Apache Kid sat on one of the rough stools by the door, looking outward, and I called him.
He came quick and eager at my cry.
"Better?" he said. "Aha! That's what the rain does. And here 's the man that was going to die!" he rallied me. "Here, have a sip of this. It is n't sweet, but it will help you. I 've been rummaging."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Just a little nip of cognac. They had that left, poor devils. It's a wonder Canlan——" he continued, and then stopped; doubtless I squirmed at the name.
I took over the draught, and he sat down on the fir-boughs and talked as gaily as ever man talked. All the substance of his talk I have forgotten, only I remember how he heartened me. It was my determination to fight the fever and sickness, that we had nothing in the way of medicines to cure, that he was trying to awaken. And I must say he managed it well.
With surprise I found myself sitting up and smoking a cigarette while he sat back nursing a knee, laughing on me and saying:
"Smoking a cigarette! A sick man! Sitting up—and inhaling, too—and blowing through the nose—a sick man—why, the thing's absurd!"
I looked and listened and smiled in return on him, and some thought came to me of what manner of man this was who ministered so kindly to me, and also of how near death's door he himself had been.
"How are you?" I asked. "Where was it you said you had been wounded? I fear I was so sick and queer that I have forgotten everything but seeing you again."