She hardly recognized her own voice. There was in it a new note. She knew that if he refused to go she would kill him as she would a wolf.
Dutch whined. “You wouldn’t drive me into the storm after I done took you in an’ fed you, miss. There can’t any one live in that blizzard. I was jest a-funnin’ about him. Jest my li’l way.”
“Go on,” she told him inexorably. “Now.”
He went. She closed the door behind him.
McClintock crept toward the fire. Vicky gathered the weapons and put them down beside her. Then she took one of his hands in hers and began to rub it to restore circulation. She worked on the other hand, on his ears, his face, his throat. She helped him to take off his boots and in spite of his protests massaged his frozen feet.
The pain was intense as the circulation began to be renewed in his body. He clamped his teeth to keep back the groans. He walked up and down nursing his hands and his ears. But not a sound came from his lips.
“I know it’s awful,” Vicky comforted. “But the pain’s a good sign. Soon as it’s gone you’ll be all right.”
He grinned. There was nothing to do but endure until the circulation was fully restored. He beat the back of his hands against the palms. If Dutch should grow troublesome he might need the use of his fingers shortly.
A fist beat on the door.
“Shall I let him in?” the girl asked.