His voice was low and tender as he inquired, "Are you resting easier now?"
The other nodded.
"Maybe you're not hurt badly, after—all. God! That would be awful—" Cantwell choked, turned away, and, raising his arms against the log wall, buried his face in them.
The morning broke clear; Grant was sleeping. As Johnny stiffly mounted the creek bank with a bucket of water he heard a jingle of sleigh-bells and saw a sled with two white men swing in toward the cabin.
"Hello!" he called, then heard his own name pronounced.
"Johnny Cantwell, by all that's holy!"
The next moment he was shaking hands vigorously with two old friends from Nome.
"Martin and me are bound for Saint Mikes," one of them explained. "Where the deuce did you come from, Johnny?"
"The 'outside.' Started for Stony River, but—"