He strained fiercely at the
thongs that bound him, but after the first few minutes he lay still
breathing hard, knowing that every effort he made only tightened the
caribou-skin cord that bound him.
On his back, he listened to the storm. It was filled with the same
strange cries and moaning sound that had almost driven him to madness,
and now they sent through him a shivering chill that he had not felt
before, even in the darkest and most hopeless hours of his loneliness and
despair. A breath that was almost a sob broke from his lips as a vision
of the Girl and the Kid came to shut out from his ears the moaning tumult
of the wind. A few hours before he had been filled with hope--almost
happiness, and now he was lost. From such a man as Carr there was no hope
for mercy, or of escape. Flat on his back, he closed his eyes, and tried
to think--to scheme something that might happen in his favor, to foresee
an opportunity that might give him one last chance. And then, suddenly,
he heard a sound. It traveled over the blanket that formed a pillow for
his head. A cool, soft little nose touched his ear, and then tiny feet
ran swiftly over his shoulder, and halted on his breast. He opened his
eyes, and stared.
"You little cuss!" he breathed. A hundred times he had spoken those
words, and each time they were of increasing wonder and adoration. "You
little cuss!" he whispered again, and he chuckled aloud.
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