"Not till you've eaten something." She laid a soft, cool palm upon his forehead when he endeavored to rise, and he dropped back again, watching her curiously.
He had barely finished eating when another footstep sounded outside and a heavy knock followed.
"Hey, June!" called a voice. "Are you up?"
It was Jim Devlin, the marshal, and the girl rose, only to stop at the look she saw in the wounded man's face. His dark eyes had widened; desperation haunted them.
"What is it, Mr. Devlin?" she answered.
"Have you seen anything of a wounded man within the last half-hour?"
She flashed another glance at her guest, to find him staring at her defiantly, but there was no appeal in his face. "What in the world do you mean?"
"There was a hold-up at Anvil Creek, and some shooting. We're pretty sure one of the gang was hit, but he got away. Pete, the waterman, says he saw a sick-looking fellow crossing the tundra in this direction. I thought you might have noticed him."
Again June's eyes flew back to the pale face of the stranger. He had risen now and, seeing the frank inquiry in her gaze, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his good hand palm upward as if in surrender, whereupon she answered the marshal:
"I'm sorry you can't come in, Mr. Devlin; but I'm just going to bed."