“Listen to me,” he said doggedly. “You say I carry too heavy a burden. Why add to it with your cold and angry looks? The weight of two guns is nothing to me. It is your hard eyes that break me down.”
Loseis’ reply was to burst into tears.
He took her in his arms. “Don’t you love me any more?” he whispered.
She crept within his arms, but she abused him still. “You fool! it is because I love you so, that I am always angry. It drives me wild to think that I should spoil the life of a man like you!”
“But that’s nonsense!” said Conacher. “I am nothing in particular. A man only has one life. How could he spend it better? We shall go together. What else matters . . . Don’t you feel better now?”
“A little bit,” she admitted. “But to-morrow I shall be angry with you again. You are too good and patient. If you turned hateful I should feel better. It would even things up a little.”
“You’re a funny one!” he murmured.
However, the air was cleared; and they rolled up in their blankets with a bit of comfort at their hearts.
When Conacher awoke next morning a light rain was drifting down. He pulled his blanket closer around him. Lying there like that one did not suffer; it was warm; the pangs of hunger did not make themselves felt; a comfortable numbness filled the frame. But the thought of getting up was hideous. For a long time he lay struggling with it. Useless for him to tell himself that he was the head of the party; the girls were dependent on him; it was up to him to find them food; he felt that he could not get up; the effort was too great.
In the end he had to get up. The first few moments were the worst. He stood in the rain, swaying and nauseated, a black mist swimming before his eyes. Each morning it was much worse. If he could conquer this first weakness, he could go on through the day—but to-morrow morning! He shook that thought away. He forced himself to walk up and down, supporting himself by the little trees. After awhile he felt better. Picking up his gun, he started on his hopeless circuit of the bluff.