"And you're going to
stay here--until spring. Do you get onto that? You've GOT to stay. I'm
going to leave you marooned, so to speak. You couldn't travel a hundred
yards out there without snowshoes, and I'm goin' to take your snowshoes.
And I'm goin' to take your guns, and burn your pack, your coat, mittens,
cap, an' moccasins. Catch on? I'm not goin' to kill you, and I'm going to
leave you enough grub to last until spring, but you won't dare risk
yourself out in the cold and snow. If you do, you'll freeze off your
tootsies, and make your lungs sick. Don't you feel sort of
pleasant--you--you--devil!"
Six hours later Falkner stood outside the cabin. The dogs were in their
traces, and the sledge was packed. The storm had blown itself out, and a
warmer temperature had followed in the path of the blizzard. He wore his
coat now, and gently he felt of the bulging pocket, and laughed joyously
as he faced the South.
"It's goin' to be a long hike, you little cuss," he said softly. "It's
goin' to be a darned long hike. But we'll make it. Yessir, we'll make it.
And won't they be s'prised when we fall in on 'em, six months ahead of
time?"
He examined the pocket carefully, making sure that he had buttoned down
the flap.
"I wouldn't want to lose you," he chuckled. "Next to her, an' the kid, I
wouldn't want to lose you!"
Then, slowly, a strange smile passed over his face, and he gazed
questioningly for a moment at the pocket which he held in his hand.
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