The following day, though, his other leg was exceedingly painful: it was sadly cut and bruised. With warm water I washed it. He wished me to apply cold water bandages, but I had, in Ontario, seen so much benefit from using pine gum—which is Venice turpentine, I suppose—for such hurts, that I persuaded him to let me put some on. The gum was oozing from every tree and stump about, wherever we had made a cut with an axe. In a few moments I collected plenty. It was surprising how quickly this stuff gave him relief, and how healing it was.
Meade was in better spirits that evening again. I read to him, we smoked and chatted—he passed a most satisfactory night. Next day he complained much. He said that even the pressure of the blankets on his legs was dreadfully painful.
I easily remedied that: I made a frame of willow twigs to lie over him, to bear off the clothes, which answered well.
"What a kind chap you are, Bertie," said he, after I had done all I could think of for his comfort.
"Kind chap!" I answered smiling. "Suppose it had been my leg that had been broken, what would you have done?—let me lie? And if you had got me in here, you would have neglected me, I suppose, and let things go? Not you; you would have done all you could for me, my friend. I know that right well, and so I'm doing the same for you, and intend to—so say no more."
As I have said, we were the best of friends, but the intimate association this accident occasioned brought us still closer together. I rarely left his side, only for fuel and other necessaries. As for going on with gold-getting, somehow I could not even think of it. I endeavoured to keep a bright face in my friend's presence, but when alone, or at night when he was sleeping, I had many terrible fears and uncertainties to ponder about and to depress me.
If he did not soon mend! if he got worse! if he could not be moved!—these thoughts were always in my mind.
The winter would be upon us directly—it was then the end of September—and I knew that we should be frozen in and snowed up soon, and remain so till June of this year 1897. Much of the time would be passed in darkness; in mid-winter there would be but a gleam of day at noon. These were dismal, unnerving forebodings. I tried to lift my heart to whence alone I could expect real help. I sought to repress all other thoughts, to just do the best I knew for my friend, and to trust our Heavenly Father for the rest.
To an extent I succeeded, and so many days went by in comparative peace.
We had a terrible gale during this time, I remember: heavy rain and hail accompanied it. The creek rose, it washed away a couple of our sluice-boxes, and seemed as if it would swamp our drive. This roused me to active measures: I piled up rocks and logs in such a way that I secured it against that misfortune.