They would carry men in out of the night and away from the wolves, or else would sit down and camp by them till they were able to care for themselves.
A man took a leg under each arm, another man took hold of his shoulders, and Limber Tim, now the limpest thing dead or alive was borne to his cabin.
One—two—three days. The camp, that at first was excited almost beyond bounds, had gone back to its work, and only now and then sent up a man from the mines below, or sent down a man from the mines above, to inquire if there was yet any news from the Widow. But not a word was to be heard.
All these days the two women went and came right through the thick of the men, but no man there was found rude enough to ask a question.
Never had the camp been so sober. Never had the Forks been so thoughtful. The cinnamon-headed bar-keeper leaned over his bar and said confidentially to the man at the table behind the silver faro-box, who had just awakened from a long nap,
"Ef this 'ere thing keps up, I busts." Then the red-haired man drew a cork and went on a protracted spree all by himself.
"Send for a gospel sharp all to once, Jake. Let's go the whole hog. The Forks only wants to get religion now, and die."