“Can you sit on a horse?” he asked.
“I can try,” replied Tom, smiling through his tears. “But I am pretty weak, and almost frozen. I have had nothing much to eat for thirty-six hours, and I haven’t been able to get about to gather any firewood.”
“Hasn’t your partner taken care of you?” exclaimed Oscar.
“Not by a great sight. He stole my last blanket, took almost all the food we had, and left me to shift for myself. When you came, he was beating me because I could not get him something to eat. How could I make him a cup of coffee when there wasn’t any coffee?”
Oscar jerked the remnant of the switch off the fire and went out to look for Lish. But that worthy was out of sight.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
BIG THOMPSON’S HUNTING DOG.
“Well, I declare, Oscar! How nicely you are situated, and how well you live!”
Tom Preston gave a sigh of satisfaction as he settled back on his elbow and put down his cup, after taking a refreshing drink of the strong, hot coffee.
He lay upon a comfortable bed, beside a roaring fire; and his foot, which bore an ugly looking wound, had just been dressed with some soothing liniment.
Beside him, on the floor, was the best dinner he had eaten for many a day, consisting of juicy venison steaks, corn-bread, canned fruit, and pickles.