“Nonsense,” returned Hugh rudely. “For myself, I never want to see milk again. Where is that extra revolver? Lend me your mittens, they are drier than mine.”
He strapped on the snowshoes, ordered Nicholas back in spite of the delighted preparations the dog was making to join the expedition, bade Dick a sympathizing good-by and turned his face stoutly toward Jasper Peak. The dry, stinging cold was so intense as almost to take his breath away, but he was growing a little more used to it at last. The big snowshoes seemed awkward at first; he soon fell into the proper swing, however, and made good speed down the hill to the edge of the stream. The brook itself had disappeared completely under snow which was so soft that here he sank and floundered in spite of the snowshoes. It was difficult going up the steep incline on the other side, but in his eagerness and curiosity he managed to climb quickly.
There was no sign of life about Jake’s cabin, only the white flag—it looked like a torn shirt—was still fluttering from its rough pole beside the chimney. There were footprints about the door, those same heavy, shuffling steps that he had seen before their own cabin. He knocked loudly and stood waiting, thinking of the last time he had stood upon that doorstep. There was a pause and such silence that he could hear his heart hammering excitedly against his ribs. Then a sound of slow, dragging feet came from within, there was a fumbling at the lock, the door opened and a broad awkward figure appeared on the threshold. Somehow, in spite of his surprise, he felt that he had half expected to see that swarthy face and wide, strange, mirthless smile. It was Laughing Mary.
CHAPTER XII
A HIGHWAY THROUGH THE HILLS
The woman made only an inarticulate sound of welcome and motioned Hugh to come in. Like all Indians she preferred to converse through grunts and signs rather than by means of such English as she had at her command. When Hugh had entered she made no further comment, merely pointed silently at a bunk in the corner.
There, half propped up amid a mass of torn and dirty blankets, lay Half-Breed Jake. He did not move or speak when Hugh came near, but his little pale eyes turned quickly and his heavy black brows knitted in a scowl. The boy stood looking from one to another, puzzled, not yet knowing the meaning of that signal flying above the roof. At last the Indian woman, seeing his bewilderment, condescended to explain.
“I think—dying,” she remarked briefly in her thick English.
Jake’s pale eyes flickered at the words, but still he did not speak. Hugh went closer to look at him and saw that his hands and feet were clumsily wound with rags and that the dirty bandage had slipped down from one wrist, showing the angry discoloration of flesh that had been frozen. He asked Laughing Mary many questions, but received no answers but shakings of the head.
Finally he unbuckled his revolver, took off his cap and mackinaw and turned his attention to doing what he could for the helpless man. He had a feeling of intense repulsion when first he touched him, but none the less he bathed the swollen hands and feet and rebandaged them. He had a certain knack in such matters, inherited from his father and increased by such training as he had got in helping him. He set the filthy mass of rags in order to make some semblance of a bed; he built up the fire and showed the woman how to make civilized broth from the abundant deer’s meat in the storeroom.