“Oh, the poor dog!” cried Pam, as they reached the spot where the animal lay. It was already feebly trying to lick its wounds—a good sign, Mose told her, for if it had been mortally wounded it would have lain still and not troubled at all. He lifted it carefully, as if it had been a baby, and then went striding back on the way to Ripple, while Pam stumbled along in the rear. He was bleeding from his numerous hurts, but would not let her bind him up with her handkerchief, and he stalked on ahead with the savage dignity which she had always connected with an Indian chief.
It was beginning to snow, but not with the leisurely falling flakes to which Pam had been accustomed in England. The air was suddenly full of a white smother, fine as dust, which, filling eyes and nose and mouth all at once, set up such a choking and confusion that Pam felt as if she would be suffocated. The man in front grew into an indistinct blur, although she was so close to him that by reaching out her hand she could have gripped his coat. A fear seized her that they would be lost and would both perish miserably. Her breath was beaten out of her by the sting of that awful cold, and she cried out sharply.
Mose stopped so suddenly at the sound of her cry that she punted into him without being able to help herself.
“What is wrong, miss; have you hurt yourself?” he asked in a jerky tone, for the dog was heavy and he was short of breath.
“I—I thought we were lost, and this snow is awful!” Pam cried.
“You are close home now; here is the house!” he said in an encouraging tone, just as one might speak to a frightened child.
Pam peered through the snow-blur, and there, just ahead, was the outline of the house, as he had said. A moment later and the door was flung open, and they staggered into the room, where Sophy fell upon them in tearful thanksgiving that Pam had escaped with her life. The blizzard had come on so suddenly that she had been frightened at the thought of Pam exposed to its fury.
While Pam explained the situation in a hurried, incoherent fashion, Mose Paget was caring for the dog. Calling for hot water, he washed its wounds, and bound them so that the dirt could not get into them. Then he made the animal as comfortable as possible on a bit of carpet and some cushions at the back of the stove, called for milk, warm milk, and fed it himself, taking as much care as if the creature had been a human being. But when they wanted to bring him water and bandages for his own hurts, he brushed them aside brusquely, declaring that there was nothing needed for him.
“I want to get home for my gun; I must have a shot at that vermin if I can,” he said hurriedly. “I am only sorry I could not do for the one the dog had its teeth fixed in. Gee, but the critter had a grip on it, and no mistake!”
“You cannot possibly go out in this storm; you will lose your way and perish!” cried Pam.