"I've reformed, Bill. I'm not drinking now," said the sick man with a quizzical look playing about his eyes, tenuous and vapory. "I won't need it. Thank you just the same."
The noble voice was gone, the voice he had played upon with all the skill of a great musician, the voice that had swayed multitudes. He spoke with effort in a husky whisper.
"Bill and I are going to try to git through to Calamity or the fort, Parson," said McShay.
"In this storm?" asked the sick man.
"Oh, Bill and I don't mind a little thing like a storm."
"And the wind has died down a whole lot," added Bill cheerfully.
"May God go with you," said the clergyman, raising himself upon the couch. "I'll say good-by to you before you go."
"Oh, shucks," laughed Mike uneasily. "'Tain't good-by, Parson. We're a-comin' back."
"But I won't be here, Mike."
Each one knew what McCloud meant, and each one tried to look as if he didn't. Wah-na-gi, seeing that he wanted to sit up, had put a pillow under his shoulders, and now he stretched out an emaciated hand, to the two big brawny men, and his eyes looked from one to the other with admiration.