In the half-hour it had taken David to reach him, the frost had gripped Axel’s blood with clogging fingers that were not to be easily shaken off. Slipping his snowshoe on again, he propped the drowsy figure against the tree and worked himself under the inert shoulders. He reached up and grasped the wide coat-collar, then straightened himself suddenly. He had the lumberman on his back, but could he stagger through that killing half-hour again? Hanging the lantern on a low stub as he stooped beneath the burden of that dead weight on his shoulders, he turned toward the camp, fighting his way first and wondering how he did it afterwards.
Hoss Avery was pouring hot coffee between Axel’s blue lips when the latter coughed and his eyes unclosed.
David, holding the lamp above him, stooped nearer. A look of recognition brightened Barney’s heavy eyes for a moment.
“Jest—the—man—I’m—lookin’—fur,” he whispered. Then he yawned, turned on his side and David thought he heard those grim lips murmur, “Sleep.”
CHAPTER XI—THAT GREEN STUFF
RRR-R-UUF! R-r-r-r-uff! Swickey grabbed Smoke’s collar and stood astride of him, holding on with both hands. “He ain’t goin’ to bite—’cause he don’t growl when he’s goin’ to bite.”
Barney Axel came from the front room of the cabin, limping a little. “’Course not! Smoke ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ me, have you, Smoke?”
The dog had paid little attention to the lumberman during the three days he had been “resting up” at Lost Farm, as Ross and Avery had been in the cabin most of that time; but this morning they were both out, toting in firewood on the hand-sleighs.
“He’s jest pertendin’,” said Swickey, patting the terrier and encouraging him to make friends with Barney.
But Smoke was inclined to maintain a position of vigilant neutrality. Somewhere in the back of his head he had recorded that particular man-smell, and he took many uneasy paces between Swickey and Barney, keeping the while a slanted and suggestive gaze on the latter.