A long time before he awoke Billy knew that he was not in the snow, and that hot stuff was running down his throat. When he opened his eyes there was no longer a light burning in the cabin. It was day. He felt strangely comfortable, but there was something in the cabin that stirred him from his rest. It was the odor of frying bacon. All of his hunger had come back. The joy of life, of anticipation, shone in his thin face as he pulled himself up. Another face— the bearded face— red-eyed, almost animal-like in its fierce questioning, bent over him.
“Where’s your grub, pardner?”
The question was like a stab. Billy did not hear his own voice as he explained.
“Got none!” The bearded man’s voice was like a bellow as he turned upon the others, “He’s got no grub!”
In that moment Billy choked back the cry on his lips. He knew the voice now— and the man. It was Bucky Smith! He half rose to his feet and then dropped back. Bucky had not recognized him. His own beard, shaggy hair, and pinched face had saved him from recognition. Fate had played his way.
“We’ll divvy up, Bucky,” came a weak voice. It was from the thin, white-faced man who had sat corpselike on the edge of his bunk the night before.
“Divvy hell!” growled the other. “It’s up to you— you ’n’ Sweedy. You’re to blame!”
You’re to blame!
The words struck upon Billy’s ears with a chill of horror. Starvation was in the cabin. He had fallen among animals instead of men. He saw the thin-faced man who had spoken for him sitting again on the edge of his bunk. Mutely he looked to the others to see who was Sweedy. He was the young man who had clutched the can of beans. It was he who was frying bacon over the sheet-iron stove.
“We’ll divvy, Henry and I,” he said. “I told you that last night.” He looked over at Billy. “Glad you’re better,” he greeted. “You see, you’ve struck us at a bad time. We’re on our last legs for grub. Our two Indians went out to hunt a week ago and never came back. They’re dead, or gone, and we’re as good as dead if the storm doesn’t let up pretty soon. You can have some of our grub— Henry’s and mine.”