“Exactly... An', Roy, I envy you what you've got, because it's out of all bounds for Milt Dale.”
Those words, sad and deep, ended the conversation. Again the rumbling, rushing stream dominated the forest. An owl hooted dismally. A horse trod thuddingly near by and from that direction came a cutting tear of teeth on grass.
A voice pierced Helen's deep dreams and, awaking, she found Bo shaking and calling her.
“Are you dead?” came the gay voice.
“Almost. Oh, my back's broken,” replied Helen. The desire to move seemed clamped in a vise, and even if that came she believed the effort would be impossible.
“Roy called us,” said Bo. “He said hurry. I thought I'd die just sitting up, and I'd give you a million dollars to lace my boots. Wait, sister, till you try to pull on one of those stiff boots!”
With heroic and violent spirit Helen sat up to find that in the act her aches and pains appeared beyond number. Reaching for her boots, she found them cold and stiff. Helen unlaced one and, opening it wide, essayed to get her sore foot down into it. But her foot appeared swollen and the boot appeared shrunken. She could not get it half on, though she expended what little strength seemed left in her aching arms. She groaned.
Bo laughed wickedly. Her hair was tousled, her eyes dancing, her cheeks red.
“Be game!” she said. “Stand up like a real Western girl and PULL your boot on.”
Whether Bo's scorn or advice made the task easier did not occur to Helen, but the fact was that she got into her boots. Walking and moving a little appeared to loosen the stiff joints and ease that tired feeling. The water of the stream where the girls washed was colder than any ice Helen had ever felt. It almost paralyzed her hands. Bo mumbled, and blew like a porpoise. They had to run to the fire before being able to comb their hair. The air was wonderfully keen. The dawn was clear, bright, with a red glow in the east where the sun was about to rise.