“T’other one is in the horsepittle,” said the cook, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his bunk in the lean-to. “He was brought in. I’ve been lookin’ for something of the sort ever since he skipped from the Jerusalem station. Lunatics ain’t fit to fool ’round in the woods,” he rambled on.
“Who’ve you got in there?” demanded Christopher, snapping up from his fumbling at the rawhide strings.
“Old ‘Ladder’ Lane,” replied the cook, calmly. “Murphy’s down-toter brought him here just before dark. He’s pretty bad. Froze up considerable. Toter heard him hootin’ out in the swirl of snow on the Dickery pond and toled him ashore by hootin’ back at him. No business tryin’ to cross a pond on a day like this! ’Tain’t safe for a young man with all his wits, let alone an old man who has beat himself all out slam-bangin’ round these woods this winter.
“Yes, he’s pretty bad. Done what I could for him, me and cookee, by rubbin’ on snow and ladlin’ ginger-tea into him, but when it come to supper-time them nail-kags of mine had to be ’tended to, and here’s bread to mix for to-morrow mornin’. We don’t advertise a horsepittle, gents, but you wait a minute and I’ll scratch you up somethin’ for supper. The horsepittle will have to run itself for a little while.”
Wade and the old man stared at each other stupidly while the cook bustled about his task. For the moment their thoughts were too busy for words. Even Christopher’s whitening face showed the fear that had come upon him.
“Guess old Lane was comin’ out to get a letter onto the tote team,” gossiped the cook. “I was lookin’ through his coat after I got it off and found that one up there.”
He nodded at a grimy epistle stuck in a crevice of the log, and went down into a barrel after doughnuts which he piled on a tin plate.
Noiselessly Christopher strode to the log and took down the letter and stared at the superscription, and without a word displayed the writing to Wade. It was addressed to John Barrett at his city address.
The cook was busy at the table.
“By Cephas, this is our business!” muttered the old man. And, turning his back on the cook, he ripped open the envelope. On a wrinkled leaf torn from an account-book was pencilled this message: