“By the Lord!” he said slowly, “I believe you would!” A change came over the thin, arrogant face. He stooped suddenly, raised the boy and kissed him. “Now, get out o’ this!” he roared at the driver, as he leaped into the wagon.
They waved their hands as long as the miners were in sight, and stood staring until Pete’s statement that they’d all be angels by-and-by was lost in the distance.
“Pretty good folks when you’re in trouble, ain’t they, Ches?” said Bud.
“What ’ud we have done, if dey hadn’t come?—Ain’t it ’mos’ time Jim was moving, Bud?”
“I’ll give him another spoonful of whisky, but you can’t expect him to start right up and hop around. He got an awful crack, boy.”
For all that, as the dose of strong liquor went down Jim’s throat, he opened his eyes.
“Hello, Bud! Hello, Ches!” he said wonderingly. “Have I been asleep?—Why, what the devil’s the matter with my head?” he raised his hand to the spruce-gum bandage. “Phew! But I feel weak!” he sighed as his hand dropped. “Something’s happened—what is it?”
There, with a friend on each side holding a hand, they told him the story. It was a sacred reunion.
The gratitude of the man saved, and the protestations of the others that they would have done all they did a thousand times again would only seem childish in repetition. They cried, too, which is excusable in a child, but not in two big men. Men don’t cry. It is the monopoly of women. Nevertheless, Bud and Jim and Ches cried and swore, and shook hands and cried again until it was a pitiful thing to see.
“Well,” said Bud at last, “this makes you feel better, but it won’t get the work done. I’ve got to go out and fix old Buck and get in some firewood.”