It was a little wistful, a little desperate. For the first time the girl’s voice had become unsteady.
Bill drew a deep breath.
“Waiting?”
He turned swiftly in the shadow that hid them up. His eyes were no longer calm. They were hot with those passions which are only the deeper and stronger for the strong man’s restraint. Suddenly he thrust a hand into the bosom of his parka and withdrew the folded plans of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike.”
“Here, Kid,” he said urgently. “You best have these. They’re yours anyway whatever happens. You never can guess in this queer old country. Take ’em in case. I’ll sure get right back in the spring. If I don’t you’ll just have to figger—I can’t.”
He waited for the girl to take the paper. But she only gazed round on him with eyes that had widened in real terror.
“You mean you’ll be—dead?” There was an instant’s pause as though the thought had paralysed her. Then a piteous cry broke from her. “Oh, no, no, no!” she cried. “You’ll come back, Bill. You won’t let a thing kill you. I want you, Bill. You’ll come back to me. Oh, say you will.”
It was a distracted face that was raised to his with widened eyes that had filled with tears.
“Would it hurt if—I didn’t?”
The man had moved a step nearer.