Drinkard looked at the foot, already purpling as it swelled. He reached for his first-aid kit.
"Well, anyway," he said resignedly, "you got close enough to watch for lights."
Evers set his teeth as Drinkard's big fingers probed the sprain.
"We'll pack ice on it," Drinkard decided, "then tape it in an hour. Maybe it's a simple twist."
"You know it isn't."
"Sure," admitted Drinkard. "I thought you wanted to be cheerful, that's all. It's like when I broke three ribs climbing to look into a bird's nest the day before we were tackling the East Face of Long's. Then you were chin-up."
"That was different," said Evers. "I wasn't hurting."
When the stars were out and the quarter moon rose from the plains, John Drinkard got up from his bedroll seat by the fire. The two men had sat talking quietly for an hour. Evers' ankle was taped and he was easing it before him as best he could.
"I'm going to have a look before I turn in," said Drinkard. "My five still says there won't be lights, but the technical crew may be monkeying around somewhere."
"Take it easy," Chuck Evers said.