"It's some one outside," gasped the Halfbreed. Horror-stricken, we stared at each other, then he rushed to the door. A great gust of wind came in on us.
"Hurry up, you fellows," he cried; "lend a hand. I think it's a man."
Frantically we pulled it in, an unconscious form that struck a strange chill to our hearts. Anxiously we bent over it.
"He's not dead," said the Halfbreed, "only badly frozen, hands and feet and face. Don't take him near the fire."
He had been peering inside the parka hood and suddenly he turned to me.
"Well, I'm darned—it's Locasto."
Locasto! I shrank back and stood there staring blankly. Locasto! all the old hate resurged into my heart. Many a time had I wished him dead; and even dying, never could I have forgiven him. As I would have shrank from a reptile, I drew back.
"No, no," I said hoarsely, "I won't touch him. Curse him! Curse him! He can die."
"Come on there," said Jim fiercely. "You wouldn't let a man die, would you? There's the brand of a dog on you if you do. You'll be little better than a murderer. It don't matter what wrong he's done you, it's your duty as a man to help him. He's only a human soul, an' he's like to die anyway. Come on. Get these mits off his hands."
Mechanically I obeyed him. I was dazed. It was as if I was impelled by a stronger will than my own. I began pulling off the mits. The man's hands were white as putty. I slit the sleeves and saw that the awful whiteness went clear up the arm. It was horrible.