Over all the land of the Kootenai the sun of early June was shining. Trees of wild fruits were white with blossoms, as if from far above on the mountains the snows had blown down and settled here and there on the new twigs of green.
And high up above the camp of the Twin Springs, Overton and Harris sat looking over the wide stretches of forest, and the younger man looked troubled.
“I think your fear is all an empty affair,” he said, in an argumentative tone. “You eat well and sleep well. What gives you the idea you are to be called in soon?”
“Several things,” said the other, slowly, and his speech was yet indistinct; “but most of all the feel of my feet and legs. A week ago my feet turned cold; this week the coldness is up to my knees, and it won’t go away. I know what it means. When it gets as high as my heart I’ll be done for. That won’t take long, Dan; and I want to see her first.”
“She can’t help you.”
“Yes, she can, too. You don’t know. Dan, send for her.”
“Things are all different with her now,” protested the other. “She’s with friends who are not of the diggings or the ranges, Joe. She is going to marry Max Lyster; and, altogether, is not the same little girl who made our 336 coffee for us down there in the flat. You must not expect that she will change all her new, happy life to run back here just because you want to talk to her.”
“She’ll come if you telegraph I want her,” insisted Harris. “I know her better than you do, Dan. The fine life will never spoil her. She would be happier here to-day in a canoe than she would be on a throne. I know her best.”
“She wasn’t very happy before she left here.”
“No,” he agreed; “but there were reasons, Dan. Why are you so set against her coming back?”