“I suppose you shoot fresh meat, anyhow,” continued Young Dan, feeling embarrassed. “You got a rifle, I see.”
“If you mean deer an’ the like by fresh meat, then I tell you I don’t shoot it—but I’ve shot at it a few times,” replied the woman. “It’s a sight too knowing an’ lively for me to hit.”
“Tell you what I’ll do, m’am,” said Young Dan. “You come to this very spot at ten o’clock to-morrow and you’ll find me here with some grub. Will tea and canned milk and sugar and fifteen pounds of white flour be any use to you?”
“Will spring water quench thirst?” returned the woman, her sad face brightening. “But can’t I have it sooner?—some of that there milk, anyhow? Young man, my two babies was cryin’ with hungry pains when I started out; an’ the biggest of ’em isn’t as long as this here snowshoe.”
“If I had it here I’d give it you right now—but all our grub’s back at our camp, six mile away. Will you go along with me and carry away what you’re in most need of, m’am?”
“Will a duck swim?”
Young Dan meant well, but he did not realize that the mother of two children who cry with hunger is almost sure to be weak for want of food—he did not realize it until he heard a soft thud behind him and turned to find his companion flat on her face in the snow. He raised her to a sitting position and pulled her back until she rested against a small spruce. He built a big fire in the trail and cut many fir boughs to serve her as a couch and covering. He removed her snowshoes.
“Guess I’m all in—till I have a cup of tea,” she said.
“I’ll fetch a kettle,” replied Young Dan. “You stop right there till I get back.”
He made the remaining three miles to the camp on Right Prong in record time. He told what he knew of Mrs. Conley’s story briefly to Andy, while they made up a small pack of provisions in a blanket. He attached a small frying-pan and a kettle to the pack.