It was Brokaw who brought him back into the
reality of things. The sergeant stumbled and fell in a drift, and Billy
fell over him. For a moment the two men sat half buried in the snow,
looking at each other without speaking. Brokaw moved first. He rose to
his feet with an effort. Billy made an attempt to follow him. After three
efforts he gave it up, and blinked up into Brokaw's face with a queer
laugh. The laugh was almost soundless. There had come a change in
Brokaw's face. Its determination and confidence were gone. At last the
iron mask of the Law was broken, and there shone through it something of
the emotions and the brotherhood of man. He was fumbling in one of his
pockets, and drew out the key to the handcuffs. It was a small key, and
he held it between his stiffened fingers with diffic ulty. He knelt down
beside Billy. The keyhole was filled with snow. It took a long time--ten
minutes--before the key was fitted in and the lock clicked. He helped to
tear off the cuffs. Billy felt no sensation as bits of skin and flesh
came "with them. Brokaw gave him a hand, and assisted him to rise. For
the first time he spoke.
"Guess you've got me beat, Billy," he said.
"Where's the Indian's?"
He drew his revolver from its holster and tossed it in the snowdrift. The
shadow of a smile passed grimly over his face. Billy looked about him.
They had stopped where the frozen path of a smaller stream joined the
creek.
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