Again came a murmur, chiefly unintelligible, from the bunk.
“Did you ask for anything?”
The sick man heaved a worried sigh. “See what a mis'rable presumptuous piece of work!” he muttered, addressing the logs overhead. “But that Clauson—he wa'n't no more fit to guide ye than to go to heaven! Couldn't 'a' done much worse than this, though!”
“He has done worse!” Paul came over to the bunk-side to reason on this matter. “They started back from here, four strong men with all the animals and all the food they needed for a six weeks' trip. We came in in one. If they got through at all, where is the help they were to send us?”
“Help!” The packer roused. “They helped themselves, and pretty frequent. I said to them more than once—they didn't like it any too well: 'We can't drink up here like they do down to the coast. The air is too light. What a man would take with his dinner down there would fit him out with a first-class jag up here, 'leven thousand above the sea!'”
“It's a waste of breath to talk about them—breath burns up food and we haven't much to spare. We rushed into this trouble and we dragged you in after us. We have hurt you a good deal more than you have us.”
The sick man groaned. He flung one hand back against the logs, dislodging ancient dust that fell upon his corpse-like forehead. It was carefully wiped away. Helpless tears stole down the rigid face.
“John,” said Paul with animation, “your general appearance just now reminds me of those worked-out placer claims we passed in Ruby Gulch, the first day out. The fever and my cooking have ground-sluiced you to the bone.”
John smiled faintly. “Don't look very fat yourself. Where'd you git all that baird on your face?”
“We have been here some time, you know—or you don't know; you have been living in places far away from here. I used to envy you sometimes. And other times I didn't.”