He crossed the clearing on his way to his cabin cautiously, feeling his way with his feet to avoid tripping over an unseen root. The night was intensely dark—so dark that as he neared his cabin he was forced to stop and feel for his card of matches. At that instant someone in the pitch darkness ahead of him coughed.
"Is that you, Freme?" called Holcomb, watching the sputtering sulphur blaze into flame.
"No," answered a hard nasal voice to the right, and within a rod of him; "it's me—Bergstein. Got any gin in your place? the nigh hoss on Jimmy's team is took bad with the colic."
"Come inside," said Holcomb.
"Bad luck," muttered Bergstein, as he followed Holcomb into the cabin; "there ain't a better work hoss on the place. Must have catched cold drawin' them heavy loads on the mountain."
Holcomb lighted a candle, extracted a bunch of keys, unlocked a cupboard, and handed Bergstein a black bottle.
"I thought you were in Canada," he said, eyeing Bergstein closely.
"I jest got back—I didn't wait for the funeral."
"Well, keep that horse covered," Holcomb added; "you'll find some extra heavy blankets back of the feed bin." After his door was closed, Holcomb stood thinking for some moments, his eyes fastened on the candle flame.
"That nigh horse seemed all right this fore-noon," he said to himself.
"That's the second horse with colic."