"Look," Larson said abruptly, "you don't believe that phantom buck business, do you?"
Robinson didn't answer. He started away through the swamp, watching for a broken twig here, an almost buried footprint there. It took him two long hours to find the end of the trail. It had started to snow again. The boy was half covered with the drift. A thick growth of cedars had protected him from the full force of the storm. His eyes were wide open and he showed signs of recognizing Robinson as the big man bent over him. He tried to smile, but he couldn't. There was blood around his lips and his jacket was torn open to reveal a deep, bloody gash in his chest.
Robinson built a fire hurriedly and Larson kept the blaze alive with dry logs.
Robinson swore softly as he found bandages in his kit and administered first aid. He swore at the cold, and the snow, and the thing that had done this to the kid.
They carried Roy Starr out that night, and it was close to midnight before they met Norm Boody and the party who had come in search of them. Mrs. Boody had coffee on the stove when they got in. Robinson, once Roy Starr was warm and fairly safe once more, fell into a chair and slept like a child. An hour later, he was on his feet again, staggering, half dead from exhaustion, giving orders to the doctor who had come from Indian River.
Roy spoke in a whisper.
"Earl?"
He was in pain. Bad pain. Earl took his hand.
"It's okay, kid. I'm with you. It's all over."