"You won't give up, Pa, will ye? You'll fight for her till I get back?"
The big gnarled fist closed over the little hand on the pommel of the saddle, and the father's voice was husky:
"As long as there's breath in her body—hurry now."
The last command was not needed. The horse felt the quiver of tense suffering in the low voice and the nervous touch of the switch on his side. With a quick bound he was off at a full gallop down the trail toward the river.
The sun had set before they reached the open country beyond the great forest, but by seven o'clock the Boy saw from the hill top the shining mirror of the river in the calm moonlit valley. Before night he had succeeded in rousing the ferryman and reached the opposite shore.
He lost the way once about nine o'clock and a settler whose light he saw in the woods called sharply from the door with his rifle in hand:
"Who are you?"
"I'm just a little boy," the voice faltered. "I'm trying to find the doctor's house. My mother's about to die and I'm lost. I want you to show me the road."
The rifle was lowered and the cabin stirred. The man dropped back and a woman appeared in the door way.
"Won't ye come in, Honey, and rest a minute and me give ye somethin' to eat while Pa's gettin' ready to go with ye a piece?"