There was a long pause. Rolf said, “Seems to me I heard you last night, when we were up there. And dog heard you, too. Do you want me to move that leg around?”
“M-m-m—yeh—that's better—say, you air white—ain't ye? Ye won't leave me—cos—I done some mean things—m-m-m. Ye won't, will ye?”
“No, you needn't worry—we'll stay by ye.”
Then he muttered, they could not tell what. He closed his eyes. After long silence he looked around wildly and began again:
“Say—I done you dirt—but don't leave me—don't leave me.” Tears ran down his face and he moaned piteously. “I'll—make it—right—you're white, ain't ye?”
Quonab rose and went for more firewood. The trapper whispered, “I'm scared o' him—now—he'll do me—say, I'm jest a poor ole man. If I do live—through—this—m-m-m-m—I'll never walk again. I'm crippled sure.”
It was long before he resumed. Then he began: “Say, what day is it—Friday!—I must—been two days in there—m-m-m—I reckoned it was a week. When—the—dog came I thought it was wolves. Oh—ah, didn't care much—m-m-m. Say, ye won't leave me—coz—coz—I treated—ye mean. I—ain't had no l-l-luck.” He went off into a stupor, but presently let out a long, startling cry, the same as that they had heard in the night. The dog growled; the men stared. The wretch's eyes were rolling again. He seemed delirious.
Quonab pointed to the east, made the sun-up sign, and shook his head at the victim. And Rolf understood it to mean that he would never see the sunrise. But they were wrong.
The long night passed in a struggle between heath and the tough make-up of a mountaineer. The waiting light of dawn saw death defeated, retiring from the scene. As the sun rose high, the victim seemed to gain considerably in strength. There was no immediate danger of an end.
Rolf said to Quonab: “Where shall we take him? Guess you better go home for the toboggan, and we'll fetch him to the shanty.”