When it was ready he stood with
his hands in his pockets, and looked at Billy.
"If we had a stone, an' a piece of paper--" he began.
Billy thrust a hand that felt like lifeless lead inside his shirt, and
fumbled in a pocket he had made there. Brokaw watched him with red, eager
eyes. The hand reappeared, and in it was the buckskin wrapped photograph
he had seen the night before, Billy took off the buckskin. About the
picture there was a bit of tissue paper. He gave this and the match to
Brokaw.
"There's a little gun-file in the pocket the match came from," he said.
"I had it mending a trapchain. You can scratch the match on that."
He turned so that Brokaw could reach into the pocket, and the man hunter
thrust in his hand. When he brought it forth he held the file. There was
a smile on Billy's frostbitten face as he held the picture for a moment
under Brokaw's eyes. Billy's own hands had ruffled up the girl's shining
curls an instant before the picture was taken, and she was laughing at
him when the camera clicked.
"It's all up to her, Brokaw," Billy said gently. "I told you that last
night. It was she who woke me up before the fire got us. If you ever
prayed--pray a little now. FOR SHE'S GOING TO STRIKE THAT MATCH!"
He still looked at the picture as Brokaw knelt beside the pile he had
made. He heard the scratch of the match on the file, but his eyes did not
turn.
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