"Where in the world did you pick the little beggar up?" inquired "Bo."
"It ain't none o' your business," was the surly retort. "He's here, and he's here to stay. He's mine, and he's got my brand on him."
"You don't mean to say that you brand babies in this country! Never heard of such a thing! It's damned inhuman, I should say."
"Don't matter what you say or think. I want that kid thawed out. Give 'im something to eat. He's cold and hungry, but he's healthy young stuff and 'll pull through. Kids ain't no different to cattle. Feed 'em and keep 'em warm. That's all they need. He's bawlin' now for feed. You got something handy?"
"Nothing but a bite of cold venison. Hardly the stuff for a baby."
"He ain't no baby. He's a yearling. Here!"
He had torn a strip of the venison from the piece, and had thrust it into the child's hand. The tiny fingers closed feebly about the meat and then feebly unclosed. The bright eyes, so like his mother's, opened in one wide, blind stare, then the white lids came down over them, closing the light out forever.
"Gone to sleep," grunted the cowman. "Keep the fire goin'. Thaw him out and feed him. That's the stuff. He'll come round. He's good stuff. I'm off for the timber. Be back soon. You ain't much good neither of you at tendin' to cattle. So I'll give you a nurse maid's job. Let the cattle rustle for themselves. You concentrate on—". He indicated with a jerk of his thumb Nettie's child, now quite still where it lay.
Alone, the two Englishmen continued to look at each other, astonished out of speech.