"How much farther is it?"
"Fifteen or sixteen miles," replied Billy. "You'll last just about five,
Brokaw. I won't last that long unless you take these things off and give
me the use of my arms."
"To knock out my brains when I ain't looking," growled Brokaw. "I
guess--before long--you'll be willing to tell where the Indian's shack
is." He kicked his way through a drift of snow to the smoother surface of
the stream. There was a breath of wind in their faces, and Billy bowed
his head to it. In the hours of his greatest loneliness and despair Billy
had kept up his fighting spirit by thinking of pleasant things, and now,
as he followed in Brokaw's trail, he began to think of home. It was not
hard for him to bring up visions of the girl wife who would probably
never know how he had died. He forgot Brokaw. He followed in the trail
mechanically, failing to notice that his captor's pace was growing
steadily slower, and that his own feet were dragging more and more like
leaden weights. He was back among the old hills again, and the sun was
shining, and he heard laughter and song. He saw Jeanne standing at the
gate in front of the little white cottage, smiling at him, and waving
Baby Jeanne's tiny hand at him as he looked back over his shoulder from
down the dusty road. His mind did not often travel as far as the mining
camp, and he had completely forgotten it now. He no longer felt the sting
and pain of the intense cold.
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