“You’ve come again— just in time,” he said, quite steadily. “Seems queer, don’t it, Billy?”
For the first time he spoke the other’s name as if he had known him a lifetime. Billy covered him over gently with one of the blankets, and in spite of himself his eyes sought about him questioningly. Deane saw the look.
“She didn’t come,” he whispered. “I left her—”
He broke off with a racking cough that brought a crimson stain to his lips. Billy felt a choking grief.
“You must be quiet,” he said. “Don’t try to talk now. You have no fire, and I will build one. Then I’ll make you something hot.”
He went to move away, but one of Deane’s hands detained him.
“Not until I’ve said something to you, Billy,” he insisted. “You know— you understand. I’m dying. It’s liable to come any minute now, and I’ve got to tell you— things. You must understand— before I go. I won’t be long. I killed a man, but I’m— not sorry. He tried to insult her— my wife— an’ you— you’d have killed him, too. You people began to hunt me, and for safety we went far north— among the Eskimos— an’ lived there— long time. The Eskimos— they loved the little girl an’ wife, specially little Isobel. Thought them angels— some sort. Then we heard you were goin’ to hunt for me— up there— among the Eskimos. So we set out with the box. Box was for her— to keep her from fearful cold. We didn’t dare take the baby— so we left her up there. We were going back— soon— after you’d made your hunt. When we saw your fire on the edge of the Barren she made me get in the box— an’ so— so you found us. You know— after that. You thought it was— coffin— an’ she told you I was dead. You were good— good to her— an’ you must go down there where she is, and take little Isobel. We were goin’ to do as you said— an’ go to South America. But we had to have the baby, an’ I came back. Should have told you. We knew that— afterward. But we were afraid— to tell the secret— even to you—”
He stopped, panting and coughing. Billy was crushing both his thin, cold hands in his own. He found no word to say. He waited, fighting to stifle the sobbing grief in his breath.
“You were good— good— good— to her,” repeated Deane, weakly, “You loved her— an’ it was right— because you thought I was dead an’ she was alone an’ needed help. I’m glad— you love her. You’ve been good— ’n’ honest— an I want some one like you to love her an’ care for her. She ain’t got nobody but me— an’ little Isobel. I’m glad— glad— I’ve found a man— like you!”
He suddenly wrenched his hands free and took Billy’s tense face between them, staring straight into his eyes.