The whole crew, from mucker to foreman, tiptoed down the hall—all except Gus. He didn’t seem to notice that they went.
Into the sick room they filed and stood in a little embarrassed group by the door. Barbara tossed fretfully on the bed, her eyes glowing with unnatural brightness.
“I want a kitty, Santa Claus! I want my kitty!” she wailed feebly.
The Canadian miner, tears rolling down his cheeks, left the room. The others followed.
Gus was still in his place by the fire when they returned.
“I can’t stand it to see her begging for that kitten,” said the Canadian. “I would risk my life to get one for her. I’d try to get to Telluride, if I thought I could get back in time to do any good.”
A minute afterwards Gus got up slowly and went out to the bunk room.
But Gus did not stop there long. He drew on an extra sweater, rubber coat and furs, snatched his skis and pole, and slipped from the house.
It was after midnight. The thermometer registered way below zero. The wind swirled down from the mountain tops with the lash of a gale. But Gus did not mind the storm; a master of the ski, he swung down the trail with a speed that mocked the wind at his back.
Telluride, the nearest town, was thirteen miles away, the only route leading there being over a zigzag pack trail. From the mine this trail descends the crest of a ridge until it strikes the edge of the canyon, staggers back and forth down the steep face of the canyon, then for the rest of the way meekly follows the river.