Jim staggered to the door, dazed by the outcome of this meeting. But his mind had cooled down and the crazy desire for vengeance, now vanished, left him a more normal creature. But he felt sick and weary. The future seemed so hopeless and blank. Had he the desire to search for Angela and bring her back, his storm-wrecked body would have refused. Lonagon approached him.
“So you didn’t kill him?”
Jim glared.
“Wal, it’s jest as well, for I’d hev sure killed you.” 230
“And I’d have been darned glad,” growled Jim.
A great nausea overtook him, and he clutched the door-post for support. Shanks looked at him, and shook his head.
“Better not hit the trail to-day. You got fever.”
Jim shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m all right. I’ll be mushing back to my shack. ’Tain’t far—two days’ run. So long!”
He went to the sled, untethered the dogs, and sent them scuttling up the ravine. But the sickness remained. His head seemed nigh to bursting and all his limbs set up a chronic aching. He vaguely realized that he was in the grip of mountain fever, which had fastened on to his abused body and was breaking him up.