Kars' eyes were directed upon the tongues of flame licking about the camp-kettle. But they held in their focus the round, undiminished figure over whom he sat ward. Bill sat facing the captive in full view of the slung arm in its rough splints. Murray seemed to have no concern for those about him. His haunted eyes were on the rising moon disc, and his thoughts were on all those terrible problems confronting him.
He smoked from habit, but without appreciation. He could have no appreciation now for bodily comfort when all mental peace was destroyed.
His pipe went out and Bill held matches towards him. Silently, almost automatically, he relit it, using his sound arm with the skill of weeks of practice.
He passed the matches back. He offered no thanks. Then, with a sudden stirring of his unshapely body, he glanced swiftly in the direction of Kars. A moment later he was gazing across at Bill and addressing him.
"We'll make the Fort before sun-up?" he said.
"Before daylight," came the prompt correction.
Kars had abandoned his pleasant train of silent thought. His keen eyes were alight with the reflection of the fire. They were searching the prisoner's face for the meaning of his inquiry.
"How long do we stop around?"
Murray's voice was sharp.
"We don't stop around." Again Bill's reply came on the instant, and in tones that were coldly discouraging.