it. But Brokaw would never know. And
they would never reach Thoreau's. Billy knew that. He looked at the man
hunter as he broke trail ahead of him--at the pugnacious hunch of his
shoulders, his long stride, the determined clench of his hands, and
wondered what the soul and the heart of a man like this must be, who in
such an hour would not trade life for life. For almost three-quarters of
an hour Brokaw did not utter a word. The storm had broke. Above the
spruce tops the sky began to clear. Day came slowly. And it was growing
steadily colder. The swing of Brokaw'a arms and shoulders kept the blood
in them circulating, while Billy's manacled wrists held a part of his
body almost rigid. He knew that his hands were already frozen. His arms
were numb, and when at last Brokaw paused for a moment on the edge of a
frozen stream Billy thrust out his hands, and clanked the steel rings.
"It must be getting colder," he said. "Look at that."
The cold steel had seared his wrists like hot iron, and had pulled off
patches of skin and flesh. Brokaw looked, and hunched his shoulders. His
lips were blue. His cheeks, ears, and nose were frost-bitten. There was a
curious thickness in his voice when he spoke.
"Thoreau lives on this creek," he said.
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