But the invalid was able to take part in the conversation. “Say, don't take me there. Ah—want to go home. 'Pears like—I'd be better at home. My folks is out Moose River way. I'd never get out if I went in there,” and by “there” he seemed to mean the Indian's lake, and glanced furtively at the unchanging countenance of the red man.
“Have you a toboggan at your shanty?” asked Rolf.
“Yes—good enough—it's on the roof—say,” and he beckoned feebly to Rolf, “let him go after it—don't leave me—he'll kill me,” and he wept feebly in his self pity.
So Quonab started down the mountain—a sinewy man—a striding form, a speck in the melting distance.
Chapter 46. Nursing Hoag
In two hours the red man reached the trapper's shanty, and at once, without hesitation or delicacy, set about a thorough examination of its contents. Of course there was the toboggan on the roof, and in fairly good condition for such a shiftless owner.
There were bunches of furs hanging from the rafters, but not many, for fur taking is hard work; and Quonab, looking suspiciously over them, was 'not surprised to see the lynx skin he had lost, easily known by the absence of wound and the fur still in points as it had dried from the wetting. In another bundle, he discovered the beaver that had killed itself, for there was the dark band across its back.
The martens he could not be sure of, but he had a strong suspicion that most of this fur came out of his own traps.
He tied Hoag's blankets on the toboggan, and hastened back to where he left the two on the mountain.